[The story that comprises this review is no more than fiction. Sorry, Rivers.]
It was Rivers Cuomo’s birthday, and he decided to wake up all bright and early to celebrate his 44th. “The deadline for our new album is nearing, I must finish it today!” he whispered triumphantly. Rivers sat down in his gold encrusted throne and thought to himself: “Today is going to be different, I can just feel it.” He whipped out his Mont Blanc ballpoint pen and began to write down a few ideas for songs, feeling confident that another classic may be near. He wrote down 13 track titles, and proudly looked at what he had accomplished.
“These titles are killer, now it’s time to write the songs!” He looked to his left, and starred into his Weezer™ branded mirror: “Maybe a few of these songs should be apologies to the fans I’ve let down over the years, just to make up for ‘Beverly Hills’ or something.” As soon as these thoughts came into his head, he started thinking of half-Japanese girls, and for a moment he realised what he was capable of. “NO! That was like over 15 years ago,” he muttered to himself as he wiped drool off of his lower lip with his signed B.O.B. cd. As he leant back on his chair, he gazed into his gold-plated copy of ‘Buddy Holly’ that he haphazardly sellotaped to the ceiling. A singular tear dripped down Rivers’ face, and his face began to scrunch up.
He jumped out of his chair and shot down his stairs at the speed of sound. When he arrived downstairs, he noticed that Patrick Wilson was in his house again. “Patrick, I thought I told you that you can’t just turn up here uninvited,” he told Patrick, clearly looking exasperated. Patrick looked around, and calmly responded in a way that only he could: “But I was writing some new tracks that I think you’ll love, as long as you don’t mind me on vocals again.” The confused look dropped off of Rivers’ face, and he began to look concerned. “Patrick, do you remember what happened last time you were on vocals?” Patrick lowered his head in shame and nodded. “You know where the door is, right?” asked Rivers. Patrick was already half way out the door by this point, as if he knew what Rivers was going to say in the first place.
As the door closed, Rivers slumped into his Weezer™ branded chair. He picked up a bowl of soggy cereal that sat nearby and began to eat what was left. He took out a one hundred dollar bill from his wallet, and wiped the semi-skimmed milk from his mouth. “Maybe I should just put this record out, I mean the lyrics just write themselves!” He knew that whatever it was that he’d put out, that there would be a few tracks that fans could appreciate, no matter how hard they’d have to sift through the rest of the album.
Rivers looked around the room hoping to find some source of inspiration. Noticing his Lost season 5 boxset, Rivers chuckled to himself, murmuring, “Nope, already done that.” He gave one last gaze to his record collection, and noticed a b-sides collection just sitting there, doing nothing besides taking up space. He slowly walked towards it, and picked it up. He sighed, and looked around. “Fuck it, I’ll just use this, at least it’s not as bad as Raditude.”