No Drummer? No Problem.
(Warning: some salty language if you happen to speak Spanish, otherwise you’re fine)
Cocaína is a helluva drug.
I wouldn’t know, because the strongest thing I’ve ever taken comes with a childproof cap and all the tablets are shaped like little dinosaurs, but I imagine that a coke-fueled musical rampage must be interesting. I can’t vouch for how enjoyable it would be, but I’m sure that like a tire fire or honey badger attack, it would interesting to watch from a safe distance.
I’m sorry for my absolute lack of knowledge on all the cool drugs the kids these days are doing. I don’t get invited to many parties, and the parties that I am invited to are usually thrown by my mother or someone related to her. I’ve tried doing drugs at those, but my extended family always gives me funny looks when I ask if they have any ecstasy on hand. Every once in a while one of my cool cousins gives me a Tylenol, but that gets be about as high as the Titanic.
Despite all of my previous attempts one of my cousins hooked me up with a drug dealer who I’ve been visiting regularly. He’s got everything on the market: aspirin, Tylenol, acetaminophen, Advil; he’s even got cough syrup in five different flavors. Next time I got to see my him I’ll ask for some of that quote, unquote prescription stuff. Maybe I’ll buy some ibuprofen without asking my mom for permission.
Don’t Mess With Vlad The Imposter’s Shrooms, Man
[Note: some salty language is translated from Polska]
Mushrooms. Serious business.
There are some people in the world — I’m not one of them, but I’ve met them — anyway, these people instinctively know who’s full of crap when they threaten you, and who isn’t. I’ve been in a barroom where the owners thought it necessary to hang a “No Colors” sign on the wall, and the toilet paper was chained to the wall to keep it from being stolen. If you’re unfamiliar with “No Colors,” it doesn’t refer to Benetton. They’re talking Crips and Bloods and so forth.
Anyway, behind the bar was a little gnomish fellow. He was about four foot thirteen inches, and weighed about as much as an elephant fart. He had a genial smile, missing a few teeth, but really friendly. He looked like he’d just gotten out of leprechaun prison. While I was in there, a guy that looked like Gorilla Monsoon came in and started pushing people around, and generally making a nuisance of himself. The little leprechaun came out from behind the bar, and without hesitation walked up to a sixteenth of an inch from the dude, scowled at him, pointed at the door, and said, “Leave. Now.” The huge guy meekly complied, immediately. The little fellow knew who was frontin’ and who was for reals, yo. The big fellow didn’t.
I think the little bartender has retired, learned Polish, and likes to ride motorcycles in the forest.
Furry Lisa By The Beetlebrows
Ahh — Furry Lisa by good ole Beetlebrow, the one and only Ludwig Van, the Oven-man himself. He probably wouldn’t be all too pleased by this. He always struck me as a very serious fellow, and I don’t think he’d appreciate any clowning around on guitars. Guitars are so 17th century, while the piano is a thoroughly modern instrument — er, by Beetlebrow’s standards. In Beethoven’s eyes, only way he could get any more modern is if he bathed every week. Our guitar-wielding friend probably bathes every day, which would make him a bit of a weirdo to Ludwig. Only a psychotic or a degenerate would bathe himself that much.
Personally, I don’t think Beethaven’s opinions on personal hygiene should enter into it. The fellow did something a bit weird for the sake of being weird, and he should get a cookie for being a good sport. Of course, under no circumstance should that many guitars be allowed in one room. If you’re not careful a jam session might break out, or worse — they might start reproducing and make more guitars.