I’ve just toured one of the asphalt strips which girdle our great country and would like to say that nobody is illegal, unless nobody is Mexican or has a couple of pounds vacuum wrapped in the back of the truck under a bunch of hammers.
Along the way I was reminded that Indian reservations are awesome places to get the essential weapons and fireworks one needs for Mardi Gras by providentially breaking down at Bush Brothers Truck stop in Jamestown, New Mexico (exit 39 off I-40) that has all your personal items like tear gas, switchblades and this EYEGOUGE KITTY.
A weapon whose sheer cuteness means you might get it through the metal detectors.
MAKE EM SAY “ME OOWW!”
Remember, ladies, the eyes are the other balls.
We broke down again in Weatherford, Arklahoma, where we were punished with 3.2 beer. Impossible to get drunk on. I will not describe this horrid church town or the stinking vindaloo of the hotel room.
Nor will I mention the tow truck driver who upon seeing our California plates kept trying to get us to “break out the joint” even there were obvious Christians mulling about.
The first night in New Orleans, I apparently went to go see a band called “Tirefire” in Metarie.
Tirefire were opening for one of the “eyehategod” guys’ side projects (I’ll find out what it as called later. Evil army? I dunno, my notes are too bloody) where I stabbed myself in the hand with my newest of a dozen milano switchblades I have owned over the years to assuage my condition.
These knives have a malfunctioning safety mechanism which encourages a “pocket pop” when the owner is doing something like getting jostled in a room full of sweaty freaks. In the short useful lifetime of the spring this design flaw allows these evil little spikes to poke more holes in people than a jail full of three-peckered soccer hooligans. (It’s in Wales, I think).
So, I was covered in blood. It’s a good thing too because otherwise those fucking hicks would have moshed me and I would have to pull out the FIST KITTY and render them oedipus wrecks. Jesus-some one stop me from writing this drivel any more-
I passed out. Woke up. Had po boys. Ended up at a Katy Redd show. If you don’t know about her then you don’t know the biggest name in bounce music which is okay because bounce music sucks. These chicks were hot though.
Luckily I was able to clean out my ears with the glue of “Wizzard Sleeve.”
The drummer in this band plays keyboards while playing drums and the lead singer fixed the electrics on my sisters house (illegally). They are just what I needed to forget the bounce “music”.
Don’t worry Jay, by tomorrow, I’ll tack some pictures on this blog thing and try to describe the whiplash I suffered after all this hate and glue I saw Becky motherfucking Stark in a play at a bar.
Harry Shearer was in it. And Gabe Soria. Was it a dream?
And the Tin Man and Toto, too.
I have to get back to the serious business of watching black Indians do syncopated dances while sipping on coke and rum. So what I’m drunk it’s the freakin weekend baby I’m bout to have me some fun.