Serge Gainsbourg was a goddamn lunatic. A madman of music, a savant of smut, a maverick of melody. He was a genius, a degenerate, a saint, and a sinner all rolled into one. And for anyone with half a brain and a shred of taste, he was one of the greatest musicians of all time.

I first heard Gainsbourg’s music back in the day, when I was living high on the hog and chasing the American Dream. And let me tell you, it was like nothing I’d ever heard before. The man was a fucking magician, weaving together elements of jazz, funk, rock, and pop into a sound that was entirely his own. He had a voice like a rusty chainsaw, but he could sing like an angel when he wanted to. And his lyrics were pure poetry, even when he was singing about the filthiest things you could imagine.

But what really set Gainsbourg apart was his complete lack of give-a-fuck. He didn’t care what anyone thought of him or his music. He was a true outsider, a rebel without a cause, a punk before punk was even a thing. He pushed the boundaries of what was acceptable, and he did it with style, flair, and a shit-eating grin.

And let’s not forget his legendary love life. The man was a walking, talking sex scandal, bedding some of the most beautiful women in the world and scandalizing polite society in the process. He was a wild man, a libertine, a lothario, and a legend.

But even beyond all the hype and the scandal, Gainsbourg was the real deal. He was a true artist, a master of his craft, and a visionary. He created music that was both beautiful and ugly, pure and profane, sophisticated and raw. He was a poet of the perverse, a bard of the bizarre, a troubadour of the taboo.

And now, years after his death, his music still sounds as fresh, as daring, as utterly fucking insane as it did when he first recorded it. He was a true original, a one-of-a-kind, a force of nature. And if you’re not listening to him right now, you’re missing out on one of the greatest musical experiences of your life.

Serge Gainsbourg. The man, the myth, the fucking legend. Bow down and pay your respects, you poor, sad, unenlightened motherfuckers.

“We all know how everything in America has to be big. If it ain’t big, it ain’t good. Same goes for Dolly Parton’s breasts, they’re big, just like her sweet voice is big. She’s given us permission, when she passes to the Grand Ole Opry in the sky, to donate her wonderful big mammas to our museum so millions of visitors every year can enjoy those beautiful fun bags like many did when she was alive,” Curston Dean McGuinness, owner and curator of the Nashville Museum told Fox News.

Stand by your mams

In fact, the Jolene starlet has had each of her humungous breasts insured for $45 million and the cherry on the top, each nipple has an additional insurance premium of $15 million. The Swiss bank that insures Dolly’s bazongas recently went bust on her bust, but luckily the Fed bailed them out with a special chesty finance deal.

Trip down mammary lane

Buck Thornton, was an acquaintance of Dolly’s in 1967, and remembers her cantaloupes with fondness.

“Dolly, bless her, has such a big heart, I never met a lady who could not only sing like her, but she could hug the whole world with her warm ta-ta’s, bless her. She let me do a Bombay Roll on her backstage just after a show in Texas. I’ll never forget her face as I drained all I had over those dang beauteous jelly-filled babylons of pure country goodness.”