...And I'm back! Last week, I simply wasn't in the mood for diatribing. For all you nosey-asses who want to know why, I say this: suck it. You know good and damn well I generally keep my private life private, so just be happy I'm back here today to bring you the yummy goodness I provide. By the way, I shaved the mohawk off. I'm bald again, and loving it, mainly because I don't have to brush bald. That mohawk, however, required constant attention, kinda like a hot girl you bring to a strip club. Besides, it just wasn't me. My forehead is already big, but when I'm bald, it blends into the rest of my giant head, and you can't really tell how huge the forehead really is. With the mohawk, you can seriously tell. So much so that 2 days before I cut it, two guys from Best Buy tried to install a DVR unit on my head, mistaking it for the 52" plasma TV they were looking for. I don't need that shit. But I did get a free "Firewall" DVD out of the deal. So. Enough chatter. I'm gonna sit here, sip some Tang, and give you my meek and kind opinions about some of the unfortunate souls in the news. Saddle up! On with the 'tribe. --------------------------------------- Police arrested a man Friday after a bizarre chase and brief standoff on a major freeway. A Mesa police officer pulled over Robert Floyd Miles, 48, on U.S. 60 because his 2001 Daewoo had expired tags, said Holly Hosac, a spokeswoman with the department. Also in the car were a 41-year-old woman and her child, a baby about 3 months old, Hosac said, adding that she believes Miles is the baby's father. At first, she said, Miles was cooperative, but then the officer found two felony warrants - one for child abuse - and a misdemeanor warrant were out for Miles. When backup arrived, Miles fled, Hosac said. The officers followed the car at a distance. Miles let the woman get out of the car after he pulled over on the freeway, but he didn't stop for long. Officers followed him on the freeway until he hit a traffic jam and then ran into a guardrail. When officers approached, he had taken the baby out of the car and was holding it in one arm. He put the baby in the car when officers instructed him to do so, but he grabbed a large, black bag and put his hand in it as if grabbing for a weapon, Hosac said. Police shot him with a beanbag round, but that did not affect the 350-pounder, she said. They then used a flash bang, a diversionary device that makes a loud noise and puts up smoke. After that, they set a police dog on him. Miles struggled with the dog, and then threw himself in the car and was on top of the child, Hosac said. At that point, officers were able to take him into custody. The child, who had been in the car for about 45 minutes in the heat while the standoff ensued, at first was unresponsive but was breathing, Hosac said. The baby will be OK, she said. It was unclear what charges Miles will face. Hosac did not know whether the woman would face charges. God, where to begin? It's like going to a Chinese buffet on payday. Let's start with a 350 pound man driving a 2001 Daewoo. That, in and of itself, should be outlawed and deemed unsafe. I'm surprised the wheels didn't just pop the fuck off as soon as he folded his gargantuan buttocks into the driver's seat. People - if you have to slather on Vasoline to get in and out of your car, either call Jenny Craig today like Kirstie Alley, or upgrade your whip (that's black for "car", non-hipsters). Now, the guy was cool about things until police backup arrived, then he fled. Wouldn't it be easier to escape ONE police car, rather than, say, 10? What was he sticking around for, to see if they really meant it? The cops shot him with a bean bag, a flash-bang grenade, and sicced a police dog on him. This right here should tell you how the cops feel about killing folks, 'cause they really didn't have to do all that. They coulda popped him, "The Shield" style, and hit up a crack house and a coffee shop on the way back to The Barn. But no, they were trying to save him from himself, and they should be applauded for their efforts. But the worst part, the unfunny part of the story, is the fact that this asshole left an infant in a hot car for a long period of time while he being a fucknut, and THEN he jumped on TOP of the baby. I swear, 350 pounds or not, I would kick his monkey ass if I was one of the cops. Or if even I was a brotha in Dallas. Either way. I hope someone 450 pounds jumps on top of HIM in jail. ----------------------------- NEW DELHI - You would think this guy would be pretty popular with the women. A businessman in New Delhi is going to have surgery to remove one of his TWO penises so that he can marry and lead a normal sexual life. The man suffers from an extremely rare medical condition known as penile duplication or diphallus. "Two fully functional penes is unheard of even in medical literature. In the more common form of diphallus, one organ is rudimentary," the Times of India quoted a surgeon as saying. However, two is a crowd for this man, who wishes to undergo the challenging surgery and get on with his normal life. The surgery will be tough for doctors since both organs are well-formed and blood supply has to be ensured to the remaining penis for it to function normally. Um, no. No way I'd get one of 'em cut off. Fuck that. 2 penii? Thank you, God. No, don't keep the receipt - I won't be needing that. In fact, I'd be a superstar the world over. You don't think that I'd immediately get into the porn biz and start making some bank off my condition? Especially if both penii are fully functional! Oh, the stories I'd tell. Can you imagine the pick-up lines for this guy? 2 Penis: "Hey, wanna go out sometime?" Girl: "Change 'out' to 'away', and add your name at the end, mmkay, sport?" 2P: "I think I've got something that could change your mind." Girl: "Nice try. I don't think you can handle me." 2P: "Yeah, you're probably right. Call a friend to come with you." Mack daddy of the YEAR. You could jerk off AND get head at the same time. Only I would think of something like that. I am so depraved. ------------------------------ MUSKEGON HEIGHTS, Michigan - A woman was so afraid that she would lose her boyfriend while she recuperated from surgery that she arranged for her 15-year-old daughter to have sex with him. Police were astonished to discover that the three had even signed an agreement that detailed the sexual services the girl would provide and what she would receive as compensation. The 37-year-old man and the girl had sex about 20 times over two months. The agreement was brought to police attention after the girl talked to another adult. "It's incredible that any parent would be involved in such a blatant case of abuse against her own daughter," prosecutor Tony Tague told The Muskegon Chronicle. I included this story only to show how sick and REALLY depraved some people really are. What kind of mother would have self-esteem so fucking subterranean that she would offer up her teenage daughter to her boyfriend as substitute poontang? What kind of sick-in-the-fucking-head lowlife man would accept such an offer? This is utterly reprehensible, and I'm pretty sure they don't make a section of Hell hot enough for these two inhuman, deranged, malignant, should've-been-swallowed-at-ejaculation fucknuts. Sterilization should definitely be a large part of their punishment, preferably in some arcane, medieval fashion involving a hot iron and a pair of pliers. And this poor girl...she's gonna be fucked up for life. Don't think for a second that this is the first bit of abuse she's endured. This is just the shit we've HEARD about. No one goes from zero to "hey, bang my daughter" like that. This was just the tip of the iceberg. Let's just hope that the damage to her psyche can be healed in time, before she has her OWN kids, and before the pattern can repeat itself. A signed contract. I wanna know whose idea it was in the first place. Sounds like some man shit to me, actually. "Gee, I don't know if I can go 6 weeks without my 'medicine', Misty. You know how I am. Say, Crystal's looking good..." Fuck. I can't even finish that - it's too much, even for me. Hey look, I found the line I won't cross. I was wondering where it was. Peace.

Tang is a sugared, fruit-flavored, uncarbonated soft drink from America. The original orange flavored Tang was formulated by General Foods Corporation in 1957 and first marketed (in powdered form) in 1959. It was initially intended as a breakfast drink, but sales were poor until NASA began using it on Gemini flights in 1965. For a decade it was associated with the U.S. manned spaceflight program by many consumers.

I love Tang. You all know this. But for so long, I've denied Tang its rightful due in this here blog. It's time to rectify that. (I love the word "rectify". It sounds so dirty.) This, people, is what I love: Beautiful, ain't it? Like a Norman Rockwell painting. But I've recently discovered this: Ignore my cubicle pictures and the stupid tech writer humor. Focus on the canister atop the cubicle wall, perched there like a prince or a parrot about to take a dump. This, folks is called Great Value Orange Instant Breakfast Drink Mix, or as I like to call it, GVOIBDM, or "Fake Tang" for short. Know what the difference is between Tang and Fake Tang? $1.72. And when you're cheap — uh, frugal — like me, it makes all the difference. It's the exact same shit, and I love it they same way you love that fourth child that you didn't plan on having.

At one time, Canadian authorities attempted to deter addicts from misusing doses of methadone by packaging it in combination with Tang; this was carried out under the reasoning that nobody would be foolish enough to intravenously inject the combination. This was not the case.

In researching the Tangness, I discovered quite a few things that are CALLED Tang, but are most definitely NOT Tang. Like these: OK, my bad. This has Tang-like colors, but it is, in fact, a Nerf revolver that shoots darts. Several of us at work have these, and we have frequent intercubicle battles. Just this morning I got shot in the mouth, which failed to prevent me from talking. We are pro fesh shun ulls. Word. In all seriousness, look at these things: What the hell is "Horchata"? Is it Mexican Tang? Is it a new formula I don't know about? Is this what whores drink in the mornings? How dare they sully the good wholesome name of Tang! Damn whores. I swear. I hope they get the gout. And look at THIS shit: "Thirsty after a long jihad? Been shooting missiles at Israel all day, and your throat is parched? Well, come and get some Terrorist Tang today! Not made by the Great Satan, and approved by Al Qaeda. Bin Laden, been thirsty? Drink Terrorist Tang!" (

On Married with Children, members of the Bundy family would sometimes have a "Tang sandwich". And if there was not enough for a sandwich, they would have "Tang wipe" (a slice of bread wiped in the jar to absorb the residual Tang).

Now, I love me some "Finding Nemo", and I watch it every time the kids watch it, but dammit, this fish is called a blue tang for all the wrong reasons. First of all, Tang is orange, not blue. Recognize. Secondly, it's a fish, not a delicious breakfast drink made for astronauts. Thirdfully, Tang would NEVER suffer from a lack of short-term memory, 'cause Tang is jonx like that (all hail Fyrchk, bringer of jonx). Come on, fishologists. Correct your damn nomenclature. Your momma named you Tang, but that don't make you Tang. Call yourself Kool-Aid or Sunny Delight instead. Oh yeah - Member's Only jackets went out of style about 17 years ago. Time to update the ol' wardrobe. "Pootie Tang will draw you a picture of how he gonna kick your ass, then mail it to you ten days in advance. The picture gets there right? You're goin', "What the hell is this?" and then Pootie Tang knocks on your door, promptly kicks your ass and you still won't know what happened to you!" "Sa da tay!" Love that movie. But it ain't Tang. Wu-Tang Clan ain't nuttin' to fuck wit'. They can be Tang if they want to. No issues with me, Ghostface Killah, The RZA, GZA, Ol' Dirty Bastard (RIP), Raekwon, Inspectah Deck, Method Man, Masta Killa, and U-God. We cool. These swords are described as being "full tang", which apparently means that the blade goes all the way to the bottom of the hilt. But I don't see what that has to do with Tang, so I will be sending out a cease and desist to all sword and knife makers. Ginsu, I'm coming for you, bitch. These are all pretenders to the throne. However, in all my research, I DID discover this little slice of joy: Size XL, people. That's how I roll.

Tang usually comes in a plastic container with a screw-on lid that makes six quarts. A larger nine-quart container (898 grams) is available. Tang is also available in larger institutional sizes.

This year is the first year we're going to let 7YO play organized sports. Being ADHD, he sometimes (read: every waking moment) has a hard time following instructions, or staying on task, or even listening in general. Even when medicated, it can be a challenge for him to focus, and we felt like this was a bad cocktail for organized sports. We had imagined scenarios where we'd go to pick him up from practice, only to find him duct-taped to a basketball pole with the word "No" written in sharpie on a 3x5 card. We were hesitant, to say the least. But, he's been talking about playing sports more and more, to the point where we know he really wants to. Basketball, football, soccer - he wants to do it all. Finally, we relented, and signed him up for youth soccer, which was fine with us, 'cause if he's out on some field running around, maybe he'll calm down at home and not try to stand on the commode or teach the dog how to eat food off the stove. So, I was putting him in the shower last night, winding down the day, when we had this conversation: 7YO: "Dad, are you and Mom gonna come see my games when I start soccer in a couple of weeks?" Me: "Of course, buddy. We wouldn't miss it. Why WOULDN'T we come see your games?" 7YO: "I dunno. I thought maybe you'd just watch them on TV." (stunned silence) Me: "TV? What TV, son?" 7YO (speaking as though I'M 7years old): "You know, the TV I'll be on when my team is playing." Me: "Um, son? You won't be on TV. You're only 7, man." 7YO: "Oh. (pause) What about when I'm in middle school?" Me: "Maybe when you're in high school, or college. See, soccer isn't that popular in our country." 7YO: "Why, Dad?" Me: "Because it's a girlie sport. If you wanna be on TV, you'll need to play football or basketball." 7YO: "Or hockey." Me: "Uh, no. Focus on the football and basketball. Daddy needs a big ol' house." 7YO (confused): "What, Daddy?" Me: "Nevermind. Wash your hair." I promise, I won't be one of those dads who berates the coaches and the umps and whoever else is there, trying to help my kid be a better player. Oh, no. I won't live vicariously through my child. But I will cash his checks for him. Hello, Mercedes S-Class! Peace.

There won't be a diatribe this week, on account of me feeling particularly unfunny, and on account of me simply not wanting to. Maybe I'll give you a double dose next week. Or not. We'll see. Peace. EDIT: Just so I don't leave you empty-handed, feast on these for a while.

Gee, thanks Softball Slut. I really, really appreciate getting tagged like this, and swear to Buddha, if I had something better to write about today besides my failed attempt to dye my mohawk blue (yes, I really attempted this. The blue kept running into my face, because let's face it - black people hair ain't made for Wal-Mart brand temporary blue hair coloring), I would probably blow this meme tag off and call Slut about 1731 different awful names. But here I sit. Let's do this. 1. YOUR ROCK STAR NAME: (first pet and current street name) Brutus Vail 2. YOUR MOVIE STAR NAME: (grandfather/grandmother on your mom's side, your favorite candy) Jim Reece (Gotta love Reeces' Peanut Butter Cups) 3. YOUR "FLY GIRL/GUY" NAME: (first initial of first name, first two or three letters of your middle name) No. OOOOOOOOH! I came THISCLOSE to divulging my real name. It ain't Damian, kids. In case you wondered. 4. YOUR DETECTIVE NAME: (favorite color, favorite animal) Purple Wombat 5. YOUR SOAP OPERA NAME: (middle name, city where you were born) Hmmm. Ok, I'm NOT giving you my real middle name, because (a) that's a little too revealing for my liking, and (b) I think it's stupid. So for the sake of argument, let's say Damian is my middle name, and we'll go with Damian Sumter. 6. YOUR STAR WARS NAME: (the first 3 letters of your last name, first 2 letters of your first name, first 2 letters of mom's maiden name and first 3 letters of the town you grew up in.) Uh, no. This one's just dumb. How does this POSSIBLY generate your so-called Star Wars name? I mean, really. All you'll get is a bunch of letters mashed together as though Gary Busey was trying to say the alphabet during a routine traffic stop. This bullshit ain't no Star Wars name. Here, I'll give you my Star Wars name right now: Homie Doncha-Knowme. And my lightsaber is black. Word. 7. SUPERHERO NAME: (your favorite color, favorite drink) Purple Long Island Ice Tea. Yeah. That's really fucking representative. I'm gonna be flying around Dallas, saving lives and shit, sporting a name like THAT? Guess again. Utter bullshit, yet again. This meme sucks. I'm gonna write a meme, and it's gonna kick ass, unlike this thing which was obviously written by an illiterate gamma-radiated platypus with a harelip and a bad case of chronic halitosis. Here, I'm gonna do it right now. ---------- DARK DAMIAN'S TOTALLY KICK-ASS MEME 1. YOUR JAIL NAME: (your mama's boyfriend's cousin's name; name of the guy you blew in your junior year) 2. YOUR ALIBI'S NAME: (your boss' name; cup size of the last woman you saw) 3. YOUR "THE LAST STARFIGHTER" NAME: (name of the street you last got drunk on; name of the brand of shoe you're wearing) 4. YOUR HOOKER NAME: (your whole name) 5. YOUR MUSLIM NAME: (name of the cereal you last ate; "X") 6. YOUR REHAB NAME: (name of the car you drive; name of the channel you last watched) 7. YOUR NASCAR NAME: (first two names of the last redneck you met, unless that's you; oh, that's all you need, actually) There. Now THAT'S a meme you can sink your damn teeth in, right there. And who will I be tagging? No one. But feel free to use mine, and spread it the world around. Fucking memes. Peace.

Buon giorno! No, I'm not going back to Italy - although I feel the need to seek revenge against that country from my last trip there - I simply felt like sprinkling some garlic-flavored culture on y'all's country asses. I just said "y'all's", and I called YOU country. I should slap the mirror for that 1/2 cup of fucktardicity (fuk-tar-DIS-i-tee). Mad props to all of you who gave me...well...mad props on my last post. Sometimes I feel like I talk about my band TOO much — then I remember it's my blog, and I can do that, if I want to. Like the great philospher Phife of A Tribe Called Quest once said, "If I don't say I'm the best, tell me who the hell will." I'll keep talking about us until we're famous, and then I'll complain about that. OK, now I'm just rambling. Damn ADD. By the way, I had a treat Friday night - french fries covered in crumbled bacon, which I dipped in ranch dressing. Check it out: If only they served Tang. On with the diatribe. ------------------- ATHENS, Ga. - Although it's reasonable to be upset if someone cuts in front of you in line, it's not reasonable to run into that person (or people in this case) with your car. But that's exactly what one McDonald's customer did after two other customers cut in front of her in line. Police have been on the hunt for the woman who ran into Melinda Thomas and Linda Thomas with her car after a fight over who was next in line. The two were waiting at McDonalds to order breakfast when a cashier opened a new line and they went to it - not aware that it angered another customer who was also waiting to order. After yelling at them, the unidentified woman went to the parking lot and waited in her car. As the Thomases walked out, witnesses said the woman pulled out and sped toward the women, striking them with the side of her jeep. Neither woman was badly injured. Let's start with the names of the victims: Linda Thomas and MElinda Thomas. Those Athens folk, always innovative with the names. I'm assuming these two are mother and daughter or at the very least mother/sister and daughter/sister. I bet it took Mom 2 whole days to come up with the daughter's name, in the meantime referring to the baby as "Welfare Check #4". I diss Athens openly because that's where the University of Georgia is, and they are one of my college's most hated rivals. One year, we played them in their stadium, and as we (the marching band - shut up) were leaving, the Bulldog fans were throwing beer bottles at our heads - and the fuckers had won by 20 points! So yeah, R.E.M. and the B-52s come from there, but that's pretty much the end Athens' contribution to American society. Now: I like me some McDonald's, people. The fries alone have made me drive many miles out of my way to get them. But the love affair MUST have boundaries. Seriously, who has time enough in the day to sit in the parking lot, waiting to run down two people who cut in line at Mickey D's? They weren't selling U2 tickets - they sell burgers! They don't run out of the muhfuckas, because they get their food from an interdimensional portal where burgers are infinite. During the wait in the car, why didn't Common Sense pay a quick visit to the woman? Oh, wait - he was in line behind her, waiting for his order. I TOLD you those fries were good. --------------------- DECATUR, Ala. - Four neighbors were arrested and three sent to the hospital after an argument over a cigarette butt. Police said a guest visiting Bobby Joe Ray, threw a cigarette butt near the edge of Ray's yard that landed near the fence of Ray's neighbor, Michael Alan Bradford. This incident sparked a fight that several residents of the neighborhood said lasted all day. Eventually, Ray's sister, Shirley, who lives across the street, fought with Bradford's wife, Heather, and the men joined in. At least three of the members of the fight had to be sent to the hospital for treatment of injuries, and all four were arrested and later released on bond. And here's Stop #2 on our tour of the Deep South. First clue something's askew - the main guy has three names. Bobby Joe Ray. People, let me tell you now - if you give your child three names, he will commit a crime. He will. It's a bit different for girls, but for boys? Forget it. Destined for felonies. Fights like this happen a lot in the south. When it's hot outside, dumb shit is in bloom like dandelions. You can't walk to the store without tripping over a new sprout of dumb shit. You tell your friends, "Hey, did you see that dumb shit on the news yesterday?" "Oh, you should've SEEN all the dumb shit I saw downtown last night!" It's everywhere. Think about this a second, folks - a cigarette butt initiated an all-day fight which ended in 3 people going to the hospital. Does that not sound like dumb shit to you? Look up crime statistics. Stranger-on-stranger crimes happen predominately in the north, and family/friend crimes occur mostly in the south. These family/friend crimes usually involve alcohol, guns, and low IQ's, all staples of the southern regions. It's ok - I'm southern, so I can say that. I bet Thanksgiving is gonna be a REAL treat for this family of fucktards. For God's sake, don't put that turkey leg on the wrong side of the table! Grandma might get a black eye. -------------------- JERUSALEM (Reuters) - An Israeli woman's breast implants saved her life when she was wounded in a Hezbollah rocket attack during Israel's war with the Lebanese group, a hospital spokesman said Tuesday. Doctors found shrapnel embedded in the silicone implants, just inches from the 24-year-old's heart. "She was saved from death," said a spokesman for Nahariya Hospital in northern Israel. The woman has been released from hospital. Ladies. Breasts, particularly large, fake ones, are your friends. They can make you look better. They can improve your self esteem. They can save your life. If you're lower than a C, go out right now for a consultation for implants. I'm serious. You just never know when you might need that extra protection. Say you're at the ATM in the 'hood. I'd question why you're getting cash from a money machine in the 'hood, but hey, let's say there was this tight-ass dance club right nearby, and you needed cab fare or something. Anyway. Across the street, a drive-by is going down. You duck, but not before stray bullets find their way to you. Oh Em Gee, you're hit, and you're bleeding, and you never told that hot guy at the bar that you're not wearing underwear, and who's gonna feed Miffy, and...it's not blood. Its NOT blood! It's saline! Your double D's took a bullet for you! They are your Secret Service agents! Holy shit! They are a real blessing, and not only will you get that one repaired, you're going up in size. E's will really keep you safe, ladies. Get them thangs. Save yourselves. And be proud. Show us fellas how well you're protected. We want to see that you're safe. We will appreciate that. Immensely. Peace. All stories come courtesy of Bizarre News, except the last one, which I got from Di, who got it from God knows where.

We had our gig on Friday night at a lovely place called Club Clearview in the Deep Ellum section of Dallas. After numerous discussions, we finally got placed in the three slot, also known as main support. You see, the music scene in Dallas is insanely competitive. When you get booked to play a show in Deep Ellum (as well as other areas of town), you do so knowing that you'll likely be playing with 2, 3, maybe even 4 other bands on the same night. Your position is an indication of your status. I'll break it down for you. In a typical 4 band show, it goes like this:

• 1st Slot (Opener): You're either a young band, a new band, or a not very good band who happens to know the right people. This is where all bands start out. You usually go on stage around 9pm, when the bar is damn-near empty. You also need thick skin, because the people there are usually not there to see you, and they are often ambivalent about you being there. Don't expect people to chant your name or say "hoooo" when you say "heeeey". It's not a desirable slot, but you have to start somewhere. This position can gain importance depending on the headliner. If Def Leppard is your headliner, the 1 Slot is awesome. If it's some band you've never heard of, well, just be glad you don't have to pay the bar to play there. Your set usually lasts about 30 minutes, give or take. The worst gig we ever had took place when we were in the 1 Slot at an out-of-town club. When we finished playing, even the crickets said "Fuck you - get off the stage." There was dead silence in the place. You could've heard a pin drop, if the pin actually cared enough to move after our performance. It was utterly mortifying and embarrassing.
• 2nd Spot: You've been around for a few months, and you have modest fan support. Maybe you can consistently bring 15-25 people to the club when you play there. You're pretty good. This is also the slot given to bands from out of town, regardless of how good they are (unless they're signed, or national acts like Breaking Benjamin or Foo Fighters or whatever). This is the slot we had been given at Club Clearview for a while. 2nd Slot usually hits the stage around 10pm, and has a set that lasts about 35 minutes.
• 3rd Slot (Main Support): This is the honey slot. You come on directly before the headlining band. You have very good fan support (25-50 people), you have a damn good sound, and you put on a nice stage show. Main Support is almost always great, because (a) you get to rock your balls off in front of a friendly crowd, and (b) after you're done, you can drink beers, soak up praise, and watch the headliners play. Depending on the venue, Main Support may also pay more than Slots 1 and 2. Main Support goes on stage sometime around 11pm, and has a longer set than Slots 1 and 2, often 40 or 45 minutes.
• 4th Slot (Headliner): You're the star of the show. You're why people came out to the club in the first place. You are the shit. Your music is tight, your show is fantastic, and you probably bring more than 50 hard-drinkin' people to the club with you. If you're headlining, it means your name means something around town. It means people have heard of you, and you're making a real name for yourself on the scene. When you tell random people what band you're in, you have a 50/50 chance of them saying "Oh yeah, I've heard of you guys." Headliners play for an hour or more. Headliners almost always get paid the most money per show, and they're also more likely to possess a total rock star attitude, regardless of whether it's deserved. The band we were playing with Friday night has this problem. They're no one you've likely heard of unless you live here, but based on how they act, you'd think they were Nickelback or something. We're always very friendly, and we've tried several times to just talk to them, but they always give us the brush-off. Screw them.

Just a quick note to all you Dallas-area folks: My band, Nonetheless, will be playing at Club Clearview tonight around 10pm with Jasper (as well as Issac Falling and Moments In Tragedy). Come on out - we give away free shit all the time, and we put on a hell of a show. Love to see you there. Club Clearview 2806 Elm Street Dallas, TX 214-760-9785 www.clubclearview.com Peace.

Word to ALL your mothers, people! It's that time again, time for another flaming edition of the 'tribe. You know you love it. I'll keep this short and sweet, but head on over to Green Apple Martinis and check out my guest posting collaboration. It's silly as hell, but then again, that's what you've come to expect from me. Damian, OUT! On with the diatribe. ---------------- LONDON - A leading reproductive healthcare charity is urging Britons to take part in a 'hands-on' event that has been titled the "Masturbate-a-thon." Marie Stopes International is hosting the session with HIV/AIDS charity the Terrence Higgins Trust in hopes of raising awareness about HIV prevention. "We want to get people talking about safer sex, masturbation and to lift taboos," said a Marie Stopes spokeswoman. Folks that are over 18 can participate and can bring any aids they need to get the job done, as it is against the rules to fake an orgasm. The event's Web site tells participants that "the amount you raise will be determined by how many minutes you masturbate and/or how many orgasms you achieve." Weeeeelllllll! I bet several people I know would be imminently qualified to 'compete' in this event. Popeye arms are a big ol' neon sign that you might be a real expert, just so you know. My question is, what completely unfortunate soul is assigned to clean up after this jizztacular festival of spurt? Swear to God above, I'd quit on the spot. Boss: "Hey Damian, you're on splooge patrol." Me: "No. Go 'head and gimme my check, a'ight?" Here's the thing, too. You KNOW someone's gonna stroll up in there with some completely inappropriate spank material, ready to throw down. Sure, mostly there'll be Playboys and English Girls with All Their Teeth Magazine (even if it doesn't exist, it should. You know this.), but one guy's gonna walk in with Sheep Weekly or Llamas Gone Wild, and upset the whole apple cart. Some woman's gonna come in with a dual headed vibrator attached to solar cells and a hand crank for more juice. It's gonna make more noise than a jackhammer in an earthquake, and glasses of water will rattle off tables in ajoining rooms. Hezbollah will scout her as a weapon against Israel - it'll be that strong. And she's gonna scream bloody murder until she launches a thermonuclear orgasm into the face of the observer (since they won't allow faked orgasms, I imagine someone will have to monitor. There's a nice job. Not.). I hope he wears goggles. ---------------- BEAUFORT, S.C. - A Beaufort, S.C., man who used to live on a street called Lottery Lane has won a second major prize from scratch-off lottery tickets in 20 days. Harold Gray, a self-employed contractor, buys one scratch ticket every day, and last month won $250,000. Tuesday, his wife's 39th birthday,he bought a ticket worth $100,000, the Beaufort Gazette reported. "I had to go home and take a little medication to calm me down," Gray said. "I feel like I have a horseshoe stuck up my behind." He and his wife had already booked a cruise to the Bahamas later this month after their first win, but neither said they would quit their jobs. Gray said he would pay off his bills, buy a house and invest the rest for retirement. I hope the boat's septic system backs up on Free BBQ night. See, this is why I shouldn't've moved from South Damn Carolina. By the way, when something really good happens there and it doesn't affect me, my family, or people I know and love, the official name of the state becomes South Damn Carolina, Home of the Rebel Flag and Moon Pies. Evidently, I need to hang with Harold Gray. This lucky bastard. He even lived on Lottery Lane! This is bullshit. I can't win $5 to buy more scratch-offs, and this muhfucka wins $350K. On two separate tickets. I'm getting in my car. I'm driving back to South Cackalack. I'm finding this guy. I'm making him come with me to a Circle K convenience store, and I'm gonna hand him my cash so that HE can purchase my tickets. And if I don't win at LEAST $50, swear to Buddha, I'm gonna get a Nestea from the cooler, a teryaki beef stick, a Reece's Big Cup, pay for it, eat that shit, and then beat his ass with the empty plastic bottle until money falls out like he's a damn slot machine. Then I'll REALLY stick a horseshoe up his behind. First thing I'll buy with my new-found cash? Tang. By the barrel. I want a Tang dispenser installed in my kitchen, and a Tang fountain at work. I'll hire four hoochies dressed in orange to dance around me like those annoying (but very hot) Fanta girls. "Don't you wanna?" "Mmmm hmmmm!" Oh, and some spinning rims. Just the rims, not a car to go with it. I'm strange that way. ---------------------- DES MOINES - In July, Cory Neddermeyer, 42, was turned down for unemployment benefits in Iowa, after a judge ruled that he was fired for cause. His employer, the Amaizing Energy ethanol plant, suffered a massive spill that created a pond of fuel alcohol, and Neddermeyer (a recovering alcoholic), after resisting as long as he could, gave in and started drinking from the pool (causing him to pass out and later register an 0.72 blood-alcohol reading). [Des Moines Register, 7-9-06] If you ever wondered how bad it is to be an alcoholic, this story is a major clue. Homeboy drank from a pond of fuel alcohol. Now, my question isn't why he did that - my question is, why was an alcoholic working for a place that makes ALCOHOL? Isn't that like a recovering sex addict working for Hustler? Or a food addict working for Hershey? Love the name of the place, though - Amaizing, with "maize" being the alternate name for corn. Cute. I guess "Aliquoring" and "Alternative Fuel Source America Will Never Use Because We're Too Busy Blowing The Saudis" were already taken. For Neddermeyer, going to work must've been stressful as hell. It would be like me working at a bacon factory, where everything there was made of freshly fried bacon strips. Sweet baby Allah, that sounds good. All that alcohol...and him without a straw. I bet his top lip beaded up with sweat every time he clocked in. What drives a man to drink from a fuel spill? A green Dodge Neon with a passenger side door held on by duct tape. That's my guess. Peace. The first two stories came from Bizarre News. The last one came from News Of The Weird. I come from Dallas.

Moving sucks so very much, and not in any enjoyable way. We're FINALLY done with the move, removing the final chunks of junk from the former domicile on Saturday afternoon, mere minutes before the owner rolled up in the yard for an "inspection". You see, he rolled up on us last Sunday as I was just arriving to the house to take another load of crap, and right off the bat, he came at me with attitude, telling me that we would meet him on Wednesday of that week for a walk-through inspection of the house, where he would point out all the things he wanted repaired, and that we WOULD return his house to him in exactly the same condition as we got it, and that we WOULD repaint every wall to neutral white, and we WOULD replace the carpeting throughout, and we WOULD replace all the blinds, and if we didn't, he'd hunt us down and call lawyers. He actually said "I'll hunt you down" to me, to my face. I had sunglasses on, so he didn't see the change my eyes underwent as he was talking his nonsense. Now, those of you who have the pleasure of knowing me in real life will attest to this: I'm probably the most even-tempered, never-gets-upset guy around. I don't normally let shit get to me, 'cause life's too short and all that. But he got in my face. And I got very, very pissed. When I get very angry, I can barely speak. My mouth twists, and everything I say sounds like I'm trying to do a bad Clint Eastwood impersonation, circa "High Plains Drifter". I also get completely and utterly still, because I know that I'm libel to take a swing if I get all animated. I don't get angry often. I can count the number of times on two hands, and still have fingers left over for flipping the bird. But when I DO get mad, I get extremely mad, and this bastard had me at that point. We had barely even said hello before he launched into his tirade - AND HE HADN'T EVEN BEEN INSIDE THE HOUSE!! Not only that, but we weren't due to be moved out for another week. So why were his panties all in a bunch? Because he TRIED to go in, but we had our dogs in the house. Did he call us first to arrange a meeting? No. He just showed up, saw that our cars weren't there, and tried to go inside - a full week before we were due to move. The fact that we had moved the majority of our stuff the day before is immaterial, because he didn't know we were gonna do that. As far as he knew, we were still living there, and the fact that he tried to go in our home without permission or notification made me boil. We were purchasing the house from him under an owner financing agreement. We were giving him payments every month, with the agreement that after we sold our other house, we'd get a mortgage and pay him off. Well, we never sold the other house - we had no takers. Trying to support two houses is too much of a strain, so we decided to move back into the house we already own, which also happens to be 45 minutes closer to both of our jobs. Plus, Wal-Mart is a mere 1 mile away. Holla! When we made the deal originally, we gave him a $5000 good faith deposit. $5000, people. We also installed a chain link fence around the property. When we notified him that we were moving out, we told him that we were not seeking the deposit back, nor payment for the fence. It sucks, but we chalked it up as the cost of moving out early (plus we knew he wouldn't give us the money anyway, so we might as well make it our idea instead of his). During this "discussion" last week, we claimed that we had been simply renting the property from him for the last year, because our contract was only a year deal, which is utter bullshit. And even if that's true, wouldn't that fat $5000 cover the carpet, paint, and blinds he was so worried about? I'm fairly certain it would. And if we were buying it from him, by moving out, we were effectively foreclosing on the house and giving it to the bank (him). And anyone who deals with home purchasing knows that a foreclosed house can be in damn-near any condition. Sometimes foreclosures don't even have floors or a roof. Shit, we shampooed the carpet! How many other foreclosure instigators can claim that? He started complaining about him not having the money for repairs because he had surgery and couldn't work, but you know what? As sad as that is, and much (or little) sympathy I feel, that's not our fault or our problem. If he spent that 5K, too bad, so sad. He'll not get a penny more from me. He's gotten close to 30K from us over the last 2 years, so forgive me if my heart doesn't bleed for him. We've had to deal with people moving out too, and in the end, it's the homeowner's responsibility. Here's the final raw spot: he doesn't even have a mortgage on that house. It's paid for. The money he was getting from us was just gravy for him. We made sure to videotape everything before we left, just as some insurance against his rampant stupidity. He's the type to kick in a wall or 3, and blame us for that damage AND his hurt foot. Oh, he would. When he stepped out of his car Saturday, trying to look intimidating, we were ready for him. I plopped the keys in his hand, said "Here ya go. We have an appointment to get to. See ya.", and we rolled out. I wonder what he said to himself when he stepped inside, seeing the same carpet, the same blinds, and the same paint on the walls. I'm glad to be gone. Peace.

Greetings, fellow humans! I'm out of my funk now. They don't usually come often or last long, but when they hit, I like to wallow in 'em for a while. But now I'm ready to get feisty again, and as such, I've been engaged in a pretty comical "debate" on another blog. Dave from Why Don't We Get Drunk And Blog launched a side blog called Kill Barbaro, where he lashes out against the intense media coverage of Barbaro, the horse that broke its leg during a race. Now, it's a tragic situation, and it's wonderful that people are working so hard to save the horse and give him a long and fruitful life, but the media coverage thereof was getting to be a bit much for a while there. For the sake of stirring up trouble, I fanned the flames on the blog by writing a poem about (against) Barbaro. I'm gonna link the site, but listen closely, folks - I don't want to kill Barbaro, OK? I really don't. I thought it would be interesting to see what kind of response people would provide to my provocative comments. I have nothing against Barbaro or horses in general. I love animals, and don't wish any harm upon them, except for my dogs (who jump 6 foot fences in a single leap, and eat the garbage and cat litter). And I say that 'cause I know some of you will read it and say "You're an asshole, Damian," which may or may not be true, but in this case, it's misplaced sentiment. The real entertainment is in the response from Barbaro supporters, some of whom go so far as to threaten and insult me (and others). I find it all to be quite humorous. Check out the comment sections, and don't hate me - remember, I was yanking chains, that's all. Let's 'tribe it up, people. Word. -------------------------- FRAMINGHAM, Mass. - A Brazilian man was charged with practicing medicine without a license after a woman died during liposuction performed in a private home in Massachusetts. Luis Carlos Ribeiro and his wife also face drug charges, the Boston Herald reported. The victim, Fabiola de Paula, died at MetroWest Medical Center in Framingham after Ribeiro brought her to the hospital unconscious. Middlesex County Prosecutor Lee Hettinger told the newspaper that Ribeiro could face more charges after an autopsy. Ribeiro was being held on $250,000 bail while a judge set $50,000 bail on his wife. Another patient was hospitalized when she developed a serious infection following liposuction, the newspaper said. The Herald said Ribeiro told police that he is a licensed plastic surgeon in Brazil and that he and his wife had come to the United States on short work visas. I swear, I thought shit like this only happened on "Nip/Tuck". Why in the hell would you....I mean...who would....oh, screw this. Here's a simple test for you corner-cutters to see if your plastic surgeon is on the up and up. Heed me. Questions To Ask Before Your Liposuction

• "You don't have an office in your house, do you?"
• "Exactly how long have you been in the United States?"
• "You think maybe I could see your medical license?"
• "Do you know the Hippocratic Oath, by chance?"
• "Do you speak English?" (Not applicable if you don't, either)
• "Why is the word 'surgeon' misspelled on your sign outside?"
• "In fact, why does your sign say 'Plastic Surjun and Plumber'?"
• "Could you tell me some of your recent success stories?"
• "Or, better yet, show me a photo catalog, with before and afters?"
• "What's that garden hose for?"
• "And that Electrolux?"
• "And that webcam?"
• "Why is your wife eating a sandwich in the surgery suite?"
• "Ok then, why is your surgery suite in your kitchen?"
• "Do you know what 'sterile' means?"
• "Well, OK, but what about as it pertains to surgery?"
• "Is it safe for you to be watching 'Judge Mathis' while you lipo me?"
• "Since when are Flintstone Chewables certified as surgical painkillers?"

I'm not a drug user. It's never been my thing, at all. Hell, I'm not even that much of a drinker. I get high enough just living life, you know? So, being a drug user just isn't my thing. Oh, I know many people who are, for sure. Being in a band, you see many, many things that surprise you, and some things that just don't, not after a while. I remember one night, back in the fall, I was sitting backstage with one of my bandmates, getting ready to go on, when a guy from the band that was going on after us came into the room. He looked at us, the way a doberman watches a person coming into its yard at dusk; tense and on edge, waiting for a wrong move. After a quick moment, he assessed that we were "cool", and walked past us to the far wall. He then removed a vial of white powder from his pocket, tapped a little onto a pocket knife blade, raised it to his face, and inhaled. After snorting a couple of times, he cleaned his nostrils, turned to us and smiled, gave us the devil horns, and walked out. Rock 'n' roll. I was stunned. I had never seen anyone do cocaine before, and it wasn't a scene I wanted be a part of. I strolled on out, back into the bar. I am often an island in a sea of drugs. It's been offered to me more times than I can count. When I refuse, the looks on people's faces is often priceless. "What do you mean, you don't smoke out? You're black! I thought all brothas smoked that herb." I don't let it bother me most of the time, and I'm very careful about letting people into my car. And I never hold anything for anyone. It's just not my scene. I don't hate on people who choose to do it, though. If that's how they want to spend their time and money, so be it. Just pass the dutchie on the lefthand side, ok? It has no home here. I am often dismayed, though, at how deep people can get into the drug culture. I'm not talking about the dealers - these guys are vermin, by and large. I mean the users. In many cases, their whole lives revolve around getting their next high, their next fix. Sociologically, it's intriguing to me to see how people can erode their priorities down to just a few key ones: get high, eat, fuck, sleep. Rinse and repeat. Nothing else matters. Oh, these folks can keep a job or maintain relationships, but those things are hollow. They are means to an end, nothing more. Naturally, this doesn't apply to ALL drug users, but I'm not talking about the fully-functional people. I'm talking about the people who live for the high. The more drugs they do, the higher they want to be. Standard drugs just don't cut it anymore. They don't even feel pot. Coke gives them a slight buzz. Crack? Nah, that's for the REAL junkies. Well, maybe just once, to say they did it. Meth? Sure, can't be THAT bad. Ecstasy? That makes you feel gooooooooooood. Crank? Heroin? Special K? Night train? Horse tranquilizers? Hells yeah, muhfucka! Line 'em up! Nitrious oxide? Oooooo. ------ Big Steve ran security for our last show back on July 22. When I first met him, he scared the everloving shit outta me. Big Steve was appropriately named. Dude was about 5'11", 300 lbs. And tattooed from top to bottom. Big Steve didn't start mosh pits...he WAS the mosh pit. I saw him at a show where some friends of mine were playing, and I immediately turned around and walked in the opposite direction. He had piercings, he had armbands, he had tats on his scalp. White people, let me give you a quick formula, for your general knowledge: to black people, tattoos + scalp = skinhead. Just letting you know that. I had no interest in getting my ass kicked by a walking bulldozer. I met him again a few months later, and actually talked to him. He was genuinely a nice guy. Smart, affable, funny...the exact opposite of my expectations. While I'd hesitate to call him a friend, he certainly was an acquaintance, and whenever I saw him, I gave him man-hugs and talked to him. I was shocked when I saw him on the 22nd, 'cause I didn't even know he worked in that bar as a bouncer. Believe me, if you started some static in there and you saw Big Steve coming for you, you bounced. I gave him man-hugs, and talked to him for a while. He was excited to see us play, which was significant because the friend-band through which I knew him wasn't playing that night, and typically, he liked much harder music than we played. I was very happy to hear that from him. After the show, he showed us love, telling us we had a great performance. It was a good night. I saw him again 3 nights later at our band practice room, kicking it with our friend-band next door. He told me about the underage drinkers he saw that night, and how he kept it to himself so that it wouldn't fuck up the show. We don't condone that behavior, but I appreciated the fact that he cared about the performance enough to not disrupt it by forcibly throwing people out. It was very cool of him. I gave him man-hugs, and told him "Good lookin' out". 4 days later, he was dead. Alledgedly, he and a friend were getting high in an apartment by putting bags over their heads and breathing nitrous oxide. Apparently, they both passed out, and suffocated. It's tragic, it's terrible, and it's so fucking stupid. I am so conflicted right now, emotionally. No, he wasn't my out-and-out friend, but still, he was a guy I knew and was friendly with. He had a family. It's awful. But I'm also angry, because it's such a needless, pointless, stupid waste. I don't pretend to know what goes on in the mind of someone under such a powerful influence. I have no basis of comparison. But...where does common sense go in situations like these? You wanna get high? Fine. Take turns. Dying is a very real possibility when you take on these types of activities, so safety should be priority one. But then again... Get high, eat, fuck, sleep. Rinse and repeat. Nothing else matters. Rest in peace, Big Steve. Peace.