Sometimes I wonder about you, man. I really do. Especially when you say things like, “If Euronymous were alive today, he’d be a fat, sad alcoholic roadie-ing for King Diamond,” or “Everybody knows that Immolation have gone downhill since their second demo,” or “If I ever see the drummer from Cunt Stabber again, I’ll kick his fucking ass.”
But will you? Kick his ass, I mean? Somehow, I doubt it. We both know you’ll just cower behind your boy Marty from Sphincter Drill and nervously sip your Bud Chelada or whatever. (How can you drink that rotgut, by the way? It smells like B.O.) Besides, the drummer from Cunt Stabber is pretty big and beefy and you’re kinda doughy and full of shit. Keep pouring that sewage down your gullet and making empty threats, though. I’m sure it’ll all work out.
Sometimes I just wanna pull you aside and tell you to shut your huge annoying face. But I don’t, because I’m your friend, and friends stick together through thick and thin. But sometimes being a good friend means saving one of your more loudmouth friends from himself—and from the unforgiving fists of others who, try as they might, cannot resist the overwhelming impulse to reshape that mouth into something considerably less loud.
The other night at the bar when you made that unfriendly comment about that one dude’s girlfriend, I thought he was gonna twist your head off and kick a fucking field goal with it. And to be honest, I wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised if he did. I know she was snobby and overbearing—and yeah, she did kind of look like James Gandolfini—but you don’t always have to say the first thing that pops into your head.
There are other things we should probably discuss. I think I mentioned this before, but you really gotta work out this whole thing with Lester and his sister. I realize that she spent a lot of time making those capes for us, but no one asked her to do it and not only does she expect us to wear them onstage, but now I hear that she expects to be paid as well. I know we agreed to not use the word “gay” in a negative way ever since Lester came out, but wearing capes onstage is just, well… yeah. I don’t really see us as a “wizard metal” band, anyway.
Also, I’m sick and tired of cleaning up after you guys at the practice space. You’re always leaving beer cans and fast food wrappers all over the place, and nobody except me ever lifts a fucking finger to pick any of it up. And don’t even get me started on Bobby’s face pubes, which are scattered all over the floor like greasy little curly reminders that I continue to play in a band with that asshole. He can’t grow a real beard, so why doesn’t he just shave that shit off?
If I seem like I’m throwing a fit here, it’s because we all know I carry this whole goddamn operation on my back like it was my own newborn son. But I’m not gonna baby-sit you guys anymore. Straighten up and fly right or you’ll be looking for a new lead keyboardist who also does awesome backup vocals. Good luck with that.
This bullshit originally appeared in the January 2010 issue of Decibel magazine.