I was at a local Nightspot for an “open mike” night. This setup was simply a band that was paid to back up whoever felt like gracing the stage that evening. In this neck of the woods there are some pretty incredible musicians. Most are seasoned (herbed) players from the New York City area. But one dude brought his guitar player kid with him this particular night.
It seems that little junior here was a guitar prodigy at the ripe old age of thirteen. You have to be incredibly gifted to be able to sit in with experienced musicians at that age. The kid could play, no doubt about that.
There was just something about him I didn’t quite like. Maybe I was jealous of this spunky little fucking midget. Could be, I really rolled my eyes when he started doing “rock star” moves while he was playing. I got a bad case of douche chills when he walked out onto the dance floor and played a solo on his knees. Christ on a fucking cookie! I just had to do something.
Well the guy running the show, the guitar player for the “house” band, called me up to the stage to play. The kid didn’t sit down. Shit. I didn’t even want to look at some fucking little shit at a nightclub yet get up on stage and jam with the little cocksucker.
Junior started to excitedly ask the bandleader if he could do one more tune. This just isn’t done, when they call up someone else you are fucking done. Your turn is over. Of course just because he was a little kid prodigy the rules didn’t apply to him.
I was pissed. So I stood there with a blank look on my face while we had to play some Metallica song. I helped Junior out by whispering in his ear that he was out of tune during his solo (that was actually quite good).
“Good, that’s over with, my turn.” I looked at the drummer and told him to play a slow twelve bar in “A” (or was it “G”?). A twelve bar is a standard type of rhythm usually used for jamming on some improvisational blues. And if there’s one thing I can do is play some fucking blues.
Ah yes, the Blues. Now there’s something a fucking thirteen year old doesn’t know shit about. I was quite pleased when I realized that this little freak didn’t know what the fuck we were talking about. The music starts and I started playing some licks I’ve been practicing since Junior here was still trying to figure out how to keep from shitting his diapers.
To show what a great guy I am in these situations I openly and very loudly passed the “lead solo” over to him. He was, I was pleased to see, no longer being cocky. He didn’t know any blues `licks; you have to have lived just a bit before you can even feel the blues, never mind playing the blues.
So I kept on encouraging him to try harder! I could see this was upsetting him. Not his playing, it was my “encouragement” that upset him. “C’mon you little fuck! You want to play with the big boys let’s hear it!” He looked scared and lost, he looked at me questioningly (I was screaming at him…). So I turned my back on him and stole his solo.
“Don’t take it too hard, kid” I told him offstage “Everyone fucks up royal now and then.”
“B-but I don’t know any blues, yet!” he whimpered. “Aw, you just need to experience some blues, that’s all, kid!” And with that I slipped a rufi (rufinol – date rape drug) into his Coke, and then stole his wallet while he was in the men’s room throwing up.
“There’s some blues for ‘ya, you little shit” I thought as I planted cocaine in his father’s unregistered pickup truck. It’s a good thing I knew about the drunken driving road block that was set up right outside the bar. It was also a good thing that I came by boat (lake action). I had also taken the liberty of instructing the bartender to keep feeding the alcoholic father tequila shots on my tab while I schooled his kid in Rock-n-Roll.
I don’t know whose cocaine it was I planted that night, but I do know an easy way of scoring. You can always stir up a little fun by walking into a large men’s room on a busy night at a seedy bar and shouting “POLICE!!!” at the top of your lungs. Just open the door, stand aside to let the onslaught run out, then go in and collect your winnings!
Coke, speed, half rolled joints, and embarrassed coke sluts are all that remain in the Men’s after pulling that fun little stunt. The only person left was some guy holed up in the last stall that kept muttering “Where’s a fucking vein when you really need one?” to no one in particular. All in all just a great night!
Let’s keep the kids at home folks. I’m a firm advocate of age restrictions. I try to enforce this by acting like a total asshole when there are kids around at what is supposed to be an event for adults. I don’t think your fucking spawn are cute, even if they’re well behaved. I hate having some dickweed telling me to be careful of my language because there are “kids here”.
I actually take that as a challenge. I love making people leave early because they don’t want their kids to be around me. It’s really very easy, just use harsh language. Say “fuck” a lot. A real lot. Tell a disgusting joke in the kid’s presence. It will freak out the parents and the kid will think you are a god. The kids are the only ones that think those gross jokes are funny, anyways. I remember when I was that age I already swore like a truck driver and if an adult told me an adult joke, well, shit, I was in heaven!
Sure, I was a weird little kid, but I’m an even weirder adult so I guess the cosmos are still in line. Case in point: I once noticed a woman breastfeeding her infant in the food court at the local shopping mall. I walked over to her and stood just to her right. I looked at my watch and sighed, looking slightly annoyed. “What are you doing?” she asked, “I’m just waiting in line.” I said back.
Folks this was the food court, okay. You want to flaunt your funbags in any way, by all means be my guest, just not while I’m trying to eat, okay? I wouldn’t walk up to your table and stick my balls in your soup. I just wouldn’t.
One other fun “dinner out” I can recall involved a couple of annoying little shits that were running around our carefully chosen restaurant. We were there to see the band that was playing after the diners were gone. It was a great place to eat so we showed up early for a little dinner.
One family had two obnoxious sons that were approximately 10 – 12 years old. These little buttheads had those fucking sneakers with wheels built into the sole, effectively making them into quasi roller skates. These adderall soaked gremlins were tearing the place up and coming just too fucking close to our table.
And of course their asshole, dipshit, scumbag, dickhead, dimwit, jackoff, fuckstick parents just sat there and let them run amok and bother the shit out of everyone. By everyone, of course, I mean just me.
I sized up the situation with great acumen. A dinner napkin, dropped with great accuracy of timing and placement, could potentially send one of these little bastards spiraling into the wall with great force. That is, if they made it past all the dangerous and sharp obstacles on their way to the safe comfort of simply slamming into a wall.
The plan worked with perfection. The only thing more disturbing in the dining room that night than the kid bleeding badly from a head wound was the grown man laughing uncontrollably.
Just another memorable night in the life of your twisted author.
Selah.
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