Drunken Message to a Friend

The following message should set itself up. If you don't immediately pick up on the background to this message, raise your hand so I can come over and hit you with a tack hammer, because you're an idiot.

"Since you've been missing your drunken MySpace messages, I figured that, as a friend, getting hammered and expressing my latest revelation (under the delicious auspices of sweet, sweet alcohol) would only be a courtesy to a friend in need. Heh heh...

My drunk-ass came to the conclusion that my music career is not over. I've only been given a taste of what is to come. I listened to a bunch of old Hurt Street tonight and what we were doing was inspired and spontaneous.

All of my wine training (and yours) is simply to educate ourselves for better contract riders so that our backstage craft services are better suited towards the creative process.

In other words, gimme the good shit muthafucka. I wanna see verticals of Margaux backstage, bitches! If those Canuck mofos from Rush can demand, so can a rag-tag bunch of old fuckers (you, me, Eddie, a to-be-unidentified drummer from RCL, and my old bandmate/vocalist Luke).

Am I chasing an unattainable dream or would you ride the musical train if the opportunity presented itself?

Facts: I'm drunk right now. You, me, and Eddie are all committed to our jobs. Lilly won't start school for another three to four years. I'm drunk.

More facts: I'll be sober when I read your response. I'll be sober when I remember that I sent this message. I haven't spoken with Luke in nearly a year.

Dream: Luke rocking the vocals and some rhythm guitar, you on lead guitar, Eddie on full-time rhythm guitar, me on bass, and a TBD drummer with a possible TBD percussionist.

I'm not ready to give up on music.

Also, Angie's vagina has the gravitational pull of the moons of Jupiter, mostly Europa. Seriously, there is a singularity in her crotch that, aside from an inescapable gravitational pull, is coupled with an infinitely dense layer of cobwebs from lack of penetration by the human penis.

"Put it in Angie's box," everyone says to me, handing me forms and papers.

"No, fuckers!" is my response, knowing that 'Angie's Box' is euphemism for her neglected tuna-scented love glove. Try erasing THAT image! Haha!

See ya tomorrow. I'll probably drink a beer before I come to work at 10am so I can brace myself for the destruction that Randi will wreak on our guests.

This message was brought to you by the letters B, E, E, and R.

HAHAHA!"