After I finished last issue's Genesis article, I figured that any letters I received would be from angry Genesis fans, frothing at the mouth, shitting their knickers and listening to "Invisible Touch" way too loud. Happily, I was wrong. I now hold in my trembling hands, callused from years of chronic masturbation and bitch-slapping my enemies, a letter from Mike Rutherford's dog. It reads as follows:

From: Mike Rutherford's dog Rex, esq.
To: The esteemed James F. Glauner IV, OBE, D.D.S., D.O., M.D., B.O., A.W.O.L., B.V.D.

Mr. Glauner,
I was amused to read your column on the new Genesis record. Let me tell you, living with Mike Rutherford and his damn little Genesis friends is pure hell. I can't count the times I've wanted to take a cricket bat to Rutherford's stereo, listening to the eighth remix of "I Can't Dance." I used to make doodie on the floor in protest, but that only got him talking about putting me to sleep. Bastard. I mean, "Abacab" was jolly fun, but for the love of God, can't someone shut those blokes up? Haven't they made enough money? Like you, I actually miss Phil Collins, but for different reasons. I used to thoroughly enjoy rubbing up against his left leg (not his right one, mind you; it's a bit dodgy) and pleasing my Mr. Blodgett, if you know what I mean.

Arf,
The long-suffering Rex

Thanks, Rex, and be grateful your owner didn't pick Al Frazza to be Genesis' new singer. If I could go back in time, I would become Al Frazza's au pair, and I would shake him to death before he could even think about recording the paragon of lameness that is A Message To Dehlia (Big Sleep/Red Iguana).

There's no crappy album that a bad bongo player can't make worse, and Frazza's collection of wimpy, sappy, tuneless folk has bad bongos galore. Where's Preston Epps when you need him? The songs on Dehlia feature the apparently talentless Frazza with guitar and spare accompaniment. His high-pitched vocals are hopelessly off-key, like Bob Dylan after he's had his nuts in a vise. Sappy love songs, banal lyrics, musical and vocal incompetence _ a near masterpiece of idiocy. Cringe factor: eight. Someone must pay for my pain, and it oughta be Frazza.

I can't prove it, but I think Dowdy Smack's Aren't You Delicious (Raven) gave me diarrhea. It could be their maddening resemblance to a host of modern rock douche bags (Red Hot Chili Peppers, Stone Temple Pilots, Bush, Rusted Root). It could be their penchant for lyrical moronicisms. ("Pppfffthpth!" `Scuse me).

Whatever the reason, Dowdy Smack owes me two rolls of toilet paper, a set of stainless steel butt clamps and a pair of boxer shorts adorned with tiny reproductions of the Shroud of Turin. Skid marks, I can handle, but I draw the line at a viscous film of turd in my shorts. ("Pfloothpttchockk!" Oof. Sorry.) My intestines rumbled distinctly each time singer ("Ze," as in "ze really bad singer") decided to rap. I can only assume "Ze" means "Queef Chief" in some new hip lingo I'm not cool enough to understand. Or maybe the guy's too dumb to spell his real name. Cringe factor: seven. Ringworm is more fun. ("Bloortchpflunk!" Ow, that one hurt. I think it had peanuts.)

There are few things worse than Natalie Merchant. Leprosy is one. I guess you could also include genital leeches (really big ones), being force fed putrefied chimpanzee pus and my seventh grade English teacher (Hi, Mrs. Blumenthal, if you're not dead yet). Add Kieran Kelly's 11 Blues & Greens (Zoe) to that list.

The album is dedicated to "Regina." If I were her, I'd be pissed, because Kelly sounds like the male Natalie Merchant, but somehow wimpier, more musically inane and quite a bit more annoying. Kelly's soft rock/folk bores are swaddled in insipid sentiments and a style that hasn't outgrown his high school talent show. If a song titled "Sorry For My World" isn't proof enough of Kelly's puke-inducing sappiness, the song's first couplet, "Sorry for my world/It doesn't love me," should clue you in. Well, I'm sorry I decided to listen to his world. It's a monumental suckfest.

Cringe factor: six. I hope Regina dumped his sorry ass. If she wants a real date, she can contact me at jimg@oculus.com. Or just look for my phone number on bathroom stalls. It will be preceded by the phrase, "If you want to make it with a dirty, ho' gobblin', nutsmokin', cumjunky bitch, call . . ." What can I say? I'm so loved.