You Fuck Like My Dad
Couple things. One, we’re so bad off today that we spent most of the morning curled up under our desk in the fetal position, mewing like a cat. So go look for fun and frivolity elsewhere, perhaps forever.
We would like to mention, however, that this weekend marked a Significant Occasion for your old pal Sakebomb, as Sunday was the anniversary of our being shat out into existence some [Charlie Brown’s teacher mumblings] years ago. At one point, our lovely female companion told the bartender that it was our birthday in order to get us some free hooch. When the bartender asked us how old we were, we said, “Dude, we are so old that the picture on our driver’s license is a fuckin’ Daguerreotype. Matthew Brady took it.” Bwah!
And that’s all you get. We’re taking a page out of everybody else in New York’s book and taking the rest of the day off to observe the Happy Jew Year. Oh, and the title of this feeble post refers to the fourth song on their new album, which is so awesome it should be featured on postage stamps, the special kind you have to ask Ol’ Muttonchops for at the counter of the post office that’s around the corner from Webster Hall. Buy it now or we’ll kill you.
Oh, and: Do you think astronauts complain about their jobs? Because no matter what anyone does for a living, they bitch about it, which makes us wonder if sometimes Buzz Aldrin gets all fucked up on Zima and crabs about going to the Moon. “Fuck the Moon,” he’ll say. “The fucking Moon SUCKED. Go all that way and pick up some rocks so some d-bag can examine them for a year with a microscope. The Moon can go suck it.” Just a theory, is all.