Either we live in a fire-prone area, or the five or six fire trucks that go careering, siren screaming, past our building every hour are just out joyriding. We suspect the latter. Lights flashing, a blur of red and ladders with what could be our imagination but appears to us to be firemen drinking beer and smoking joints hanging out the windows. You hear the goddamn thing coming for 12 blocks and going for 12 blocks more--very annoying. We should have been a fireman. We could be out there, fighting the occasional blaze and spending the rest of our time roaring around the city with a funny helmet on our head. We have a friend who's a fireman, but he's a bureaucratic fireman. Sits behind a desk. We wonder if the desk has a siren on it...
We've got nothing today. Frankly, and not to bum anybody out, or bring anybody down, or harsh anybody's buzz, or knock the ball of joy out of anybody's hands, or thrust a stick through the spokes of the wheels of anybody's bicycle of happiness, we're a hopeless wreck and well past the point of writing anything entertaining or funny or even amusingly depressing, we're well into the realm of deep-fried unhappiness that makes it impossible to do much but whine and wring our hands, wring our hands, wring our hands. When it comes to hand-wringing we're Olympic material, and the fact that hand-wringing isn't an Olympic sport just increases our unhappiness. Because we could kick some ass and bring a gold back to America, not that we want to bring any glory to America fuck that, all we've ever wanted to do is write funny shit and we can't even do that, oh drat. Then again this blog goes two ways and if anybody wants to entertain us go for it, we know you can do it, you do it every day. So entertain us, as the Nirvana song goes, please, we'll be forever in your debt, make us laugh and we swear we'll cry, in gratitude, for your kindness.
An otter attacked a swimmer in Minnesota, casting a pall over what were thought to be excellent otter-human relations. Leah Prudhomme, an experienced triathlete, was bitten multiple times while swimming in Island Lake. Hillary Clinton, Secretary of State, promptly jetted to the lake to begin discussions with the disgruntled otter. To show just how tense the relationship between otters and man is, other Island Lake otters were quick to defend, and even applaud, their compatriot's attack. "They come here with their electric motorboats, churn up the water and just miss cutting off our heads with their propellers, and generally act like they own the place," said Peter van Otter, who says he would never attack a human himself, "but that's because I'm a big pussy." The number of militant anti-human otters is unknown, but long-time Island Lake swimmers have begun to shy away from plying its waters. "I don't want to be attacked by otters," said a former swimmer who asked to remain anonymous. "I don't want to be attacked by otters," said a second former swimmer, who also asked to remain anonymous. And echoed a third anonymous former swimmer, "I don't want to be attacked by otters." Which just goes to show you that the fear level is high, and that everybody in Minnesota talks exactly the same.
We've always wanted to be a big eater. To have a "heavy fork", as they say, if we recall correctly, in the film "Prizzi's Honor." But we've always fallen down on the job. Bottom line is, we're a puny eater and always will be, despite our every attempt to man up and chow down.
We have often talked big, and this has only made matters worse. Every year we've attended a Weihnachtsmarkt, whether it be in Rostock or Hamburg, we have made grandiose predictions about just how much sausage, liver, fried bananas, and mutzen (a kind of funnel cake only in small cube form, and served in a cone) we would consume. We have swaggered into that Weihnachtsmarkt, ready to eat our way to glory. And every time we have returned home deflated, having put down perhaps half of what we predicted. It's demoralizing. We try, but our tiny stomach fills up so quickly...
We bring all this up because the (excellent) Mexican takeout joint located in our building has issued a challenge: If you can eat a 4-pound burrito in 45 minutes, they'll give it to you for free along with some other cool swag, like a free t-shirt. There are pictures on the wall of skinny guys just like us who have done it. We can't do it, we'll never be able to do it, and it makes us mad. We could starve ourselves for a week and we suspect we'd still peter out at the 2-pound mark. If even there. Anyway, if anybody out there has a heavy fork, we invite you up here to take on the "El Toro", as they call it. We'll pay for it, promise, if you don't make it. And we'll show you a good time (or as good a time as possible in DC) while you're here. We've got to live vicariously through somebody...
Here's an interesting article, if you're a superburgergourmand like we are. We're saving up the $666 now, and... we're just kidding. We do like the guy's philosophy of burgering, though. We won't abide lettuce on our burger, think it's an abomination. It's nice to find a fry chef who would sooner give the customer his money back than mix the two...
We were standing on stage, ready to play. Arnold, the saxophonist, gestured to a woman sitting at a nearby table. "I'd like to blow my sax straight up her skirt. Between her legs. Bounce my skronk right off her snatch." Arnold was what you might call cunt struck. I had a bad case myself, but Arnold made me look like a eunuch.
Carlton, the bassist, was dead drunk. His bass was more upright than he was. Fortunately Leon, the drummer, kept him in line. Together they were magic, hoodoo, a bottom like a $200 call girl's. I played trumpet, we called ourselves the Sultans of Rhythm. We played clubs, high school dances, the occasional swinging jew kid's bar mitzvah. Anybody that could pay our fee.
We played superbly that night. Arnold kept the bell of his horn pointed straight at that woman. Occasionally he'd do a 360 degree spin, dip low, and blow so hard you could almost see the air from his alto ruffling the folds of the woman's skirt. He was channeling pure unbridled lust.
The woman had a boyfriend who noticed. He was a big fucker too, black like we wanted to be with fists like hammers of the gods. I could very clearly visualize him turning Arnold's horn into a hat. I resolved to hustle Arnold offstage the second we stopped playing, and back to the relative safety of the manager's office where we would collect our night's pay.
We went into our closeer, "Ricochet". It was pure bop, but Arnold infused it with a tone of carnal desire. He might as well have been playing that sax with his cock. He lay on his back and writhed, bouncing sexually inflamed notes off the unfeeling ceiling. It was a universal call of the loins, composed of notes of unadulterated hormonal frustration. Raunch unsatifsfied, directed to the heavens. Arnold was eighteen and secretly suspected he would never get any. When it ended, I grabbed him by the sleeve and frog marched him back to the manager's office. Where we collected our wages and skedaddled.
Not long after that Elvis came along. He killed us, pure and simple. Nobody wanted to hear us. It was all the King, the King, the King. The Sultans broke up, and went our separate ways. That was decades ago. Last I heard Arnold was on his fifth marriage, and it was on the rocks. His horn was long gone. He was a real estate agent, but his real business was still pussy.
"More will be revealed." That's what it sounds like Robert Plant is singing in "Kashmir." That and "Ooooooh, baby, I'm eggplant flying." We always like our lyrics better than Bobby's, like when he sings, "Ooooh, yea, oooooh yea, I'm a noun" at the end. "Mugga ga fugga baby" he sings in "The Ocean", before he says, "So good," and for once we know what he's talking about. We've never been a big fan of Plant's voice, although it has grown on us over the years, but there's no denying Jimmy Page's barbaric guitar riffs, such as the one in "How Many More Times", off the first album. If the Nazis had had that cranking out of their panzers (just the opening riff, on an endless loop) on giant speakers ("Valhalla I am coming" indeed) when they stormed into the USSR, they'd have won for sure. So it's a good thing Led Zep wasn't around in 1941, huh?