Wednesday, January 31, 2007

It’s the breast news ever

Women of the world rejoice, the gestation of seminal fluid helps to prevent breast cancer.

so open up and say awwww!

Thank you science!

Ok.....look.....I’m not making this up. GIGC herself, told me this when she walked in the house last evening. Said she heard it on CNN, which at this time of the year, is a somewhat, semi-reputable source.

Although I failed to come up with an appropriate link, or find this story, why would GIGC lie to me? It’s not like she has to fabricate such tales in order to drain my lizard. She just says the word and I pull out all my junk until there’s spunk. That's right we're talking a little, who's your daddy? Captain of the ship, and Pimp and the Pendulum. It's that simple.

And she has never had a problem with her breasts. In fact, they have increased in size for the experience.

So, I must assume from our own experiments, with more testing to be done of course, that she is correct in collating this information: Sperm is the best thing for women next to drinking from the fountain of youth.

Seminal fluid has already been touted as good for the complexion, full of protein and purveyor of world peace. Plus frequent masturbation keeps your prostate happy.

Sperm is there anything it can’t do?

Based on what I have told you today, no longer should men have to waste their seed into a dirty sock, goat, or tissue. The new cum-dumpster has arrived.

Three cheers!




Tuesday, January 30, 2007

Monday, January 29, 2007

Eating more than a man-sized dog

There's one week remaining before the big event. No silly. Not the Super Bowl....The Wing eating Contest Finals in Whitby, where The Pit will take on all challengers for the title of Supreme Wing Eating God.

It promises to be bloodier than any UFC championship, more violent than the worst combat where only rolled up newspapers and sharp pointy sticks were used, and more jaw dropping than the time the government accidently paid you too much back on your tax return.....Ok, forget the last comparison. It never really happened, but you get the idea.

So far the field of competitors looks weak except for two, Eight Fingers Louie, (2006 Club sandwich eating champion), In fact, the man had seen more clubs than a baby seal, his eating prowess is that revered. And Juan Ricco “Santa” Sanchez who was once employed by the U.S. government to eat illegal immigrants and who will often fake out his opponents by chowing down in the nude.

This will be the first time these men have met in what many are calling The Rumble in the Small Intestine.

In preparation for this blessed event and to maintain his focus and masticating voracity, The Pit has trained hard. Yesterday it is reported he ate nine cinder blocks and rid Whitby of its homeless problem by devouring all four indigents.

Later in the week we will interview The Pit’s faithful canine companion Meatball.

Excerpts from the Meatball interview:

Interviewer: What’s the most incredible thing you’ve seen your master eat?

Meatball: Bark.

Interviewer: The Pit has never faced Eight Fingers Louie or Santa Sanchez before. If you could sum up this titanic battle in one word, what would it be?

Meatball: Ruff.

Interviewer: What kind of wings does the Pit usually enjoys when he’s not competing?

Meatball: Spicy southern Cajun style with a hint of garlic.

Remember fans, set aside Sunday, Feb 4th, to witness Whitby sports history and support The Pit.

Cross-posted @ Mitchieville.

Sunday, January 28, 2007

SIS #11

the limits of respectability
chapter eleven - the space between

Everyone had temporarily dismissed the heroic deeds of our new light guy and now gasped in horror as we realized our self-proclaimed leader was not among us. Even Wires’ brow furrowed at this realization. I could see it in the rear view mirror.

“Hang on!” Wires yelled. He twisted the wheel hard to the left, spinning the Ghost around in a cloud of dust and spitting gravel.

“Wires, careful. The trailer!” Doc checked the side mirror. The trailer was still following us. A good sign. We peeled back toward Nasty Tree. Despite being armed with Bronson, our martial-arts secret weapon, I felt sick and once again my bowels tightened. It seemed to take us longer to return than it did to leave.

“Wires, you have to step on it. Space is gonna get a little visit. The Sherif said— ”

“— I’ve got it floored Wally. You want to get out and push?”

“We may be too late already. They all might be there waiting for us.”

“Let’s get there first Wally and then we’ll deal with whatever,” Doc retorted. “Besides, we have Billy Jack here.” He motioned to Bronson.

“No. I don’t do cops.”

“Yeah Doc. I think that would be a bad idea,” I said. “Bronson’s probably in enough shit when the Sherif hears from Bruiser.”

The bar was in sight now, but so was the police car pulling up and the four dark figures who emerged. They entered the building. One appeared to be Bruiser, a tall shape who hobbled, favoring his left leg.

“Oh great Bronson. Looks like they stopped to pick up Mr. Revenge. Things just got a hell-of-lot worse.”

“Shut it Wally. Wires! Go to the side where Spaces’ room is,” Doc ordered.

Wires deftly maneuvered the Ghost up the alley next to the club and stopped below the third story window of Spaces’ room. He beeped the horn, three short blasts. Wally hung out the side of the van, and the rest of us pressed our faces to the windshield. Space appeared at the window still in his pink stage clothes and peered out.

We honked again. He opened the window. “I said to come up and tell me when you were ready to leave, not honk below my window. Are you guys fucking deaf?”

I inquired, “Bronson I don’t suppose you play drums too? Do you?”

“No. No cops and no drums.”

Wally yelled, “Space you have to get out of your room now and meet us down stairs!”

“What? I don’t have a broom!”

“Room!– Room!” Wally turned to us, “He thinks – we’re deaf?” Wally repeated his message again but threw the word Sherif, into the mix. The panic was evident, even looking up from where we were. Space quickly vanished inside. Moments later he reappeared at the window. “I can’t get out! They’re comin’ up the stairs! What do I do? God! What do I do?”

Wires lit up a smoke and calmly said. “He’ll have to jump.”

“He’ll break his legs dropping from that distance Wires. What are you going to do get on you hands and knees and push the pedals for him the rest of the tour? Bronson can’t do it.”

“No cops, no drums,” Bronson repeated.

“He’ll have to jump onto the roof of the truck.”

Wally leaned out again and yelled up to a blubbering Space. “Space you have to jump onto the truck!”

“Are you fucking nuts!? I can’t do that. --- Jesus! There’s a knock! They’re at my door!”

“Space! We’re right below you for god’s sake! Just hang and drop.”

“OK! Wally catch me!”

Wally huffed as he crawled back inside. “I ain’t catchin’ nothin’ sept maybe Sparky’s cold.”

We waited in anticipation. There was a tremendous thud on the top of the van.

“Shit!” Doc moaned. “Sounds like he dislocated a shoulder to be sure.”

Wally thrust his body out the side again. We could hear his muffled voice from the Ghost’s exterior, “No that was his luggage.”

Space was still above us, wailing, frightened, pink. He slipped a leg out over the ledge and then another as he lowered himself as far as he could— his pink legs kicking with fright. He turned his head down to us. “They’re unlocking my door! Fuck!”

Wally hollered. “Let go Space! LET GO!”

Wires demanded with authority through a smokey halo. “He has to jump now Wally!”

“Space, come on!”

Our drummer took one last look at his target and let go with a high pitched screech. There was another thud heavier this time. It was Space, as first his legs, then his hands hit the roof and there was a discernable, Ugh, as his stomach made contact with the metal. The roof dented slightly.

Wires shouted, “Hang on up there!” He punched the gas and the truck lurched forward.

“Wires!” Space hollered from above as his palm appeared on the windshield, tightly pressed to the glass like a human gecko trying to hang on.

I looked in the rearview as we sped away. Above and behind us, the menacing shadows of four unhappy vigilantes appeared at the window. They had been out smarted again. The Sherif stopping to pick up his angry brother-in-law had cost them precious minutes and had allowed us to barely rescue our drummer. Bruiser now had a mental ass kicking to go with his physical one. I wondered how we looked from their view point zipping off with the frosty, pink image of Space, his legs splayed, clutching on to the roof of the truck with one hand and his suit case in the other?

Doc punched the dash with a rare show of emotion. “Yeah! How do you like that mother-fuckers?!”

“Is there no end to this madness?”

“Don’t be so melodramatic Wally.”

“We’re cursed Doc. Cursed! Just like last tour.”

Compared to this tour, the last one was a breeze as far as I was concerned. We had been plagued with the usual equipment problems, and double bookings. No big deal. Oh!— and the truck had caught fire an hour outside of arriving home. Wires had determined it was a problem with the drive shaft. Some dooflingus rubbing against some other thing-a-ma-jig. The smoke had started to fill the van through the floor boards. We had to unload the equipment by the side of the road and as traffic whizzed by us, we had to do some whizzing of our own. We urinated on the smouldering area to contain the immanent blaze. However, that tour was still a holiday in hedonism compared to this one and this was only the end of our second week.

When we were about ten clicks outside of Nasty Tree and sure we weren’t being followed, Wires slowed down. Space had been pounding on the roof since we passed the road sign that said, Thanks for visiting. Ỳall come back now! Wires stopped right in the middle of the road, nearly sending Space shooting off the roof like a human rocket.


We pulled him into the vehicle. He was shivering and sneezed once or twice. I handed him my empty bottle of medicine and slapped him on the back. “Here. You’ll need this.”

“Ohhh.” Doc moaned. “I just realized, I’ll never get to play my beloved Nasty Tree again.”

“Wouldn’t you rather be able to walk, Doc?”

We pulled away from the side of the road, and headed to our next temporary address, thankfully miles away from the Sherif, Bruiser and the town of Nasty Tree. Our hearts were still pumping from the daring escape and everyone seemed chatty and excited except Space who crawled into a top bunk. He covered himself with sleeping bags and faced the side of the truck. He wanted no part of the revelry. I left the heightened conversation and tapped Space on the shoulder. “You ok?”

“I don’t want to talk about it Sparky.”

“Ok.” I turned to leave him.

“No, I’m not ok. I’m pretty far south from being ok. In fact— ” He turned to face me, “— I’ll probably never be ok again.”

“Oh, come on Space. You’re a competitive guy. You’re not going to let Wally beat you in a chub competition because you got spooked in a close call.”

“I’m not kidding Sparky. I need to just concentrate on playing and the bookings.”

“Remember what you said to Thumper about changing his mind because he loves his dick? Three weeks from now— and I’m being conservative— you’ll have erased this all from your memory. And you know why Space? Because you love your dick. We’re guys and musicians. We all love our dicks— and our dicks love us. They have a power to heal the hurts and brush off the heinous.”

“It’s not all about the penis Sparky.”

“I can’t believe I’m hearing you, of all people, say that? But I do agree with you. It’s not about being enamored with our penis. It really comes down to our fascination with hydraulics. --- Dick goes up, and dick goes down. Dick goes up— all your worries and any essence of sensible judgement are washed away. That’s why this all happened. That’s why all things happen. It all comes down to hydraulics.”

“Well it’s not going to happen again.”

Like Wally being all about the food, Space was all about the sex. He had always been the lady’s man, the Ricco Suave` of the band, who had even advertised his conquests. Women’s underwear hung blatantly from his drum kit. There they were for all to see like prized blue ribbons for the biggest hog at the county fair, jiggling up and down from the crash stand on every number-nine ending. They were little pink and powder-blue warnings to the women of the
next gig, in the next town. Women who inexplicably were still drawn to Space and the siren song of under garments. It was a dare: Just try sleeping with me and not having your panties displayed on the mantle of the high-hat or ride cymbal. – But now. He seemed an empty shell of his former self, still seizing the empty bottle of medicine in his hand. He lay there sad, pathetic, huddled under blankets, trying to make himself small and succeeding. It was rare, but I actually felt sorry for him, and for a brief instance I felt the space between us lessen. Space was really talking like someone born-again— very humble. One who has had an epiphany and seen the error of his ways, averting his eyes from the path of the sinner to a new wholesome and spiritually rewarding direction. yet, through the human wreckage, there was a renewed hope we could make this band work and let bygones be bygones.

“Hey sorry we left without you, but things were really crazy for us back there too.”

“Maybe it’s what I needed Sparky? A wake up call.”

“Think we should change the name of the band again?”

“No. We won’t be going back to Nasty Tree. Not now. Not ever.” He turned back to the truck. “I need some sleep.”

The noise had quieted down, as the time passed and the road slipped by under us. Everyone felt the sudden fatigue and melted into their chosen comfort. The sugar rush was over. My bowels had decided to give it a rest too, and I now felt the worst was behind me. Only Wires appeared vigilant, staring forward between drags and blinks, as he glided the Ghost into the horizon. The next obstacle would come soon enough and somehow Wires knew it.

Saturday, January 27, 2007

New release this week

This week, I fear I have pushed one too many wrong buttons. What, with the posts dealing with anal insertions and dissin’ the Christian rock fags in their Stryper T-shirts, it’s time to make amends.

So as not to further offend anyone from the Gay community, be they Christian or otherwise, I recommend Jose Angel- Christian Homosexual.

You know, give him a mustache and he's got a whole Ron Jeremy vibe going on.
I also think he's originally from Buffalo....there, did I appease everyone?

Friday, January 26, 2007

Tattoo U.

I have to say, some people take the art of tattooing way too seriously.
Meet Puff the Magic Dragon.

Here's the dragon.....

and here's Puff.


On Fridays I’ve been linking to other Blogs, but because it’s the end of the week and I feel you need a good laugh, I’m doing something different.

In fact, something I’ve never done in all my days posting on daze. I'm going to regurg-a-link.

In case you missed it I’m going to direct you back to a post from earlier in the week called, "Damn foreigners", where there are stories and pictures of people inserting various items into their inner selves. From oven mitts to octopus it’s all here.

There was one link on the page in particular, I didn’t click on the first time around even though I posted the frickin thing.

It took GIGC to bring it to my attention and I have to tell you my friends, I laughed so hard I had a diaper full.

Start your weekend off right, ">with this audio clip. You may have a mess on your hands, but you’ll thank me for it.

Thursday, January 25, 2007

Supernova more like dwarf star

Now, I know Supernova played Massey Hall last night here in Toronto. I haven’t read any reviews from that show, but I will give you my opinion on their performance.

Have you ever done anything that you regretted immediately after you did it?

Sure you have.

For me it was purchasing Supernova tickets back in August.

GIGC and I were caught up in the wake of yet another reality show, waiting anxiously to see who would be the last singer standing. However, five months removed, a mediocre album, and a questionable front man later, we found ourselves rolling down the QEW to the unholiest of holes. That’s right Buffalo, harbinger of winter’s nastiness, boarded-up, or burned-out buildings, and Topps Friendly Market.

I believe they build structures there just to board them up or burn them.

I guess since the house band from the show, (unceremoniously fired before the tour), Jason Newsted, (injured), and Panic Channel, (disinterested in cities who’s main industries are crack and guns), were not on the bill, I felt a little slighted.

Being surrounded by Christian rockers and their Stryper T-shirts didn’t help matters. Neither did the infectious dead-air between songs as Lukas constantly displayed a lack of audience interaction. The only highlight of the evening, was a disgruntled fan nearby who spent most of the set whipping Milk Duds at the band.

Besides us, our companions, and the Milk Dud guy, the only one who seemed to feel the same way we did, was guitarist Gilby Clarke, who abruptly left the stage after the final number instead of joining Tommy Lee and the boys at centre stage their much over-rated bows.

On the positive side of things, I’m glad I didn’t shell out twice as much as the suckers in Toronto to see this debacle.

I guess if I’m to have a tainted memory of this experience, I’m happy I saw it in Buffalo and not somewhere I actually enjoy visiting.

Wednesday, January 24, 2007

Damn foreigners

Today we need something egregiously rip-roaringly hilarious yet borderline, if not fully gross, depending on your perspective.

You must check out the top ten foreign objects inserted into orifices.

Why? Because it’s Hump Day and what better way to celebrate it than watching what people have humped?

Tuesday, January 23, 2007

Oscar nods

Today is usually YouTube Tuesday where I post something visual. Well, today I'll go you one better.....actually 4 better.....for you mathematicians, that's five. For those who aren't good with numbers, that's two. For those of you who never learned to read, what the fuck are you doing here?

Below are all the trailers for best picture nominations, or go here for all the buzz.

For today is not just YouTube Tuesday, it's YouTubener Tuesday.

Ok, it's an inside joke, but I assure you, those who get it are on the floor as we speak holding their bellies with laughter, tears leaking from their eyes and, god knows what else, leaking from every other orifice.

Little Miss Sunshine

The Queen


Letters From Iwo Jima

The Departed

Monday, January 22, 2007

Oakey doakey karaoke

To celebrate the passing of another year of existence for GIGC and myself, our friends took us out to sing and puke. Which would come first was anyone’s guess?

It was a great evening filled with karaoke and songs not usually heard unless you’re stranded by the roadside, with a smoking radiator, in the middle of nowhere, praying for a tow-truck, before some chainsaw-wielding maniac attacks you, and in your boredom you try to find a signal on the radio, as scraps of long-forgotten ballads interrupt the static and your constant weeping......You know? Those songs.

It was a great evening and I strongly suggest you get out and embarrass yourself this way, in the near future.

Unless your last name was Purderfiled, everyone was allowed to sing. And sing we did, several times over the course of the evening. Why even The Pit took time out from his training for the upcoming wing eating finals to partake. However, it was not until he had eaten 40 wings, eight shot glasses, and two table legs.

Here are some of the renditions I remember and if I forgot anything blame the booze:
Come Sail Away- Cartman style, Up where we belong, I believe in a thing called Love, It's still Rockin Roll to Me, Rasputin, The Distance, Little Bird, Bearcat, Keep Your Hands to Yourself, Sledgehammer, Downtown Came Uptown, and that I-ee I-ee I-ee song by Our Lady Peace, (take your pick).

Below: GIGC sings, Keeping my Cheese Dry. The duet of Trebor E-nots and The Pit sing an instrumental in front of the demon D.J. And Bob Noxious, I’m told is still shitting blood after his authentic version of Motorhead’s, Ace of Spades.

Sunday, January 21, 2007

SIS #10

the limits of respectability
chapter ten - here kitty kitty

Journal entry- Day 14- I don’t even want to discuss last night. I’m just glad it’s over. If Space ever books Nasty Tree again, I’ll . . . not to worry Space won’t be back. Neither will any of us.

I looked around. Thumper, Wally and Doc all had their equipment packed up and piled neatly by the door waiting to be loaded, but the guys were nowhere to be seen. I rushed over to Wires. “Where is everyone?”

Wires took a long pull on his cigarette. “Don’t know. They asked me how long we’d be. I told them about two and a half, and they said they were going out for a while. They’ll be back when...” He stretched out his hand toward the rest of the gear still in a state of disarray. It was like he was showing us a new car.

“They didn’t say anything about a party?”


“Was anyone else with them?”

“Tall guy with a mullet.”

“Oh that’s just frickin’ marvelous! Shit, shit, shit!” I turned back to the girl. “You have to take me to this party.”

“Why, what’s wrong? Don’t you want to be alone with me?”

“Can you take me there or not?”


Wires suddenly seemed concerned. “Sparky, take Bronson with you.”

“Wires you need him here with you.”

“No one goes anywhere alone. Remember?”

“I’m not. I have— what was your name again?”


“I have Lexie with me.”

“No offence Sparky, she’s not band. Take Bronson. I’ll be all right. I can do the rest myself.”

“Fine mother.— OK mumbles let’s go.”

Bronson put down the coil of extension cord he was wrapping and joined me. He had hardly said anything to anyone this week except maybe Wires. I didn’t see how taking this scrawny kid with me would help a potentially explosive situation. I needed to warn the guys and hopefully just get them to leave the party quietly--- unnoticed.

“Wires better try to speed up your schedule for leaving. We may have to get out of here quick.”

Wires looked at me as if to say, Well, duh, then he went back to work at an accelerated pace with his cigarette hanging out of his mouth.

We walked briskly beside Lexie, as our guide led us down one of the streets adjacent to the club. I was still sick and the quick steps were agonizing. My bowels were in knots, but I clenched my butt cheeks together to prolong the inevitable. It made me look like I was speed-walking.

“It’s there,” she said. “Do you see it? At the end of the street.”

There was a house blazing with light and an obvious din was reaching us in scraps of conversation as we approached. The lawn was littered with pickup trucks and a scattering of beer bottle sentries. A few of the party goers sat on a swinging love-seat on the front porch smoking nature’s finest--- thick and aromatic.

We entered through an open screen door, pushing out the heat of many bodies within, and stood in the smoke filled thickness of the front hall by a staircase. The festive mumble of drunken voices and thundering music was all encompassing.

“Bronson, take Lexie and try to find the guys. Tell them everything’s packed up and we’re ready to leave immediately. . . and stay calm.”

“You mean unlike you.”

“Where are you going?” Lexie asked.

“I have to find a bathroom quick.”

“Up the stairs to the left. Last door on the right.”

I left them and raced upward. I found the bathroom, but I also found a line five deep. God damn it! Is Magic in there having a fuckin’ shower? Funny I didn’t hear the Doors’ ‘L.A. Woman,’ playin’ when I came in. I tapped the nearest person on the shoulder. “Is there another bathroom in the house?”

The guy who’d been holding down the fifth spot turned to me, “In the basement dude, but I don’t think it works.”


I ran down the stairs and then another set into the basement below. I passed by several doors with people lounging, drinking, and making out. I searched frantically, trying to keep the torpedo door closed.

“The enemy is in sight Captain ready to fire.”

“Steady. Steady.”

I found the bathroom. The guy from upstairs had been right. Not only was it not working, there wasn’t even a toilet there, just a hole in the floor where a black pipe jutted out awaiting the arrival of its porcelain buddy. I'll never make it back up starirs in time.

“Captain the enemy’s closing fast!”

“Steady. Steady.”

It’s funny how my dire need to warn my fellow band-mates had been pushed to the back burner by one of life’s most basic functions--- the excretion of human waste. They could be up there somewhere lying in a bloody pummeled mess, being tortured with hot pokers to the eyes, screaming in utter agony, and I couldn’t care less. I had to find a place to relieve myself.

“OK lads prepare to fire.”

“But Captain the torpedo doors are still closed.”

“Get them open quick, damn it! Fire!”

— And fire I did. Right into the litter box I found there under the sink. I grabbed a brush from the medicine cabinet and started flicking kitty litter over my mess to try to hide it. I finished just as someone pushed their way into the bathroom.

“The toilet’s out, buddy. Just the sink’s working,” I said. I washed my hands and dried them on a small towel.

“Oh, Thanks.” He was about to leave when he noticed the cat box. “Holy fuck! Bruiser’s cat must be huge!”

“I know. Can you believe that shit?” I pressed by him and back up the stairs. I could hear him faintly behind me.

“Here kitty, kitty.”

I ran into Lexie on the main floor. Her eyes lit up as they met mine. “There you are. Trying to hide from me are you? We found your friends. Do you want to find an empty room now so we can be alone?”

“You found them? Where are they?”

“In the kitchen singing.”

Of course! It seemed every party we went to, always ended up in the kitchen with us singing a capella. Together we entered and found Bronson standing there listening to Doc, Wally and Thumper crooning the Romantics, Talking in your sleep, in three part harmony.

I whispered out the side of my mouth, “Why didn’t you tell them what I told you Bronson?”

“They were in the middle of a song,” he mumbled.

When they finished, I quickly pulled Doc aside. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to be here Doc. I can’t explain right now but I think it would be best if we just cut out.”

Suddenly I heard a voice. “Hey Bruiser great party man.”

“Hi Sherif having a good time?”

I clasped Doc’s shoulder to steady myself. “Doc the sound you just heard was my heart falling into my gut.”

Our blood ran ice cold. Doc understood what it was all about now and so did Wally. We were going to get our ass’s kicked. I didn’t even want to turn around.

“Hey, I know you,” The Sherif said as he approached Doc. “And I know you too,” he said gazing at me. “Oh and I especially know you, and your ass crack,” he said to Wally in a condescending manner. “You’re a little over dressed don’t you think?”

“You must be mistaken— Sherif is it? We are just in town for the Pumpkin Festival and enjoying the fine hospitality of Bruiser here— ”

“— My brother-in-law . . . yup.”

“Your–bro-ther-in-law? Ho-ly snap-in arse-holes!” Doc gulped as he slipped into monosyllabic Captain Kirk mode. Wally began to whimper and I felt I’d soon be joining him. Thumper had taken the opportunity to high-tale his butt out of there when he heard the word Sherif, and was probably running pel-mel, back to the hotel, two steps ahead of the rest of his body. Lexie was even gone. She probably found someone else with nice eyes and insatiable Ron Jeremy thing going on. But Bronson had remained and stood by our side watching intently.

“No. There’s no mistake. You fellas came through this way about eight or nine months back with a different name. What was it?”

I answered weakly, “Bon Valon.”

“Bon Valon. Yeah, that sounds about right. What kinda fucked up name for a band is that anyway?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I remember you and that home wreckin’ drummer of yours. You totally FUCKED! up my life and my family. My wife... Bruiser’s sister...she left me. And my daughter, she don’t even talk to me anymore!” the Sherif’s finger stabbed my chest on the recitation of each word. “All– because– of– you.”

Doc tried to turn on the charm. “Sorry to hear that. Look. Sherif, sir, whatever problem you have with our drummer I’m sure it can be logistomatically worked out without further interogenecoustic repercussions.”

“Jesus Doc what are you trying to do, bore the man? It’s not going to work. Shit, are logistomatically, and interogenecoustic, even words?”

“Look em up Sparky.”

The Sherif continued while he glanced around. “Is that little bastard here?”

“No sir. He didn’t come. He’s still back at the hotel.”

“Too bad. I’d like to clear up this matter once and for all at the same time. I think...I should round up the boys and pay your drummer a little visit.” He turned and slammed his fist through the kitchen wall. “I’ll have to leave Bruiser to deal with you and the destruction you just caused to his property. Oh . . . and another thing. Bruiser just loves to fight.”

“Unfortunately, I’ve already heard that,” I said.

The Sherif turned and left.

Fight! Fight! I’ve never fought in my life. I even got my ass kicked by a girl when I was five because she said I talked funny.

Bruiser somehow seemed even bigger now. He stood before us. It seemed his muscles were swelling right in front of our eyes and we were shrinking in his shadow. He’d also been joined by a few of his buddies who stood behind him glaring at us in anticipation. Their clenched fists dug into open palms awaiting the green light from their leader.

This is going to be the shortest fight in history. I knew Doc and Wally were as handy with the fisticuffs as I was, and Bronson, I was sure he wasn’t going to be any help.

Wally whined. “I’m a lover not a fighter.”

“I’ve heard from some girls, you’re not much of either,” Doc added.

Bruiser spoke, “You know what guys? I’m gonna let you go.”


I couldn’t believe our luck. Just when I thought I was going to get slaughtered, this guy who must be as gentle as a lamb, with a heart of gold was going to let us go. He was probably tired of the stereotypes. Oh Bruiser will fight our battles for us. Let’s get Bruiser to kick this guy’s ass, and so on. Good Ol’ Bruiser had just waited for his sister’s husband to leave before revealing his true self. What a swell guy. It’s always darkest before the dawn, and now the sun was shining.

“Really! You’d do that? Let us walk out of here?”

“Sure. But you gotta get by me and the boys first.”

Fuck! Why do I always trust what I hear?

“I don’t think you want to lay one hand on them gentlemen.”

Who said that?

Bruiser averted his gaze from us to a new adversary. “And who the fuck are you?”

Bronson was unmoving but peered back from beneath his mop of hair up at this Goliath. “I’m with them. They’re my friends and I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to follow through with your threats. They’ve caused you no harm and if you let them go now, we’ll all leave peacefully.”

Doc hissed, “Bronson what are you doing man? This is not going to help.”

“Oh like you were doing any better Doc?” I said, as Wally continued to whimper.

“And if I don’t? What exactly are you going to do about it little man?”

“How about you let them go and deal with me then?”

“That sounds like a reasonable request. Let me think for a moment . . . No! Say, here’s a better idea. I’d rather you be the toothpick I clean my teeth with after I’m done with them.”

Doc whispered. “Get ready to run Sparky.”

“Then— ” Bronson responded. “— I’m sorry for you.”

“Fuck you! You scrawny little punk!” Bruiser lunged forward.

Bronson yelled at us, as he faced his attacker. “Run!”

It was chaos, pandemonium, crisis upon crisis, all in a slow motion package of a fast forward adrenaline rush. Doc grabbed Wally and pulled him to the side. I dived forward to the floor and right through the legs of my assailant. I got up and the three of us ran for the front door to a symphony of fists smacking flesh amid a crescendo of curses as the pack turned on Bronson. Bursting through the front door, we ran til we could run no more and collapsed on a nearby lawn huffing and puffing. I felt my bowel cramp up again. No! Not now!

“We have to go back for Bronson. We can’t just abandon him.”

“Wally are you fuckin’ nuts and pissin’ crazy? He’s only been with us for four days. Were you really that attached to him?”

“That was a brave thing he did Doc. We can’t leave him there. But we have to get back to the hotel and get the others first.”

“Agreed! Safety in numbers.”

We struggled to our feet and moved forward with a quickened pace back to the hotel. We found Wires and Thumper shoving equipment into the truck as fast as it would go. Lexie was even there helping. Wires was still cool but his face looked grim. “Where’s Bronson?”

“He’s at the house Wires. He didn’t make it out. We have to go back for him. We need everyone to help.”

Wires’ face lightened. “No. We have to load the truck. We don’t have much time. Bronson can take care of himself.”

“Wires it’s not like any of us want to go back there, believe me, but he’s just a little guy and— ”

Wires grabbed my shoulders and looked into my eyes. “Sparky. He can take care of himself. Trust me on this ok? Now I need everyone to grab gear and get it in the truck. We’re leaving.”

It seemed just as we got the last of the equipment and personal gear into the truck, we saw a lone figure jogging up the road toward us.

“Oh my God! Here they come.”

Doc responded. “What a mob of one Wally? Really?”

I exclaimed jubilantly. “It’s Bronson. Fuck me!”

Lexie smiled. “I tried to all night but now there’s no time.”

I kissed her. “Next time, and thanks!”

“Take care of those beautiful eyes.”

Wires commanded. “Everybody in. Let’s get out of here!”

Bronson was last in and except for a little sweat and a reddish glow to his knuckles, he didn’t have a scratch on him. Wires punched the gas and we sped off leaving a waving Lexie behind.

Wally looked at me disapprovingly. “You turned down sex with that chick?”

“What do you want me to do? Screw her over the bass bin while you guys are trying to load it? Sometimes Wally. Your priorities . . .”

“Bronson! Shit man we thought we’d never see you again. How the fuck did you get out of there?” Doc said.

“— And without shedding any blood?” Thumper added.

“I’m a black belt in Tae Kwon Do and I studied Ninjitsu.”

“You’re shittin’ us?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“You? Ninja? Do you have the nun chucks?– ”

“— That’s nun-chac-ku Thumper,” Doc informed our lilliputian guitarist.

“I’ve got the nunchacku, the uniform, the sword, even throwing stars.”

“What here?”

“Never leave home without it.”

Wally chimed in. “Wow just like American Express.”

We sat in awe and silent gratitude until Doc finally spoke. “Where’s Space?”

Saturday, January 20, 2007

New release this week

As not to offend anyone dead or dying , I recommend- Where Are The Dead?

But given the picture on the cover, you must be saying to yourself....Well...Duh!

Friday, January 19, 2007

Link? Wasn't he one of the Mod Squad?

First of all, what's with the Google ad for Gulf hurricane relief? Wasn't this the worst year for lack of devastation ever?.....Man, I really need a new affiliate.

It was my intention today, on Link Friday, to just throw a dart, or click next Blog, and link to the first site that came up.

After an hour and a half of tossing, I realized, there sure is a lot of boring shit out there. Screw this. So I recommend you just go to Sex Scenes at Starbucks, because at least she always has something cool to say and It's the same template as my site. It'll be like you never left.

Thursday, January 18, 2007

Kong is king

Last night I finally saw, not Peter Jackson’s, not that piece of crap remake from the 70's with Jeff Bridges and Jessica Lange ....not even the Cooper original with Fay Wray . I’m talking about the band Kong
who delivered a small acoustic set at the Roof Top Pub last night. The trio of Jordan, (keys/vocals), Justin, (guitar) & Tristan, (bass/vocals) performed Neil Young’s Sugar Mountain and a Dark Side of the Moon medley. It was the perfect sandwich around the meat of one of their originals Blind Rain.
....Oh, did I mention the bass player is my son?.....Ok I’m sue me.

Wednesday, January 17, 2007

Ad sense doesn't make any

Sense that is.....I'd also be hard pressed to show you one red dime from this program either.

I’ve had this little Google item on my Blog for about two months now. Although I don’t expect to make oodles of cash from these advertisements, I would appreciate them putting up something more symbiotic of what I post here.

I mean let’s revue some of what I’ve seen on these pages:

Send you package to Thailand quickly.....Unless they’re talking about my cock and balls why on earth would I want to send anything to Thailand?

Find a date with overweight women.....Why because the svelte ones are temporarily out of stock?

Last minute Christmas gift ideas delivered to your home in time for the holidays......Ok because I have devoted posts to Christmas, this is relevant you say?.....Not in the middle of January it isn’t!

And today's gem (top left): Pest control for mice.....What the fuck is this? How is this pertinent to what I write on this site? I suppose if I post a blog containing diapers for gorillas it will magically appear in an ad tomorrow? Besides I already have pest control for mice....It’s called a FUCKIN’ CAT!

You know, I look at Mitchieville and the Mayor has really cool ads like get your own vampire fangs and last minute vacations in sun and sand.

As I sit here shivering in the Big Smoke’s current blast of Arctic air, I think I might just click on that. I can actually envision myself laying on a beach, smiling through my new vampire fangs.

But it doesn't stop there. Many a blog I have visited have more intriguing fare than what you’ve witnessed here and something needs to be done.

Yes my friends it’s time I went hunting for a new affiliate. Something sexually stunning yet, stunningly sexual. Something to appeal to the beast within us all.

Everyone knows sex sells, and cells make up the body, plus keep dangerous criminals from escaping. It’s what Strangedaze is all about and always will be.

Ads like that would make more sense and cents.

Tuesday, January 16, 2007

Posting one for the GIGC---ipper

Go Saints! I know. This post is strickly for GIGC. Why? Because I like to make her weep with joy. I also like to make her do other things with Joy....usually while I watch.

Monday, January 15, 2007

No bottom to this Pit

The big news on the weekend wasn't the New Orleans Saints victory over the Eagles. Although, GIGC was as giddy as a school girl.....mainly because she was wearing her school girl outfit....but that’s a different story.

No my friends, the football playoffs were once again relegated to second fiddle by a mighty shadow—The Pit.

In his quest to be the best OBJ has once again shocked the competition by posting a new personal high of 48 wings in 10 minutes.

At first, he went to the Wing Shack in Whitby merely an observer of another semi-final showdown for wing eating. His mission? To stare down those brave enough to consider climbing into the ring with our remorseless wing eating machine at the contest final on Super Bowl Sunday, Feb 4th.

However, the pit felt a tiny pang of hunger growing in his tummy, a yearning, gnawing, seed of discontent in need of satisfaction and sustenance. He decided to enter yet again with the sole purpose of gratifying an empty stomach. After all, it had been nearly 45 minutes since his last meal— a prime rib roast with a cheese cake chaser.

The Pit’s performance was nothing short of spectacular.
His opponents were left to marvel at his technique, be astonished by his capacity to ingest, and checked to see if they still had all their fingers as they walked away with heads hung in defeat.

Is there a man out there with the will to snatch the championship from this man?

I think not!

Feb 4th get out and support your Pit.

cross-posted at Mitchieville

Sunday, January 14, 2007

SIS #9

the limits of respectability

chapter nine - tiptoe through the two-twenty

Wires immediately snatched the wood out of Thumper’s raised hands. “God damn it, Thumper! Give the 2x4 to Sparky. If this had been real, I could die before you ever swing that thing.”

I grabbed the wood from Wires. “Shit, Wires, don’t do that! I should hit you with it now for pulling a stunt like that. I nearly shit my pants and Thumper’s probably going to have to check his too.”

“This isn’t play time Sparky. I want you guys to realize this is serious business and I need you to focus your attention here. This was Magic’s job remember? Talk later when the work is done.”

An agitated Doc Barlow shouted from beyond the bar. “I can’t hear myself think over here!” He went back to his chanting, “Greedy guts...Greedy guts...Greedy guts.”

We helped Wires set up and test the last of the lights before Thumper and I left Barlow and Wires behind in the bar. As we went upstairs to our rooms, I related the rest of the Space manage est trois story.

“So eventually things cool down. Well . . . enough for Space to get them to leave and continue their ruckus elsewhere. But the Sherif catches wind of the incident from the hotel manager and, as you can imagine Thumper, he is far from pleased not only his wife, but his precious little girl has been defiled by an out-of-town Svengali. One might say he wants to take his gun out and empty its chamber into Space’s left nut. In a small town like this one, he’s not exactly worried about repercussions of the law. Bodies can always disappear without a trace especially when you’re a couple of hours away from the next major city.”

“So what happened next?”

“There’s a knock at our door at four A.M. It wakes us all up, me, Doc and Wires.”

“How come Wires was with you in the room?”

“Wires was rooming with Space, but got kicked out for the three-way, so he ended up with Barlow and me. It’s weird I know. That’s the only time Wires and I ever roomed together.— How about that?”

“Sparky! Get on with the story---It’s four in the morning, knock at your door and....”

“It’s the police and they’ve got the little bastard of a hotel manager who used to own this place, with them. Doc answers the door. They ask for Space, and Doc tells them, ‘he isn’t here.’ They want to search the room but Doc insists, ‘Look,’ he says pointing to our disheveled heads peeking above the covers, ‘Me, Wires, Sparky.— No Space.’ The Little Bastard--- since he can easily identify the culprit---concurs what Doc has told them. Doc tells them Space is staying at the end of the hall which is really Wally and Magic’s room. Satisfied they leave. Wires is on the phone calling Space’s room as soon as the door is shut and tells him he better haul his ass out of there before they find him. We can hear them pounding on the door
down the hall and Space doesn’t have much time until they discover he isn’t there either. We’ve got eight weeks of touring to do and we kind of need a drummer no matter how much of a dick he is. It’s a little difficult to play drums with busted arms, you know what I mean? Now— This is where things get really strange Thumper.”

“More than they are?”

“If you can believe it? Wally has a little personal amount of pot on him he
purchased after the show that night. He hears the pounding at the door and someone saying it’s the police. 'Open up!' He freaks. He thinks it’s because of his pot and starts to climb out the window in just his undies and a T-shirt. Eventually since there is no answer, they have the door opened by the Little Bastard and his master key. All they see is the back of this blonde guy with plumber’s butt as he disappears through the window and drops to the street below. Thankfully it was only from the second floor. They think this is the guy they’re looking for, and race down the hall and out the hotel after him.”

“What about Magic?”

“He slept through the whole thing.”

“...geesh! No wonder he got his ass fired. That guy would sleep through his own funeral.”

“So with Wally running amuck down the streets of Nasty Tree with nothing but a little cotton between him and the wind, the rest of us get our shit together and head out to the truck. Fortunately we had packed the gear after the show. Just had to toss in the personal stuff. Space is shaking more than I’d ever seen him, fearing for his life. Magic is groggy, trying to figure out why we’re leaving in the middle of the night and Barlow and I are glancin’ around like we’re
going to be assailed at any moment by a mob of the town’s people. I don’t know what we expected, maybe all of them to be carrying pitchforks and lit torches like out of a horror movie or something? But we all made it and got the hell out of Dodge. Wires was the only one who was remotely calm, like it was just another day at the office. He even paused to light a cigarette before he started the ignition. You know Thumper? That’s the image that stays with me the most--- Wires lighting up like he’s Clint fuckin’ Eastwood, while the rest of us are scampering about like scared rabbits. Funny huh?”

“What about Wally? What happened to him?”

“Christ Thumper! You make it sound like it was the last time we ever saw him. How we read about his tragic end in some local newspaper of him found skinned alive and swinging from an oak tree with his undies down around his ankles. He’s still in the band isn’t he?— Initially we had planned to come back in the morning with an emissary, not including Space, to pick him up. What could the police do? He wasn’t the guy they were looking for. The Sherif had it in for Space not Wally. Besides he’d left in such a hurry he hadn’t even taken the pot with him to get rid of it. But we were lucky. We managed to pick Wally up on our way out of town. There he was bare feet, ripped T and underwear, standing next to the road side, shivering, with his thumb out. All red faced and wind-blown like he’d just walked out of a Winston cigarette ad. The important thing was we were all accounted for and got out of this town in one piece. We were very lucky.”

Thumper had listened intently but was now worried. “God! What if someone recognizes us? I have a wife . . . a. . . a. . . daughter to think about. I can’t take a chance on being lynched.”

“Look Thumper I’m worried too, but all this went down eight months ago. I don’t think the attention span of this town goes beyond two weeks. Shit, even the Aqua Velva and rubbing alcohol are kept behind the counter here because of the vast drinking problem. The bar has a new owner, so there’s no one to rat us out, and we are not that band anymore. That’s why we changed the name. They won’t be looking for Bitter Romance and especially won’t be looking for Bitter Romaine.”

“...but Space?”

“ Thumper, let me tell you, that dog's bark is worse than his bite. Even Space is not stupid enough to draw attention to himself this week. I don’t think he’ll be too anxious to leave the sanctuary of his hotel room unless it’s when we’re playing. I expect he’ll keep a very low profile.”

“Amen to that!”

Now the rest of the night was ours. We wouldn’t be performing until tomorrow. I was feeling a cold coming on which, as a singer of a third of a material, wasn’t a good thing. My defenses must be down, perhaps from concern, but more assuredly, a little gift from my walk to the gas station in the damp cold a week ago. I’d been fighting it since then. The cold would take effect, and by Wednesday I was in Bob Dylan mode---singing in a steady monotone with inflections in all the wrong places---as I struggled through the songs.

Space was quite adamant none of us traveled anywhere alone in this town, and he, as I had said, had no desire to leave the hotel. But since Thumper was the least recognizable of us all, he graciously agreed to go to the pharmacy and get me medicine. He returned with the most god awful tasting stuff I’d ever had. But it seemed to ease my symptoms and except for my time on stage I restricted myself to bed.

To make our solitude more comfortable, Doc went down to the front desk and with some sweet talking, persuaded the girl to let him shift the satellite to the Playboy Channel. A popular choice as suggested by the collective hoorays of the rooms inhabitants.

It was very much like the days of wood-shacking when we first got together in the claustrophobic milieus of a small cottage in the dead of winter, to hammer out the new material over a ten-day period. Everyone was grumbling at the close-quarters and the immense pressure of a first gig just over a week away. I remember Doc and I had nearly come to blows over who was going to play bass in what songs. Doc for the most part had remained on keyboards but several times during the night we agreed to switch places and instruments. If only my Granny could have seen me. Doing my best to learn piano parts for Men at Work songs, she would have
been so proud.

On Monday the marquee had been changed and proudly stated the entertainment this week would be “Hitler Romance.” Outside of a brief panic attack by Thumper who was convinced we would be besieged by skin heads, white supremacists, and neo Nazis expecting us to perform death punk, we managed to get the marquee changed yet again. By Tuesday the reader-board had been adjusted for a second time, and now said, “This week – Bit Her Romance,” which we figured was close enough for rock & roll and the final four days of our stay.

On Wednesday afternoon Space sent Wires and Thumper to pick up our new light guy. That meant returning to last week’s town since it had the closest train station. They were also told to pick up dry-ice. We had it all, dry-ice-machine, a bubble and fog machine and...oh yes, we can’t forget the flash pots. Space wanted as many distractions during our performance as possible to divert the attention away from him.

Four hours later they returned with Bronson, the new light guy, and a steaming hunk of dry-ice wrapped in a cheese cloth. Bronson looked a lot like Wires. He was diminutive of frame, expressionless, quiet and reserved. His hair was beatlesque, yet darker than that of our sound-man. His ragtag jeans were ripped at the knees and his jacket sported the quickly sewn patches of various metal bands, Judas Priest, Iron Maiden, bands of that ilk. What appeared to be all his
possessions were jammed into a long, charcoal-colored, duffle-bag he had settled at his feet. He grunted and mumbled for the most part during the introductions, and except for the lack of a cigarette, I was having serious deja vu.

Things were running smoothly outside of having to repeat several numbers each night due to the speeding tempo of a nervous drummer somewhere behind the rolls of dry-ice and fog. Space was laying low, Thumper counted his mullets, Wires trained the new guy, Doc destroyed trees and collected gems with his buddy Bentley Bear. I continued to try to rid myself of the cold and Wally was . . . well . . . Wally.

There was some kind of pumpkin festival going on in town and everyone seemed to be spending time at celebrations surrounding it. The bar had not been in the remotest danger of reaching capacity all week. But we knew the weekend would yield a different result and a packed house.

I ran into Wally and Thumper Saturday afternoon leaving the refuge of the hotel. They were on their way to the laundry mat. Thumper was still counting mullets and was up to one hundred eighty seven, not including Wally and himself.

“You guys are doing laundry? You’re bold.”

“It’s just across the street Sparky. My stuff stinks. Doc said, he doesn’t want me standing next to him on stage any more if I don’t wash em’.”

“Is that what that smell was? I thought they were cooking something vile in the kitchen.”

“Besides I’m board. Cooped up in this place. What elks am I gonna do, watch porno all day? I need to get out.” He lifted his huge garbage-bag to his shoulder. He looked like a sailor ready to ship out.

“Wally. Why do you have so many clothes all-of-a-sudden?”

“Space asked me to wash his as well.”

“So you’re his bitch now? It would serve him right to have to do his own you know? He’s already been caged up in his room all week ordering room service.” My voice was still gravelly but was beginning to clear up a little.

“Ah I don’t mind, since I was going there anyway.”

I spent the rest of the afternoon in the hotel room with Barlow trying to get me to eat a gob of Vick’s Vapor Rub. He claimed it would clear me right up even when the jar clearly stated for external use only.

“Really Doc, I’m feeling much better and no, I don’t care who in your family said it’s the best remedy for a cold.”

I was still sweating profusely when I slept and stuff was leaving my body from every orifice it could find, but under the circumstances I wasn’t going to tell Doc. It was true, I did feel better except for a constant urge to take a dump, and it would be on with the show regardless, just as it had been all week.

Doc and I went down to the bar early to mull around, he to play his beloved, and I to watch the steady trickle of patrons filling the seats and ordering their drink of choice. One by one we assembled for our last night of performing in this godforsaken town. Bronson took his place behind the lighting console and dimmed the stage. Wires was filling water bottles and placing them at various junctions around the equipment. Thumper and Wally had joined Doc and I at the side of the stage next to the kitchen.

“Where’s Space? We start in five minutes.”

“I don’t think he’s too anxious to come down. He’s mad as hell at me.”

“Look Wally, I’ve been singing all week with a frog in my throat. We just have one more night to get through and then we can get the hell out of this place. We can’t have Space losing his nerve now.”

“Yeah,” Doc cut in, “We’ve had to put up with him racing through the songs all week. I’m tired of having to announce, we’ve had another request to repeat material. Especially Tuesday, when there were only three people in the bar to begin with.”

“I’ll go get him,” Wires informed us. He put down the last bottle of water and left through the swinging kitchen doors.

“I say we let him do a drum solo tonight to make up for it.”

“There’s no drum solo in any of the sets Doc.”

“The drum-break in Pretty Woman. I say we just leave the stage and let him wail away for ten minutes.”

Thumper added with a giggle, “That’s brilliant!”

“I don’t know?”

“Oh come on Wally. Remember your sax solo in the matinee last week? That was all Space’s idea.”

“It’s not that simple Doc. There was a bit of an accident this afternoon and he’s really pissed at me.”

I inquired, “What accident?”

Thumper chuckled. “Tell em’ Wally.”

“Well remember when I said Space asked me to do his laundry? I didn’t separate anything. I mean– Fuck! It’s not like I own anything white.”

Doc laughed. “That’s why I don’t let you do my laundry Wally.”

Sure enough when Space appeared, hiding behind Wires, his once pristine white stage clothes were now a bright shade of pink. Wally looked at him mournfully. Even creeping in and out through the kitchen, as he had done all week, wouldn’t help Space stay out of the spotlight tonight.

“That’s a bold statement of couture,” I smirked.

“Fuck off,” came his muffled reply. His bandana had moved south from his head to his nose. Tied tightly it covered the lower half of his face.

“Rob any stagecoaches lately Kimosabee?”

“Suck it Doc! This was Wires’ idea.”

“Does this mean we’re opening with the Psychedelic Furs, Pretty in Pink?”

“Don’t even--- Thumper.— Wires I want you to crank up the dry-ice right from the first song. Keep it going for as long as it lasts.”

“Ok, you pay the bills,” Wires responded, and headed for the sound board.

I guess I had some twisted, sadistic satisfaction with Space’s appearance as he pushed by us and walked onto the darkened stage. After all, to me, this wasn’t about mixing colors with whites or, Wally’s keen ability to mess things up. This was about, what goes around, comes around. It was about discarding Skunk, Magic and the other nameless musicians and crew who had passed through the door. This was about the head games and the callous use of the Sherif’s wife and daughter. It had made him afraid of his own shadow here in Nasty Tree. And let’s not forget the many women Space left behind tour after tour---those who bleed the tears of emotional
abuse. This was about defecation in the karmic pool and now for Space there was nowhere left to swim. I turned to Doc, “We’re on for the drum solo.”

“First song, third set.”

Just as we had planned, during the drum break in Pretty Woman, we laid down our instruments and left the stage, leaving behind a very surprised vision in pink. He huffed and puffed his way through an unexpected solo in front of a full house before we returned ten minutes to the second into his performance.

At the end of the set Space didn’t speak to anyone, except Wires. He was fuming at our blatant disregard to his safety. “Tear it down tonight! I want to know as soon as we’re loaded and ready to leave. I’ll be in my room.” With that said, he stomped off. The rest of us began to pack up our stage gear.

On Friday a girl had started sending drinks up to me and we had chatted briefly between sets. Now she was back and had her eyes fixed keenly on her chosen conquest. “The guy with the eyes,” she called me. Said I looked familiar. I asked her if she’d watched a lot of porn thinking I was giving off that Ron Jeremy vibe again. “Yes,” she told me, ever since her boy friend went to prison. Then she gave me the old touch and squeeze, the subliminal sign when women let you know they are interested in you. She touched my arm and squeezed ever so gently. I became a little fidgety and propped myself up against the side of the stage mostly from the lingering effects from being sick.

“It’s ok. He said I could have sex with anybody I wanted while he was in jail.”

“All the same, I don’t particularly want some guy named Big Burt hunting me down because I had sex with his girlfriend. Besides I’m not exactly one hundred percent. In fact I’m not even twenty-five percent. I’ve been sick all this week.”

“I don’t care. I never get colds.— You have such incredible eyes.”

“Look. It’s not that I don’t find you attractive. It’s just— I don’t exactly feel amorous at the moment. See? I have to drink this crap.” I showed her the bottle of medicine I carried with me and swigged between songs. She took it from me, studied the bottle for a second, then removed the cap and much to my amazement sucked back the entire bottle. Wow, she must really be drunk?
“Mmm! That’s good,” she said. She let her little pink tongue dart out to lick her lips in a sensuous manner. “There now. I’m protected from your germs. Let’s have some fun.”

I looked at the empty bottle in awe as she passed it back to me. I turned my gaze to Wires and Bronson tearing down. “Uh . . . We’re leaving tonight. I don’t have much time.”

“I don’t need much time. There are other things I can do for you.”

I noticed her jeans were very tight and she was sporting a camel toe. Perhaps I should alert Doc? This is more his territory. Where was Doc anyway? He wasn’t at the Nasty Tree game. I thought he’d be there for sure, since we were leaving soon.

I felt like shit but I was running out of excuses. I said. “What about my roommate?”

“Who the tall guy who yells at the video machine?”

“That’s him.”

“He went with the little guy and the other blonde guy to an after-party.”

“After-party? What after-party? Where?”

“You were all invited. They have it every year for the Pumpkin Festival. It’s at Bruiser’s house.”

“Who the hell is Bruiser?”

“He was in here tonight. Didn’t you meet him? Big guy with a mullet. Loves to fight.”


“He’s the brother-in-law of the Sherif.”

Saturday, January 13, 2007

New release this week

As to not offend the lesbian community, I recommend getting Alix Dobkin- Living With Lesbians: featuring the Lesbian Power Authority.

There are some great licks on this album, especially if you like to watch....I mean listen. It's much better than Jimmy, Fred, Cliff and friends- Orgy at the Bareback Carnival, or, Prison Past-time- Swallow Til Ya Puke, I'll tell you that much.

Friday, January 12, 2007

Here's linkin' at you kid

Last week I went for a little stroll through the Blog rolls of several sites. In my haste I skipped perhaps one of the most, informative, vivid, yet excruciatingly facetious and well written sites in the Blog community.

I’m talking of non-other than Scott’s Blog elemenohpee.

I strongly suggest you go there right now. Scott assured me he was going to post something deviously sexual today. If it’s not up, just keep clicking his site until it is. He’ll appreciate the patronage.

Ok Scott, I held up my end of the bargain. Please return my cat and my mother unharmed. I also want my parking space back at the Mitchieville Town Hall.

A day late and 250 million short/ Today's secret word is:

I didn’t post yesterday because I was too upset. Some idiot agreed to pay some other idiot 250 million dollars over five years to kick a ball in some idiot sport that rates even lower than hockey on the radar of most Americans. Or in other words idiot fans of Nascar.

I'm outraged. Although some of you might feel I'm a jealous idiot.

I couldn’t make that much coin over a lifetime, even if I lived to the ripe old age of 782, prostituted myself on weekends for extra cash, and married an aging idiot Texas oil tycoon.

So now, I guess, Mr. And Mrs. Idiot will be moving to L.A. to join a host of other affluent, non-panty wearing idiots.

Good luck imbeciles....(which is just another word for idiot.)

Today’s secret word was: Nascar

Wednesday, January 10, 2007

5 til the 6th of 24

With just 5 days left before the 6th season premiere of 24, I think it's time we all payed a visit to the Bauer count. Have you ever wanted to know how many people Jack has put out of their misery over the years and how it was done? Or perhaps you want to reacquaint yourself with the faithful departed? Whatever your poison, it's all here.

Including the unfortunate assassination of Ryan Chappelle, season 3, episode 18.

I can hear GIGC weeping from here.

Tuesday, January 09, 2007

Kobayashi!........God bless you.

Forget the frickin' chicken wings, OBJ's got a long way to go to get to this level.

In case you're still not sick

There's entire third world countries that eat less.

Monday, January 08, 2007

All hail the conquering hero

Forget the football playoffs on the weekend. The Patroits, Eagles, Colts, Seahawks....fuck em all!

The real action was at the Wing Shack in Ajax for the Durham Wing Eating Regional Semi-finals, where a game that real men dare to play was unfolding. One Ball Joe, now known as The Pit, defeated all comers by posting a decisive yet, come-from-behind victory, to advance to the final on Super Bowl Sunday (Feb 4th).

You know what? GIGC likes me to cum-from-behind too sometimes.

OBJ, rated as a massive underdog going into the competition for having only one testicle in his nut sack, still managed to find a little extra gusto from his solitary raisin and slipped by his opponents with ease. He never lost his composure. He always retained his focus. It was a feat which will live on in the pages of sport history along side the accomplishments of Gretzky, Jordan, Montana and the Babe.

It was a movie of the week, a best selling biography, a triumphant feeling of eluding the police after they find you snorting coke off a hooker’s ass.

It was the type of event which left you breathless and with tears welling up in pride for having witnessed its beauty.

Masticating through his last wing— 42 in all in 10 minutes, he left behind a pile of bones reminiscent of the death and destruction at the battle of K’yer Banor and other great one-sided conquests.

After he had crushed the spirits of lesser men to desperation and despair, we took him out for a well deserved victory celebration— all you can eat shrimp at Red Lobster.

Now following a day of rest and a good dump, The Pit, with the assistance of Babosa Miyagi will begin training for perhaps the most important contest of his life.

Good Luck OBJ a.k.a. The Pit.

Wax on. wax off!

Someone cue the theme from Rocky.

They don’t have The Pit's picture up yet, but you can go look at all the wimps that will be his final competition. Just click on photos.

Crossposted on Mitchieville

Sunday, January 07, 2007

SIS #8

the limits of respectability
chapter eight - return to nasty tree (part II the spawning

Journal entry- Day 7 – We’ve been traveling for more than two hours. Forty minutes of that on a dirt road chiseled out between massive pine trees and various rock formations that open up willingly before us. It’s enticing, like spread legs guiding us to a vagina inviting penetration. Each mile is a marker further from civilization and closer to madness. I’m suddenly thinking of Joseph Conrad’s novel, “Heart of Darkness”. The only thing missing is the ominous movie music. The stuff that makes your skin crawl and holler for the people to get the hell out of the house before they’re attacked by the axe wielding maniac.

There it was suddenly, at the end of the road, Nasty Tree, with its one main street, its one grocery store and coffee shop. Its strip mall with the video rental, convenience store, laundry and barbershop guarded by a gas station. Its only public and high schools, its Department store, Bingo hall, and its local Legion all flying old glory. The colonial town hall, the rustic Inn, the police station, the cheesy restaurant, and the beauty salon with its exterior of bubble gum pink leaping out from the overcast ambiance.

Behind the hedge of the main street buildings were the gardens of houses— row upon row of wooden structures— decorating the horizontal offshoots of the main drag in various shades of peeling paint and well-worn grays. Houses inhabited by the town’s citizens, merchants, loggers, welfare cases, and the hopeless youth with no future but the bleak horizon disappearing behind the expansive pines.

Thumper looked around in wonder. “So tell me more about this place we’re playing.”

“Everyone has a mullet here even the women,” Wires informed our rookie.

Doc slapped Wally on his blonde hair helmet. “Freaks you out to think they might be distant relatives of Wally’s doesn’t it?”

“Wires. If everyone has a mullet how do you tell the women apart from the men?”

“Most of the women don’t have moustaches, Thumper,” Doc interjected.

“Most of the women? Gaud! It’s like Village People of the Damned.”

“You got that right my little friend.”

I was laughing to hide my apprehension. “Don’t worry Thumper. You’ve got a mullet and a mustache. You’ll fit right in.”

“— And twenty years from now you won’t be able to tell the men and women apart anyway,” Doc added. “Whether we’re in Nasty Tree or someplace else.”

“What are you talking about now?”

“Man breasts, Space.”

“Let me guess, is this another Chaunsey Barlow study?”

“Fact is, the levels of estrogen in our water supply is increasing at an alarming rate. Women on the pill don’t you know? Eventually the male youth will develop breasts like their female counterparts.”

“You mean like Sparky?”

“Fuck you, Space.”

“Chaunsey’s done experiments with male mice.”

Thumper had forgotten all about his initial questions on Nasty Tree. “Male mice with breasts?”

“And a low sperm count.”

“Like Sparky.”

This time I just shot Space the finger. “Don’t listen to him Thumper.”

“Who? Space or Doc?”

“Space! I’m sure I have children out there somewhere. My boys can swim.” To me, despite the light-hearted conversation, it felt as if we were crawling along at five miles an hour and my chest had become tight with an unseen heaviness. It sucked the air from me. The few slow-moving people on the street stopped and stared as we rolled by them, disturbed by our intrusion. They looked as if they’d been spit from the same mold: flannel jackets, hats sporting brand name farm equipment, with work-boots untied, and lotto tickets in hand. As Wires had specified, the look was a gender friendly one.

At the end of the main street, we could now see a crumbling red brick building. It was the stop sign, ceasing our forward motion and a dead end marking the termination of our road— the bar called, The Oasis Hotel. The name was proudly displayed in neon, atop a marquee with two green palm trees on either side of a double door entrance. The building and bar were so far away from being tropical, it made one laugh, even if it was nervous laughter.

The club seemed to be coming at us instead of the other way around. It loomed before the Ghost as we passed down the main drag. All we traveled by, somehow appeared to close in behind us, as if the buildings were alive— a living entity full of awareness, malice and loathing— cutting off any chance of retreat.

Thumper cried in dismay, “Oh no! Guys, look at the marquee!”

The marquee above the club had us listed, This week Bitter Romaine.

“Is that supposed to be us, or are they warning people about the salad bar here?”

“Maybe it’s better that they think it’s about food, Thumper, ” I concluded.

We pulled the Ghost around back and parked. Next to our truck, were angled, horizontal, basement doors that led down into the club. They reminded me of the cellar doors people barely got closed in time before the tornado hit and took their crops, their house, and their livelihood.

Wires walked with an incognito Space around to the front of the building to make the bar owner aware of our arrival. After several minutes the doors swung outward and Space appeared. He looked the same as when he’d left us, like Claude Raines I thought. With dark shades, fedora and scarf pulled tightly around his mouth and neck, he was an invisible man.

“Let’s get the gear in guys. Quickly,” he said and then returned to the recesses of the protective darkness deep in the club.

We loaded the equipment in. The bar was just as I remembered it, dark and dank with the smell of stale beer and a stained carpet, a little squishy in places from a spilled pitcher or two. Most of the tables were round, surrounded with cheap uncomfortable chairs, of which some were ripped and repaired with duct-tape. I used to pass by places like this with my grandfather when I was young, never seeing the inside. But it looked now, much as it had smelled and sounded then— the warm alcohol odor, the chatting voices of despair and the occasional smack of billiard balls.

We finished our load-in and Doc ran right for his love like I knew he would. It was a small sit-down, video game called Crystal Castles in a grim cubby-holed corner of the bar. He caressed it as one who has not seen a lover in many moons and expects to rush to coitus as soon as possible. Video game addiction was prevalent in our group more so than drugs. We each had our weakness, Space Invaders, Asteroids, Tron. For Doc it was an obsession with Crystal Castles.

A triumphant Doc, pointed to the D-O-C displayed in the screens first level. “It still has my high score!” He carefully straddled the chair and leaned out over the electronic table with enveloping arms curling around the outer corners in a loving hug.

“What do you expect? You think the lumberjacks rush in here every Friday to pump their hard earned money into a machine so little Bentley Bear can swallow all the gems, get the honey pot, avoid the swarms of bees, wear the magic hat and kill Bethilda the witch?” I said.

Doc thought for a moment, then replied, “Yep.”

“Probably hasn’t been played since the last time we were here Doc.”

He started to warm up the trackball, slowly rubbing it counterclockwise like he was kneading a breast.

I raised an eyebrow. “From the way you’re acting I’d say, if you run out of quarters, I’d half expect you to stick your dick in the coin slot.”

Doc looked up at me disapprovingly and plopped a fist full of quarters onto the glass top, as Thumper gathered around to see what the fuss was all about.

“Best leave him alone Thumper. Doc’s about to do battle with the gem eaters. See?”

Doc gazed at the screen intently and maneuvered his bear about. “Fuckin’ greedy guts eatin’ all the gems. Look at em! Try to out maneuver me will ya?— I’ll teach you.”

“Doc’s really into this game isn’t he?”

“It’s the reason he went into music in the first place, I’m sure.”

Doc hummed softly as his bear raced around the screen collecting gems. “Greedy guts— greedy guts.”

“Watch out Doc here come the nasty trees!”

“Fuck those nasty trees! Die, you fucks!” Doc rolled the track ball wildly and punched the jump button with a fierce intensity. Bentley Bear leapt with ease over the approaching trees.

Thumper turned to me surprised. “This is what this gig and tour are named after?— A video game?”

“Uh— yeah. Why? What did you think it symbolized?”

“I was scared shitless. I thought from everyone’s reaction there was some sort of urban legend where people went missing in the woods here?”

“Sorry to disappoint you Thumper. No disgruntled trees ambushing wayward hikers. It’s just a video game.”

“Better this than what we were going to name the tour,” Barlow said, as he grabbed the last gem and transcended to the next level.

“What was that?”

“The Blow it out your ass. Lock up your showers tour.”

“Would have been more appropriate if you ask me,” I said.

Space was talking to the new owner conveying the error in the spelling on the marquee. The man apologized and agreed he would have it taken care of. It appeared that the kid who put up the letters didn’t understand English, having just moved here from the Middle East.

We set up the rest of the gear and even had a decent sound check. As per Space’s instructions the lights had been diverted from the drums to other places on the stage and his cymbals had been set up in such a way, they created a small fortress of brass around the kit. Even when the lights were eventually hooked up, it would be hard to determine if there was anyone back there behind the glimmering ramparts.

Wires called me over to a small cul-de-sac next to the stage and handed me a 2x4.

“What am I supposed to do with this?”

“I have to hook up the two-twenty feed for the lights. If I make a mistake and it looks like I’m frying, I want you to hit me as hard as you can. Understood? It’s been a while since I’ve done this.”

“Why don’t you get Wally to help you? He used to be an electrician.”

“I would, but I don’t know where he is. He went off to eat.”

“Wires, I agreed to help you with lights but there’s no fuckin’ way I’m smacking you with a hunk of wood.”

“Sparky it’s two hundred and twenty volts of electric current. I won’t be tiptoeing— ”

I cut in, “ — ‘Tiptoe through the two-twenty’– Good name for an album. Remind me to write that down.”

“— besides I don’t want you to smash me in the melon. Just a good hard shot in the abs to get me away from the electrical feed.”

I certainly understood Wires’ paranoia on the subject. I had damn near been electrocuted on stage once myself. There had been a bad ground on the plug for my amp and I had been shocked when I grabbed the microphone stand. I had been unable to let go of it and my wrist had been welded across my bass strings. All I could do was stand there and feel the surge of electricity coursing through my arms, and across my shoulders in a tingling paralysis, as I weekly whispered for help with widened eyes. Thankfully, someone finally pulled the plug.

I called for Thumper. He’d was over at the game again with Doc where I could hear Barlow cussing out the gem eaters. When he arrived, I handed him the board as Wires began to hook up the two-twenty. “Here. You’re the new guy. Wires looks like he’s being electrocuted hit him with this.”

Thumper looked at the plank, “OK . . . Sparky.— Hey, you guys played here last tour right?”


“How come no one has said anything about that gig? You guys are all quick to add your two cents about other places you played— women to watch out for— places to eat- but no one’s said word one about this town other than the mullet thing.”

“What do you want to know Thumper? That we had a bad experience when we were here last time? That this gig is the reason we changed the name of the band to Bitter Romance? That the rational behind the band rule, no one goes anywhere alone when we leave the hotel, is because of this gig?”

“What happened?”

Wires had stopped to grab a wrench and light a smoke as I spoke. “Space. Somehow it always begins and ends with him. He was screwing around with two chicks last time we were here. One was an older woman, attractive for here age, fairly adventurous, nice bod, huge— ” I brought my hands up and cupped them. “— Space’s type. You know?. . . But the younger chick was an absolute knockout. She had wavy, golden blonde hair, beautiful smile,— a really sweet girl yet with a nasty, kinky side to her or so we heard— ”

“— Right through the walls,” Wires added, as he popped his cigarette back into his mouth and resumed hooking up the light feed.

“— Anyway— Space alternated them for the first part of the week- Monday . . . older, Tuesday . . . younger. On Saturday they both show up to the gig. They’re in different areas of the club but they both have designs on seeing him after the show. Now, most guys would choose oneand lie to the other- My Mother just died- My cat has rickets. That sort-of-thing. Not Space. With his ego, he tells me he’s just going to invite the two of them up to his room and suggest a little three-way action.”

“No way?”

“Every living breathing male’s desire. When I get tired, I can watch.”

“Better watch it now, Sparky. Thumpers got wood.”

“— So after the gig Space goes up to his room. He’s spraying cologne on. He’s got candles burning, soft music, the bed turned down, wearing nothing but his boxers and waiting for the knock. The young one arrives first. Space tells her the plan. She’s all for it. ‘Bring it on,’ she says. In fact, they start to get into it a little before the older chick gets there. When the older one finally arrives and knocks on the door, Space just tells her to come on in. She opens the door and starts screaming and yelling at Space and the younger chick. So the younger chick starts yellin’ and screamin’ right back. She jumps out of bed in nothing more than what she came into this world with and the two start pushing each other at the bottom of the bed. Space is sitting there gap-jawed, although not surprised two chicks are fighting over him. He can’t believe this is all going down and spiraling out of control.”

“I guess the older one wasn’t too keen on the idea of having a three-way, huh?”

“No. Especially when it’s a three-way with your own daughter.”

Thumper almost dropped the 2x4, “No fuckin’ way?”

“Focus! Focus!” Wires scolded.

Thumper raised the hunk of wood while listening to me further. “But that’s not the best part Thumper. Not only is she the mother of the girl who had shared her lover all week, she’s the wife of this town’s Sheriff.”

Wires let out a terrible screech. “AHHHHHH!!!!” His hands knotted into clenched fists grabbing the light cable jutting from the power box. His face twisted. His body convulsed.

Thumper began to freak out. “WHAT DO I DO?! WHAT DO I DO?!”


Saturday, January 06, 2007

New release this week

As to not offend those who are handicapped, I recommend you pick up Something Special from Jeff- Featuring "Through it all".

Friday, January 05, 2007

Surf's up

Today I thought I’d take the blog/link process one step further. I thought it would be cool to go to a site, look at the sidebar for the blog buddies, click on a link that interests me, lather, rinse, repeat, until I’ve had enough, run out of links, or I just get sleepy.

Maybe I’ll even leave a few comments like we’re all old buddies?

What better place to get started than Mitchieville, *comment left*, who has more links to blogs than I have hemorrhoids.

On the Mayor’s sidebar, I first had to resist temptation to go to The Limits of Respectability, because it kind-of defeats the purpose. However, I did find some of interest in name alone, Tattered bits of brain and Small dead animals to name a few, but Whimpering Jello won out. *comment left*

This led me to the Church of Joe *comment left* Who begat...Boing boing. Then I found my self Waking up on Planet X. I think I'm lost, but I left my comment anyway.

This got me to Dust my broom, thankfully a place I was familiar with. After some tea and buttered scones Darcey showed me to the Halls of Macadamia which I noticed seemed to be linked quite a lot.

From there I found myself at Boonbloggle, who doesn't blog much and smote Calgary grit, who afflicted Keegan's blog. It's getting very political now.....maybe this was a bad idea? Are there no crass assholes like myself out there?

....Getting sleepy. Must....close....eyes.

Thursday, January 04, 2007

Doing it by the numbers

Today's title could have also read, "I'm just a lazy son of a bitch", because it's just a bunch of links for your perusing pleasure.

Top 10 weapons in history.

Top 10 lamest Super Heroes. Better watch out for Matter Eater Lad and Arm Fall Off Boy.

Top 10 most dead people of 2006.

The 5 smallest countries in the world. They didn't include the communist society that live at the base of my anal passage.....ah I'm just kidding.....they don't really live there, they just visit.

Top 10 special effects in movie history.

And the top 10 opening sequences in movie history.

The 100 worst martial arts movie names. You're wondering aren't ya? If "Crouching Dooflingus, Hidden Thing-a-ma-jig" is on the list. Well don't just stand there, get clicking.

The 100 most annoying things about 2006 other than martial arts movie names. You know, I thought "Head On" would have finished higher? "Head On! Apply directly to the forehead! Head On! Apply directly to the forehead!Head On! Apply directly to the forehead!Head On! Apply directly to the forehead!Head On! Apply directly to the forehead!"

Wednesday, January 03, 2007

Hand to gland combat

A concerned health message from Strangedaze.

I was just tooling around browsing some Blogs when I stopped off at Lind's site to catch up. Besides wondering what it might be like to get a good pole-waxing from her, I was very upset to learn, during the hustle and bustle of the holidays, I missed World Orgasm Day.

But then I got to thinking, for me, everyday is kind of like World Orgasm Day anyway--- in fact, sometimes three and four times an hour.

So why do we need to designate just one day to feel good? Beats me? (oh..that was good.)

World Orgasm Day should be everyday. It's for your own health to pump the python. People would be in a much happier frame of mind if they'd just get out there and play whack a mole regularly. Just think--- no more road rage.

So gents, rub the genie for all it's worth. Ladies open up those meat curtains and expose your fluffy sausage wallet. Get the battery operated eraser out and pretend someone made a mistake on your clitoris. If you like to play Battleship so much. remember you're just one hit away from sinking the man in the boat.

Join me my brethren in this offer. Together we can do this and make World Orgasm Day, everyday.You'll not only thank me, you'll feel better from the experience.

He said his DICK, not his face you idiot!

Warning: World Orgasm Day may not be suitable for everyone. Caution should be taken when asking others to assist you in your pleasure. This offer not in conjunction with current Strangedaze offer of free sphincter bleaching.