Friday, August 10, 2007

And One More Thing...

Did I miss the announcement that today was National Drive-Like-A-Total-Fucktard Day? Coming home from Jersey City (where I finally crashed out after playing some guitar and having some late night beersies), I almost got into about a million accidents and burst no fewer than 37 blood vessels in my eyes and head from screaming at morons who somehow received permission to operate motor vehicles in dangerously unsafe manners.

I can't wait to get back to the beach. I'm outta here. North Jersey can suck it.

Oh, also, I fell asleep in my sleeping bag on the floor, and I think I strained the intercostal muscles between my ribs, because it hurts to breathe. Yay!

40 Miles Of Bad Road (and Other Children's Stories)

I have been spending most of my time at the beach, and since I can surf and drink whiskey at the beach, and ride a happy little bicycle around to do things, I have not been feeling very bloggy lately. But I had a meeting in North Jersey, so I had to come back up. While here, I dropped in on a very old friend of mine who was performing at a bar in Bayonne for some special b-day surprisery (his, not mine). It was great seeing him again and catching up.

Not so great? Having to watch the derailment of civilization that took human form at the bar. There was a woman there, and I say woman in the LOOSEST possible terms, only because there was what I assume was a skirt involved. It looked more like a denim prison for her disgusting fat body. And I thank God for the Chinese children who stitched it together with such care that it did not burst forth with the horror contained therein. I seriously think to see this person naked would cause instantaneous and uncontrollable vomiting fits, ended only when you put a gun barrel in your own mouth, looking forward to the searing hot taste of gunpowder to make it all go away.

Anywho, my friend, who is a lights-out guitarist, is trying to please the rabble in the pit by playing some covers, having told me this is a pretty good gig for some extra scratch. He's in the middle of his second set, when The Darkness (this is how I'll be referring to her from now on) starts whooping and slapping her knees, covered in layers of cellulite and evil, screaming:

"Playy shum BEEEETLES!"

He's already played some Beatles, you filthy drunk pig. He played "I'm Looking Through You" like a million years ago. Go back to your dirty pig whore planet.

Being a professional, he says, ok, I'm gonna do one or two more and then we'll do some Beatles too. Every time she looks around the bar, I grab my phone and start pressing buttons wildly in the hope that I look so busy she won't even consider coming anywhere near me.

So he goes into "Blackbird" which is a lovely song, and she's outside the door, sucking on a lung rocket (natch), when she comes staggering in, yelling.

"I know vfthis one! You were waiting... dark... arise!!!"

Yes. Those are the lyrics, fatty disgusto sauce. Thanks for sharing your gift with us. I think John probably shot himself again immediately after this. Just to be sure.


Now, I ask you. Is it really wrong of me to pray for alien overlords to seize control of our planet enslaving all but the most reverent to their whims? Really? I'd love to see this walking piece of human excrement fall at the hands of a vicious alien. Then he would turn to me and we'd laugh and drink much space whiskey while we talk about torturing all the people who watched American Idol and made it into the juggernaut of a talent vacuum that it is.