31 August, 2009

Tim Gunn haunts my dreams

Last night, I was going through my hard drive and realized that I have a ton of stoner metal projects on my drive. Well, maybe not a ton, but at least an EP's worth. Just things I wasn't ever really serious about piled up to a substantial amount of material. We'll see if I feel like putting it out as is or if I feel like rerecording it all.
Last night's trip into the Land of Nod at least followed a linear narrative. Sure that linear narrative combined Project Runway and Zwartboek in a menacingly disorienting manner where in I wanted to take two showers this morning, but at least this time it made sense in terms of how I got from Point A to Point B. Nor did I have to watch Jason Lee rail the hell out of my ex-girlfriend.

Don't think I forgot, asshole.
So far as I can tell, I was kidnapped by hillbillies who wanted me to watch their pool orgy. Well, I decide to make like the elegant porpoise and just swim around because, well, what am I going to do? Actually watch these yokels fuck? Forget that.
Well, chief trailer-fucker numero uno decides he's going to do everything in his power to pull out of his old lady and bust his nut a few inches from my face repeatedly.
So I take myself a shower, knowing that even though he missed (I ducked that shit Matrix style), that pool is now just one big ol' vat of chlorinated white trash spunk. The women involved hunt me down and make sure I have clean towels.
Black Peter Weller and I return the towels to one of said hillbilly women at her office, which is where a huge Project Runway luncheon is being held. Tim Gunn is glad to see me because this challenge does not involve designing anything; I have to rate the models.
I do this using the EA Forum standard: "Would" and "Would Not". Tim Gunn collects my score card first after the challenge and is disappointed that I didn't use a one through ten ranking system, further troubled by that I rated only two as "Would" and one as "Probably Would (because she at least seems cool)". Even in subconscious reality, receiving a disapproving glare from Tim Gunn stings.
So I go out to his pick up truck and spot his Euro Trash cigarettes but I can't get in so I light one of my own instead. From there I grab my four-track cassette recorder and try to smuggle my brother and the truck full of medicine behind enemy lines in some nondescript vaguely European country occupied by equally nondescript fascists, probably Nazis.
They hit us with a howitzer, my brother's guts are all over my face, bing bing bing, wake up. Fuck.

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