All That Jazz

You reckon?

It's always the same isn't it. Just when you think the world can't get any bleaker, that evil has finally won it's battle against mankind and we're doomed to perish in the toilet bowl of our own weaknesses things get just that little bit worse. Today that happened to me. How? I discovered the term 'experimental jazz'.
Experimental. Jazz. Experimental fucking jazz. God, hasn't the world suffered enough at the hands jazz alone? What the frig did we do so wrong that it had to be winched up a level to experi-bloody-mental?
Jazz is distilled evil. Throw it in a lab beaker, place it over a bunsen burner and once the juices have evaporated you're left with a bubbling layer of tiny gnashing demons. I hear that someone did the same with experimental jazz once but went blind and deaf and then their children melted so we'll never know the results.
Like slugs, Gary Rhodes and lemon curd, there is no conceivable reason for the existence of jazz. I mean, can't the tuneless find something else to do, like chiropody or mole hunting? Do they have to parp into a clarinet or twang an overstrung double bass while nodding like meth heads?
Anyway, it's safe to say that I shan't be badgering iTunes for the latest in experimental jizz, sorry, jazz. I shall, though, be splashing out on ear plugs, anti-nausea medication and something fetid to shove up the nearest nodding trumpet. Now that's an experiment I'd be happy to see.