MotolovE

Ouch.

I just had my egotistical legs cut out from me and the fall was to much to bear.

Allow me to 'splain.

I was downstairs in the wardrobe room of the this little theatre I work in, and our wardrobe assistant was dying some pants green.

I said, "Can I just stick my head in there and dye it green?"

She looked up at me and said, "Well, you'd have to bleach your hair first."

"Look here, missy," I scoffed, "I used to have all sorts of colors of mohawks and the like, so you don't need to tell me!"

She looked me up and down and said, "Really? You don't seem like the punk type to me."

"...", I responded, as my entire life as a frontman flashed before my eyes and fell out of my head.

"Well, actually," I stammered, "I was the... oh forget it."

So that was the final straw, the shot of tabasco my bloody mary sorely needed. I've got more punk rock (and no funny spellings here, I'm talking about rolling in broken beer bottles, breaking your teeth on the stage, watching Gigi Allen light his shit on fire punk rock) in the flab on my ass than these neo-punk freakshow's have in their whole fucking body. Now, to be fair, my ass weighs about as much as one of these losers bodies. But still!

So expect a little more out of me in the coming weeks. A little drunker, louder, smellier and just more god-damned punk rock.

Here endeth the rant...