Pretending to be in a Professional Rock & Roll Band.
I would like to start off this blog by saying that, it is generally not my forte to dedicate my blogging to our drunken adventures. I like leave the art of inebriated story-telling to Walker, who is far better at it than myself. It’s not that I don’t believe in physically writing down our adventures, so that one day, maybe even the next day, we can actually remember them. It’s just that it’s not my thing, I think maybe that’s where Photographis Blogicus gets its inspiration from. I’m much better at seeing pictures I don’t remember having taken, and then piecing together the night of ricockulousness from the clues. Maybe it’s all the criminal investigation classes I’ve taken in school–-I don’t know.
Regardless, the string of events that occurred last Friday definitely warrants writing down. The whiskey imbibed journey I embarked upon included its fair share of characters, as usual. However tonight’s experiences all lead up to a moral, which is what inspired me to write this down... That and the massive hangover I suffered the next day. We all call booze the poison, but the next day I felt as if I had actually drank poison. I don’t know if it was from a spider, or a scorpion, or a white snake; but poison nonetheless. Actually, I just wrote that last sentence so I could say I once wrote a paragraph that included five buttrock band names, but had nothing to do with music–-kind of like buttrock itself.
Anyways, I give you: “The Night I Wish I had my Camera,” aka, “Pretending to be in a Professional Rock & Roll Band.”
* * *
It always seems that the more I have it on my mind to not go out and get trashed, the more trashed I get. It’s like some parabola of nature, a Murphy’s Law if you will, a motherfuckin ball of irony... call it what you will, but it is one factor that dominates my life. And on this particular Friday, I wanted to keep it low-key. I wanted a night where nothing major happened, a night where I could wake up the next morning and goto work with a smile on my face. So I, of course, ended up getting completely fucking obliterated.
The night started off innocently enough. I had just gotten off of work, and in a gesture of good faith, I headed off to Casa del Kuz to help my dear friend Chelsey download and convert some files from her digital video camera. No sooner had I taken a seat at the kitchen table and started ripping files then D-Kuz said, “Hey, I have a surprise for you!” Now, it’s a good rule of thumb to note that when D-Kuz plays the, “Surprise Card,” it’s probably going to involve something ridiculous--and we’ll touch on this more later in the story--but as for now, this particular surprise involved him slamming an unopened bottle of Jameson Irish Whiskey on the table in front of me. And this is how my night started...
One-half a bottle of Jameson later, we’re flying down the I-215 at ninety-seven miles an hour to the Red Stone, a seemingly innocent drinking locale that would somehow contain one of the most belligerently uneducated people I have ever met. The plan was to meet up Matt Bitchell, have a few on-the-house cocktails, and peace the fuck out. Now, I know that this might make it seem like Matt Bitchell, himself, is belligerently uneducated, but that could not be farther from the truth--he has a UNLV college degree; but for some reason, ridiculous fucking people somehow surround Mr. Matt Bitchell. And this brings us to the first confrontational moment that makes me wish I had brought my camera.
For those of you that don’t know our friend Matt, he likes to laugh--especially at jackassary--and especially at his friends doing jackassary towards mentally challenged people. Okay, maybe that’s a bit extreme, but I’ll go ahead and lay out the scenario for you and you can decide for yourself.
Within, no exaggeration, eleven seconds of me walking into the Red Stone, Matt Bitchell was like, “Wah-ha-ha-ha, check out that old black lady across the bar, she’s so out of control drunk, you should go hit on her. Wah-ha-ha-ha, No, dude, do it... Seriously. I think she may be a crackhead. It'll be hilarious.” Now, I like to entertain my friends, especially when we’re not partying on my side of town, but man... it was just entirely too fucking early for that particular brand of hi-jinx, so I passed. Or so I thought...
We’re all laughing, “Yeah man, it’d be so funny to go and talk to that girl.” “Man, she’s totally gone, ha ha ha.” “Yeah dude, and by gone, you of course mean, old?” “Ha ha ha ha ha,” and so on, just laughing it up to ourselves, but then things escalated. The bartender walks over to us with a triple shot of Jack Daniels, and slams it on the bar in front of me. “That lady over there wanted me to send this over to you,” she snickered as she pointed at our Harriet Tubmanesque figure of jest. Now, despite the fact that I had nearly completed shaking hands with Mr. Jameson at this point, I was still coherent enough to know that she was fucking with me. She does bartend at the same restaurant as Matt Bitchell after all. But, on that same note, I was also hammered enough to have this thought, “You know what dude? If my friends want to buy me this booze, I’ll throw them some entertainment.” With that thought taunting my frontal lobe, I march over to talk to Rosa Parks--and by Rosa Parks, I, of course mean; Rosa Parks, if instead of refusing to ride in the back of the bus, she smoked a fifteen pound rock of crack-cocaine, crashed the bus into a daycare center, and then proceeded to take a dump in the back of the bus.
As I came sauntering up, I hoisted my shot glass far into the air and shouted, “Hey, thanks for the drink, you son of a bitch!” Of course, she had no idea what I was talking about, but, being a belligerent alcoholic, she readily clanged glasses with me and sipped down her Patrone Silver. After draining our respective beverages, we exchanged a few drunken words, my friends exchanged a few drunken laughs, and I returned to my seat across the bar. But this was not that last we’d see of Drunkey McTubman.
Something like thirteen minutes later, long after we’d forgotten about her, she came storming over to us demanding that she not pay for our drinks. However she’d gotten it into her afro’d skull that she was our alcoholic benefactor, I’ll never know, but she was definitely less than happy about it. After about five minutes of verbal sparring about bar tabs and the like, we came to an agreement (we’d each pay for our own booze) and our lives moved on... However, her life did not move on. In fact, she made the horrible mistake of staying and trying to talk to me, which could only result in me insulting her without the knowledge of her being mocked. And at this point, I shall break narrative to give you an exact--to my best recollection--transcript of our conversation.
Her: I know you don wanna fuck wit me, I’m from the WATTS PROJECTS!
Me: The Watts Projects? Scary.
Her: Yeah, son, the WATTS PROJECTS, we crazy, you know what we’re about?
Me: I dunno, I kind of make it a point not to trust any city named after a unit of electrical measurement. Like Voltage, Detriot, that place is fuuuuucked up!
Her: Naw, WATTS nigga, that’s where the riots were at! You kno, the 96 riots, ya, word.
Me: Yeah? Well Voltage Detriot is HARDCORE... that’s where 8 Mile is... you know, you’ve heard of Eminem, that’s where he’s from. Yep, 8-Mile, yo; Voltage, Detriot.
Her: Word?
Me: Word!
Her: Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaamn
[At this point she sniffs the air several times]
Her: Damn, that shit smells good, what you eatin boy?
D-Kuz: Ummm, it’s, uh, Lobster Ceviche.
Her: Mmmm, Ceviche? What the fuck is that?
Me: Ceviche? You don’t know what Ceviche is? And you think you’re hardcore? Ceviche is Italian, haven’t you seen Scarface?
Her: Yeah I’ve seen Scarface, I know what Slabitchy is bitch!
Me: Oh yeah, what?
Her: You tell me!
Me: Yeah, Ceviche is Italian for, “Fish Salsa.”
Her: Nigga actin like I don’t know what Ceviche means, like I don’t klnow Italian, pffft! OF COURSE I know Ceviche means fish salsa.
For the record, yes I know that Scarface was Cuban, not Italian... but it's still a mafia movie. And also, I think I forgot to mention that she, at one point, called me a, "Sean Penn looking motherfucker." And to be honest, I was pretty surprised she even knows who Sean Penn is... maybe she's only seen Carlito's Way, who knows?
Anyways, I digress, at about this point we all started laughing our asses off, for I have no idea what Ceviche means, but I’m pretty sure it doesn’t fucking mean, “Fish Salsa.” As we laughed for about the next fifteen minutes, her interest sort of trailed off, and she wandered away to her next adventure. Now, I only tell you this story to tell you this: This lady would not be the most ridiculous person I encountered on this particular night...
* * *
I’m going to fast forward this blog about five hours, because: A) I’m trying to keep my blogs a bit shorter, B) I’m trying to keep my readers a littler bit more interested, and C) I can’t really remember what the fuck happened during those five hours. But, never-mind-that-fact, Karim and I come stumbling out of the Drop Bar at about six in the AM, fully expecting to limp to our cars and go home; a pair of defeated human beings. Yet, as we stumble out of the bar, we see a lost soul in more dire condition than ourselves. That’s right, there’s D-Kuz, at six-eh-emme, at the craps’ table, with an undeterminable amount of chips in front of him. To a layman, it would appear that Kuz was kicking the Green Valley Ranch’s ass; a mountain of chips in front of him. However, to Karim and myself, who know better, it is clear that the Kuz is actually down a hundred and fifty dollars. He was apparently playing his, “Surprise Card,” but only on himself, because the rest of us know that it’s no surprise that he’s going to lose his ass.
However, I deter from the story, Karim and I decide to go stop Kuz from being silly, so we stumble up to the craps’ table in a vain attempt to sever Gamblor’s asphyxiating grasp from our Canadian friend’s throat, when there, I meet the most ridiculous girl--ever--and also the inspiration for this story.
My friends would probably call her "scene" or an "emo-chick," but she wasn't, not really at least... She was dressed more like how a stripper dresses when she's trying to be "rock and roll," and she probably listens to like Disturbed or System of a Down, you know, that kind of bullshit. Anyways, she was there with her friend who was trying to be all "alternative" by piercing her lip and wearing art-school glasses. And at first, we thought they were hookers, because they were just like hanging out, being all ridiculous, at six in the morning. But, they weren't hookers. At least, not very good ones, because there were about seven old, dirty, and very soused men at the craps table, with plenty of casino chips to blow on a couple of GVR floozies. So, we ruled out hookers, maybe strippers who called it an early Friday night on the pole? Nope, strippers who just got off work wouldn't be dressed in club clothes, they don't care enough. So I guess that just leaves plain old drunk annoyingly loud whores--awesome!
The scientific method held true, as she soon prooved our hypothesis by turning to me from two spots down at the craps table and yelling, “Hey, you’re in a band!” Now, in all honestly, this is not that random of a mistake, I have a shagadoo, it happens... but instead of playing my free-drink-VIP-card (see Photographis Blogicus, Issue #3: Coachella Run-Off Week), I, being too hammered to keep up the in-a-band-charade just answered with an ambiguous, “Haha, I am?”
To which she replies, “Yeah! What band are you in?”
So, I, once again, not really wanting to lie--for some fucking reason--answer, “What band am I in? What band are you in?”
And here, my friends, is where the story gets ridiculous...
“Valentine,” she replies. And after I inquire as to what role in the band she plays, she answers, “Lead Singer.” Now, I’m trying so hard not to just laugh in her face, or say something really jackass, as the true comedy is in letting it play out, so I manage to get out, “Reeeeeally? So, you’re Emily Ellis?” Moments later she reassures me that she indeed is Emily Ellis.
Now, let me take this moment to explain that I know Emily Ellis, I’ve seen a Valentine show, I’ve drank some booze with her band while she argued on the phone with her boyfriend (angry that he wasn’t in attendance), I mean, my best friend even made their music video, but that’s besides the point. This girl was no Emily Ellis. However, I normally don’t care enough-–despite what my friends might say--to be so fucking scene that I have to ruin this girl’s fantasy. If she wants to be a lead singer of a Professional Rock and Rock Band, who am I to burst her bubble? I’ll tell you who: I’m a drunk motherfucker of an asshole.
At this point, I decide to rain all over her rock and roll parade and exclaim, “No you aren’t!” And then start pointing and laughing... After what seems about, like, seven hours of me laughing in her face, she finally musters up the will to say, with a certain bit of pride and braggart I must add, “Yeah, well I know some of the people in the band, and *I* had sex with Snake.” Wow, that’s a fucking amazing... I don’t know whether to jump onto this craps' table and start applauding you for being such a whore or to give you the gold medal for the one-hundred-meter-who-gives-a-shit. But, she seemed to be very proud of herself, at least she did at the moment. I guess to a ridiculous drunk whore, letting some guy in a local band blow you out is kind of an achievement... her mother probably has a dusty, leather bound scrapbook in a closet somewhere chronicling all of her crowning blow-out moments.
So, in lieu of making a spectacle, I decide to give this girl the biggest “What the Fuck” look in the history of the world. A “What the Fuck” look that was truly for ages; but one that would be shortly lived.... For, in about seven seconds, I would give her a look of previously unrecorded levels of “What the Fuck.” A truly .40 caliber, “What the Fuck is Wrong with You.” Because, I think, sensing the umcomfort in my stare, she quickly blurted out, “Yeah, he has a really small penis.” And there it is, I think if you take the combined power of the “What the Fuck” look on all of your faces right now, and multiply it by seven, you’ll get somewhere in the ball park of the look I gave her right there.
Like, seriously, this girl doesn’t make sense. Because, although it took me two paragraphs and three-hundred and six words to relay those two statements to you. In real-time, they happened over the span of about five seconds. Her emotions seriously just ranged from pride and accomplishment, to disgust and mockery, in about the time it took me to sip my Jack and Diet. This is a good sign that this girl is a little crazy... and by a little crazy, I mean in-fucking-sane. And for the record, if you are a musician craving, dirty-ass trick, it’s usually not a good idea to tell someone in a band that you had sex with another scenester and then insult his genitalia. It’s sort of an eerie and slanderous glance into what our own immediate future holds if we continue talking to you.
Now, I know that many of you reading this are going to call me “gay” for not saying I was in some obscure band, and then “blowing that chick out.” But, I feel I made the right decision... Flash forward; four days later... I’m at the Rainbow Bar and Grill, for some reason, (insert Rainbow themed gay-joke here) and her “alternative” friend was there, who let me on a healthy little tidbit of knowledge. As it turns out, her crazy whore of an Emily-Ellis-impersonating friend had herpes of genital nature!!! Yeah buddy, dodged a viral bullet on that one.
So, let’s recap what we’ve learned today:
Welp, that's it kids... I hope we all learned something. I know I did.
Oh, and on a final note to that Snake dude, it really sucks that that drunk chick is out there slandering your name, but if I can offer you any consolation, it’s that I made up the part about the herpes... I’m sorry, I just wanted to make my story sound more intense and interesting--I deserve to have ice cream smashed into my face.
Image by Dong Wang
Regardless, the string of events that occurred last Friday definitely warrants writing down. The whiskey imbibed journey I embarked upon included its fair share of characters, as usual. However tonight’s experiences all lead up to a moral, which is what inspired me to write this down... That and the massive hangover I suffered the next day. We all call booze the poison, but the next day I felt as if I had actually drank poison. I don’t know if it was from a spider, or a scorpion, or a white snake; but poison nonetheless. Actually, I just wrote that last sentence so I could say I once wrote a paragraph that included five buttrock band names, but had nothing to do with music–-kind of like buttrock itself.
Anyways, I give you: “The Night I Wish I had my Camera,” aka, “Pretending to be in a Professional Rock & Roll Band.”
* * *
It always seems that the more I have it on my mind to not go out and get trashed, the more trashed I get. It’s like some parabola of nature, a Murphy’s Law if you will, a motherfuckin ball of irony... call it what you will, but it is one factor that dominates my life. And on this particular Friday, I wanted to keep it low-key. I wanted a night where nothing major happened, a night where I could wake up the next morning and goto work with a smile on my face. So I, of course, ended up getting completely fucking obliterated.
The night started off innocently enough. I had just gotten off of work, and in a gesture of good faith, I headed off to Casa del Kuz to help my dear friend Chelsey download and convert some files from her digital video camera. No sooner had I taken a seat at the kitchen table and started ripping files then D-Kuz said, “Hey, I have a surprise for you!” Now, it’s a good rule of thumb to note that when D-Kuz plays the, “Surprise Card,” it’s probably going to involve something ridiculous--and we’ll touch on this more later in the story--but as for now, this particular surprise involved him slamming an unopened bottle of Jameson Irish Whiskey on the table in front of me. And this is how my night started...
One-half a bottle of Jameson later, we’re flying down the I-215 at ninety-seven miles an hour to the Red Stone, a seemingly innocent drinking locale that would somehow contain one of the most belligerently uneducated people I have ever met. The plan was to meet up Matt Bitchell, have a few on-the-house cocktails, and peace the fuck out. Now, I know that this might make it seem like Matt Bitchell, himself, is belligerently uneducated, but that could not be farther from the truth--he has a UNLV college degree; but for some reason, ridiculous fucking people somehow surround Mr. Matt Bitchell. And this brings us to the first confrontational moment that makes me wish I had brought my camera.
For those of you that don’t know our friend Matt, he likes to laugh--especially at jackassary--and especially at his friends doing jackassary towards mentally challenged people. Okay, maybe that’s a bit extreme, but I’ll go ahead and lay out the scenario for you and you can decide for yourself.
Within, no exaggeration, eleven seconds of me walking into the Red Stone, Matt Bitchell was like, “Wah-ha-ha-ha, check out that old black lady across the bar, she’s so out of control drunk, you should go hit on her. Wah-ha-ha-ha, No, dude, do it... Seriously. I think she may be a crackhead. It'll be hilarious.” Now, I like to entertain my friends, especially when we’re not partying on my side of town, but man... it was just entirely too fucking early for that particular brand of hi-jinx, so I passed. Or so I thought...
We’re all laughing, “Yeah man, it’d be so funny to go and talk to that girl.” “Man, she’s totally gone, ha ha ha.” “Yeah dude, and by gone, you of course mean, old?” “Ha ha ha ha ha,” and so on, just laughing it up to ourselves, but then things escalated. The bartender walks over to us with a triple shot of Jack Daniels, and slams it on the bar in front of me. “That lady over there wanted me to send this over to you,” she snickered as she pointed at our Harriet Tubmanesque figure of jest. Now, despite the fact that I had nearly completed shaking hands with Mr. Jameson at this point, I was still coherent enough to know that she was fucking with me. She does bartend at the same restaurant as Matt Bitchell after all. But, on that same note, I was also hammered enough to have this thought, “You know what dude? If my friends want to buy me this booze, I’ll throw them some entertainment.” With that thought taunting my frontal lobe, I march over to talk to Rosa Parks--and by Rosa Parks, I, of course mean; Rosa Parks, if instead of refusing to ride in the back of the bus, she smoked a fifteen pound rock of crack-cocaine, crashed the bus into a daycare center, and then proceeded to take a dump in the back of the bus.
As I came sauntering up, I hoisted my shot glass far into the air and shouted, “Hey, thanks for the drink, you son of a bitch!” Of course, she had no idea what I was talking about, but, being a belligerent alcoholic, she readily clanged glasses with me and sipped down her Patrone Silver. After draining our respective beverages, we exchanged a few drunken words, my friends exchanged a few drunken laughs, and I returned to my seat across the bar. But this was not that last we’d see of Drunkey McTubman.
Something like thirteen minutes later, long after we’d forgotten about her, she came storming over to us demanding that she not pay for our drinks. However she’d gotten it into her afro’d skull that she was our alcoholic benefactor, I’ll never know, but she was definitely less than happy about it. After about five minutes of verbal sparring about bar tabs and the like, we came to an agreement (we’d each pay for our own booze) and our lives moved on... However, her life did not move on. In fact, she made the horrible mistake of staying and trying to talk to me, which could only result in me insulting her without the knowledge of her being mocked. And at this point, I shall break narrative to give you an exact--to my best recollection--transcript of our conversation.
Her: I know you don wanna fuck wit me, I’m from the WATTS PROJECTS!
Me: The Watts Projects? Scary.
Her: Yeah, son, the WATTS PROJECTS, we crazy, you know what we’re about?
Me: I dunno, I kind of make it a point not to trust any city named after a unit of electrical measurement. Like Voltage, Detriot, that place is fuuuuucked up!
Her: Naw, WATTS nigga, that’s where the riots were at! You kno, the 96 riots, ya, word.
Me: Yeah? Well Voltage Detriot is HARDCORE... that’s where 8 Mile is... you know, you’ve heard of Eminem, that’s where he’s from. Yep, 8-Mile, yo; Voltage, Detriot.
Her: Word?
Me: Word!
Her: Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaamn
[At this point she sniffs the air several times]
Her: Damn, that shit smells good, what you eatin boy?
D-Kuz: Ummm, it’s, uh, Lobster Ceviche.
Her: Mmmm, Ceviche? What the fuck is that?
Me: Ceviche? You don’t know what Ceviche is? And you think you’re hardcore? Ceviche is Italian, haven’t you seen Scarface?
Her: Yeah I’ve seen Scarface, I know what Slabitchy is bitch!
Me: Oh yeah, what?
Her: You tell me!
Me: Yeah, Ceviche is Italian for, “Fish Salsa.”
Her: Nigga actin like I don’t know what Ceviche means, like I don’t klnow Italian, pffft! OF COURSE I know Ceviche means fish salsa.
For the record, yes I know that Scarface was Cuban, not Italian... but it's still a mafia movie. And also, I think I forgot to mention that she, at one point, called me a, "Sean Penn looking motherfucker." And to be honest, I was pretty surprised she even knows who Sean Penn is... maybe she's only seen Carlito's Way, who knows?
Anyways, I digress, at about this point we all started laughing our asses off, for I have no idea what Ceviche means, but I’m pretty sure it doesn’t fucking mean, “Fish Salsa.” As we laughed for about the next fifteen minutes, her interest sort of trailed off, and she wandered away to her next adventure. Now, I only tell you this story to tell you this: This lady would not be the most ridiculous person I encountered on this particular night...
* * *
I’m going to fast forward this blog about five hours, because: A) I’m trying to keep my blogs a bit shorter, B) I’m trying to keep my readers a littler bit more interested, and C) I can’t really remember what the fuck happened during those five hours. But, never-mind-that-fact, Karim and I come stumbling out of the Drop Bar at about six in the AM, fully expecting to limp to our cars and go home; a pair of defeated human beings. Yet, as we stumble out of the bar, we see a lost soul in more dire condition than ourselves. That’s right, there’s D-Kuz, at six-eh-emme, at the craps’ table, with an undeterminable amount of chips in front of him. To a layman, it would appear that Kuz was kicking the Green Valley Ranch’s ass; a mountain of chips in front of him. However, to Karim and myself, who know better, it is clear that the Kuz is actually down a hundred and fifty dollars. He was apparently playing his, “Surprise Card,” but only on himself, because the rest of us know that it’s no surprise that he’s going to lose his ass.
However, I deter from the story, Karim and I decide to go stop Kuz from being silly, so we stumble up to the craps’ table in a vain attempt to sever Gamblor’s asphyxiating grasp from our Canadian friend’s throat, when there, I meet the most ridiculous girl--ever--and also the inspiration for this story.
My friends would probably call her "scene" or an "emo-chick," but she wasn't, not really at least... She was dressed more like how a stripper dresses when she's trying to be "rock and roll," and she probably listens to like Disturbed or System of a Down, you know, that kind of bullshit. Anyways, she was there with her friend who was trying to be all "alternative" by piercing her lip and wearing art-school glasses. And at first, we thought they were hookers, because they were just like hanging out, being all ridiculous, at six in the morning. But, they weren't hookers. At least, not very good ones, because there were about seven old, dirty, and very soused men at the craps table, with plenty of casino chips to blow on a couple of GVR floozies. So, we ruled out hookers, maybe strippers who called it an early Friday night on the pole? Nope, strippers who just got off work wouldn't be dressed in club clothes, they don't care enough. So I guess that just leaves plain old drunk annoyingly loud whores--awesome!
The scientific method held true, as she soon prooved our hypothesis by turning to me from two spots down at the craps table and yelling, “Hey, you’re in a band!” Now, in all honestly, this is not that random of a mistake, I have a shagadoo, it happens... but instead of playing my free-drink-VIP-card (see Photographis Blogicus, Issue #3: Coachella Run-Off Week), I, being too hammered to keep up the in-a-band-charade just answered with an ambiguous, “Haha, I am?”
To which she replies, “Yeah! What band are you in?”
So, I, once again, not really wanting to lie--for some fucking reason--answer, “What band am I in? What band are you in?”
And here, my friends, is where the story gets ridiculous...
“Valentine,” she replies. And after I inquire as to what role in the band she plays, she answers, “Lead Singer.” Now, I’m trying so hard not to just laugh in her face, or say something really jackass, as the true comedy is in letting it play out, so I manage to get out, “Reeeeeally? So, you’re Emily Ellis?” Moments later she reassures me that she indeed is Emily Ellis.
Now, let me take this moment to explain that I know Emily Ellis, I’ve seen a Valentine show, I’ve drank some booze with her band while she argued on the phone with her boyfriend (angry that he wasn’t in attendance), I mean, my best friend even made their music video, but that’s besides the point. This girl was no Emily Ellis. However, I normally don’t care enough-–despite what my friends might say--to be so fucking scene that I have to ruin this girl’s fantasy. If she wants to be a lead singer of a Professional Rock and Rock Band, who am I to burst her bubble? I’ll tell you who: I’m a drunk motherfucker of an asshole.
At this point, I decide to rain all over her rock and roll parade and exclaim, “No you aren’t!” And then start pointing and laughing... After what seems about, like, seven hours of me laughing in her face, she finally musters up the will to say, with a certain bit of pride and braggart I must add, “Yeah, well I know some of the people in the band, and *I* had sex with Snake.” Wow, that’s a fucking amazing... I don’t know whether to jump onto this craps' table and start applauding you for being such a whore or to give you the gold medal for the one-hundred-meter-who-gives-a-shit. But, she seemed to be very proud of herself, at least she did at the moment. I guess to a ridiculous drunk whore, letting some guy in a local band blow you out is kind of an achievement... her mother probably has a dusty, leather bound scrapbook in a closet somewhere chronicling all of her crowning blow-out moments.
So, in lieu of making a spectacle, I decide to give this girl the biggest “What the Fuck” look in the history of the world. A “What the Fuck” look that was truly for ages; but one that would be shortly lived.... For, in about seven seconds, I would give her a look of previously unrecorded levels of “What the Fuck.” A truly .40 caliber, “What the Fuck is Wrong with You.” Because, I think, sensing the umcomfort in my stare, she quickly blurted out, “Yeah, he has a really small penis.” And there it is, I think if you take the combined power of the “What the Fuck” look on all of your faces right now, and multiply it by seven, you’ll get somewhere in the ball park of the look I gave her right there.
Like, seriously, this girl doesn’t make sense. Because, although it took me two paragraphs and three-hundred and six words to relay those two statements to you. In real-time, they happened over the span of about five seconds. Her emotions seriously just ranged from pride and accomplishment, to disgust and mockery, in about the time it took me to sip my Jack and Diet. This is a good sign that this girl is a little crazy... and by a little crazy, I mean in-fucking-sane. And for the record, if you are a musician craving, dirty-ass trick, it’s usually not a good idea to tell someone in a band that you had sex with another scenester and then insult his genitalia. It’s sort of an eerie and slanderous glance into what our own immediate future holds if we continue talking to you.
Now, I know that many of you reading this are going to call me “gay” for not saying I was in some obscure band, and then “blowing that chick out.” But, I feel I made the right decision... Flash forward; four days later... I’m at the Rainbow Bar and Grill, for some reason, (insert Rainbow themed gay-joke here) and her “alternative” friend was there, who let me on a healthy little tidbit of knowledge. As it turns out, her crazy whore of an Emily-Ellis-impersonating friend had herpes of genital nature!!! Yeah buddy, dodged a viral bullet on that one.
So, let’s recap what we’ve learned today:
- Darren Kuzyk is a crazy fucking Canuck.
- Matt Bitchell will somehow find the most ridiculously retarded person in the zip code, and mock them.
- To drunk black chicks, all white people look like Sean Penn.
- Slandering other dude’s penis size, is actually not a sure fire way to get a guy to take you home.
- If a chick is crazy, and also a whore, chances are she has a venereal disease.
- Pretending to be in a Professional Rock & Roll Band is an effective pick-up line, unless the target has actually heard of the band you’re pretending to be in.
- And finally...
- Always remember to bring your digital camera, because you never know when ridiculousity will rear its ugly head.
Welp, that's it kids... I hope we all learned something. I know I did.
Oh, and on a final note to that Snake dude, it really sucks that that drunk chick is out there slandering your name, but if I can offer you any consolation, it’s that I made up the part about the herpes... I’m sorry, I just wanted to make my story sound more intense and interesting--I deserve to have ice cream smashed into my face.
Image by Dong Wang
posted by Tyler at 4:15 PM
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