“WILLIE!” The sound jolted me awake from my catnap. I was momentarily disoriented: Where the hell was I? Apparently I had been seatbelted into the passenger side of an automobile traveling at a great speed … and here it came again: “FUCKIN’ WILLIE! YEEE-HAAA!”

It was of course my editor. He was a large man, hairy and volatile, emotionally unstable and easily distracted. At the moment he was trying to light a bowl, change the CD, and navigate his way down I-17 at close to 100 miles an hour, all at the same time.

The reality of our situation hit me. We were on assignment, he and I, headed down to the verdant Verde Valley to see the one and only Willie Nelson at the one and only Cliff Castle Casino. Our personal mission was to weasel our way backstage and get high with the red-headed stranger himself.

The back of the van looked like a decent Memorial Day weekend haul for the Arizona Highway Patrol, or the contents of any east Flagstaff motel room on any given Saturday night. We had five kinds of hydroponic bud, two ounces of psilocybin mushrooms, seventeen hits of ecstasy, enough crystal meth to keep half of Coconino County grinding their teeth all weekend, a vial of PCP, a rainbow cornucopia of pills (diazepam, lorazipam, adderall, valium, pure morphine straight from the Guidance Center, and a mystery grab bag I had gotten a screamin’ deal on), a fifth of tequila (top shelf), a fifth of whiskey (bottom shelf), a case and a half of Oak Creek Nut Brown, and a Ziploc bag containing a lone matzoh cracker upon which rested twenty heroic doses of Li’l Owsley Junior liquid LSD (of which my dealer had warned me: “Just break off a little corner and eat it, unless you really want to see Jesus dancing naked with Lester Bangs and E.T. on the set of Family Feud”). We couldn’t find anywhere in Flag that sold ether, so we had to settle for a half tank of nitrous oxide stolen by my dental hygenist ex from her boss’ office.

I was just about to strap the mask on when I saw them coming at me again. Flying kokopellis, dozens of ’em. I flailed at them with my flyswatter.

“You rotten sons-a-bitches, leave me alone!”

My driver was nonplussed at the sight.

“Chill out, will ya? We’re almost there. As your editor, I recommend you listen to this Andrew Jackson Jihad CD and load another bowl. What kind of weed was that?”

“Grape Ape. This one’s Chrysler Exhaust.”

“Solid. What else did we end up with?”

“Let’s see … an ounce of Zombie Jackoff and a halfer of Holly Hobbie. No wait, they were out of the Holly. I think it’s Aunt Jemima. Or Papa Smurf.”

“Which one you saving for Willie?”

“Brain Broom.”

“Outstanding. Pass me that mask.”

“Not around an open flame, dimwit. Finish the bowl first.”

“But I wanted to do a big ol’ nitrous hit and then a big ol’ Chrysler hit and watch them battle for supremacy in my lungs.”

“Hmm, that does sound like fun. Alright, but pull over, I have to take a leak. My money’s on the Chrysler.”

“Did we bring any food or just drugs? I’m starving.”

“There’s plenty of beer and fry bread where we’re headed, pal.”

“Mmm, fry bread.”

“Don’t blow your shit up. I paid for half these drugs and Goddamnit, I plan on doing ’em.”

The kokopellis renewed their attack while I was relieving myself and I had left my flyswatter in the car. I waved them off with one hand.

“Come on, you guys! Let a man pee!”

They followed me all the way back to the van. I got in and slammed the door.

“I said git! What the hell ARE you, anyway?”

My editor maneuvered us back onto the highway while picking crumbs out of his beard and eating them.

“The deity of fertility and music. In some cultures, those featherlike things on the head are replaced by a huge penis.”

“That’s comforting.”

“The Hopi believe they deliver babies, like the stork.”

“So … are they trying to get in my pants, or just hitching a ride to Willie?”

“Hard to tell.”

“Well, you’re just a fountain of info today.”

“Wikipedia, bro. As your editor, I strongly suggest you put on this Silver Jews CD and load another bowl.”

“Did you find any food?”

“Yeah. Here, I made you a little snack.”

I ate the morsel.

“It’s crunchy. What is it?”

“I left a jar of peanut butter in back a while ago. I put some on a matzoh cracker and broke it in two.”

“Umm … the cracker that was in a Ziploc bag?”

“Uh-huh. Was it yours?”

“Yeah, but no worries. You OK to drive?”

“Sure. Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Sorry, just a little distracted. Who won the contest?”

“Chrysler. The nitrous put up a good fight, though.”

The acid was coming on strong as we took the Cliff Castle exit. My editor looked a bit pale.

“I feel funny.”

“That’s because Willie’s near. We will soon be in the presence of greatness, mon frere. It’s only …”

And then I saw it. I broke out in a cold sweat. I let out a screech, wormed my way onto the floor and tried to hide under my seat.

“Oh good Lord, there she is! The queen bee! The animal mother! Spiderman, help us!”

“World’s largest kokopelli, brah. The residents of Camp Verde must be awful proud. Why, that goshdarn thing’s over 20 feet high.”

I raised my eyes above the dashboard and peeked at it.

“Hey, at least there’s not a giant dick on its head.”

“Thanks, dude.”

We were ushered into a dirt parking lot like so much cattle driving automobiles. As the cars piled up around us, reality sunk in: We were about to take the plunge into the land of old people. Not my silly “Hey, I can remember the ’70s” old, OLD old. Like older than my mom old.

We also realized that leaving the car meant leaving the drugs. We had no way of knowing what kind of security was at the venue or whether or not we would be treated like the VIPs we obviously were.

“But we’re going to have PRESS PASSES, man!”

“Are you sure about that?”

“No.”

We HAD to get the drugs to Willie. But how? We decided to sample the Zombie bud while we pondered the question.

Sometime later, I regained consciousness. The air was so thick with smoke, I couldn’t see the lower half of my body. We appeared to be sitting in some sort of vehicle.

“Dude.”

“What?”

“We should go.”

“Where?”

“Outside.”

“Why?”

“Because Willie’s out there.”

“Who’s Willie?”

“Nelson.”

“Willie Nelson’s in Flagstaff?”

“No, Camp Verde.”

“Well hell, man … let’s go! I’ll drive the van, we can get a whole crapload of drugs and …”

“We did that part already. I think we’re here.”

“In Camp Verde?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow. That was quick.”

We exited the fuming car.

“Save that smoke for later. Keep the windows rolled up.”

“Which way do we go?”

“THAT way.”

My editor pointed up. I lifted my head and saw a great and holy altar nestled atop a hill in front of us. I knew we had to get there somehow. It took us several weeks. We trudged through the sedimentary layers of the earth, through limestone and red rock, and had many adventures along the way.

When we hit the summit, I was disappointed that it wasn’t an altar at all, just a half-assed casino with gaudy flashing lights and legions of geriatrics in tacky JC Penney double-knits hobbling along and (to lift a phrase from Tom Wolfe) tweezing their undershorts out of the aging waxy folds of their scrota.

We stood in the front doorway gazing at all the pulsing brilliance. The Zombie Jackoff bud was living up to its name. I felt like a zombie and we sure looked like a couple of jackoffs.

“Are we dead?”

“Nope, we’re just in the Verde Valley. Hey, is that Lester Bangs?”

“Why are we here again?”

“I thought you knew.”

“Weren’t we supposed to bring something to someone?”

“Yeah, but who?”

I looked around and my eyes fell on a giant poster of Willie Nelson’s smiling face. I pointed to it.

“THAT guy.”

“Oh, right. Willie. WILLIE! FUCKIN’ WILLIE! YEEE-HAAA!”

Several yeee-haas responded from somewhere deep in the maze of slot machines. As we entered, I noticed a series of large ornately framed pictures of the casino management.

“Hey, get a photo of me with the Yavapai Nation Wall of Shame.”

“That’s mean. How are we going to find Willie? He blends in so easily with this crowd.”

I spied a casino employee behind a desk.

“You just leave that to me.”

I strode up to her.

“Waal, howdy there ma’am! Ah’m Rear Admiral Antoine De Bolles and this is mah editor. Would yew kindly deerect us to Mr. Willie Nelson’s room, poor favoor? Ah believe he’s expecting us.”

“Sir, I’m just the cashier. You need to talk to the concierge, they’re right over …”

“Now just hold on a cotton-pickin’ minute! Me and mah editor, we’ve been …”

I turned. He was gone.

“Excuse me.”

I scanned the crowd and spied his fuzzy head bobbing toward the blackjack tables. I caught up with him.

“Dude, I think we’re in a casino.”

“That’s what the sign said. I need beer.”

“I need blackjack.”

“OK, but make it quick. We have a mission.”

“You should have told the drugs to just meet us backstage. It would have saved a lot of time.”

I sat him down at a table, then retired to the bar and ordered up a frosty one. I tried to play the poker machine in front of me but the slot kept moving and my quarter had turned into Silly Putty. Five minutes later he was back at my side.

“How’d it go?”

“I won 35 bucks. Then the dealer kicked me off the table.”

“For winning 35 bucks?”

“No, because I made a comment about his vest. I think I asked if his mother breast-fed him, too.”

“Did she?”

“He couldn’t remember. As your editor, I recommend we listen to a Richard Hell CD and smoke another bowl.”

“I don’t think we’re in the car anymore.”

“Damn. Is it me or is the rug on fire?”

“Hey, this is just like that book.”

“What book?”

“You know, the one where the two guys are wandering around casinos all whacked out on drugs?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Never mind.”

“I miss the drugs. Can we go visit them?”

“Soon. We have to find Willie first.”

“Who’s Willie?”

“Your mom.”

“That’s mean. Oh wait, she does look a little like him.”

We exited the casino and took in our surroundings. The crowd seemed to be moving to the left, so we followed. Pretty soon we were in a mass exodus of retirees trudging ever so slowly toward the place where Willie was. I’m only about 5’7, but I felt like Gulliver among this bunch. I kept hoping we were in one of those movies where all the old folks magically throw their canes and walkers away and start playing baseball and tag and stuff.

No such luck. As we neared the front gate, we came upon a ridiculously long line of people waiting to get in. Hundreds of them, not a one under the age of 90. We stopped in our tracks.

“Uhh … I don’t know if I can handle this, dude. I’m not half the man I used to be.”

“Let’s at least see if our press passes are here.”

We walked up to the ticket booth.

“Hello, can I help you?”

I was suddenly at a loss for words.

“I … I need to see Willie.”

“Do you have a ticket?”

“No.”

“Are you here to pick up a ticket?”

“I think so.”

“What is your name?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you OK, sir?”

“Hell yeah, I feel fuckin’ great.”

“All right, let’s start again …”

“Over here, bro!”

My editor waved at me from a small tent. The ticket lady smiled.

“Ah yes, media. Now I understand. Right over there, sir.”

I approached the tent right as a smiling man was handing something to my editor.

“Here you go. And one for you, too!”

He hung it around my neck.

“Have fun, guys! Enjoy the show.”

I held it in my hand. It was a shiny laminated card with a picture of Willie playing his guitar. Across the top it said:

WILLIE NELSON – IN CONCERT.

And on the bottom it said:

MEDIA.

My mind almost blew itself sober. Year after year of mocking these people, and finally I was one of them.

Media scum.

I couldn’t believe it. The monthly we worked for was a fly-by-night rag, a real shoestring operation. Seat of their pants. The blind leading the blind. No one had updated the website since 2008 because no one cared, readers or publishers. Every time a new issue appeared, we were shocked the company hadn’t folded yet.

And they had actually pulled this one off.

My editor and I gaped at our passes.

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

“Dude, Willie’s face … it … it’s glowing.”

“I see it too, man.”

We smiled at each other and high-fived.

“Wow, this writing gig is really starting to pay off.”

“You said it. WE’RE COMIN’ WILLIE! YEEE-HAAA!”

“Wait, what about the line?”

The guy at the media tent heard us and said:

“Y’all don’t need to stand in no line. Hell, you can even bypass security. Just go right in.”

I looked at my editor, then at the media tent guy.

“We’ll be back in a minute.”

We calmly walked away from the gate until we were out of his field of vision. Then we broke into a crazy scrambling run towards the car. I tripped and fell and rolled halfway down the hill, giggling like a lunatic. We got to the van and yanked open the back hatch. Stale pot smoke billowed out as we stuffed our pockets and clothes full of drugs.

“I think those little flying bastards got into the speed.”

My editor was trying to strap the nitrous canister onto his back.

“You think they’ll let me in with this if I say it’s a gift for Willie?”

“Just tell ’em it’s camera equipment.”

“Hey wait, the tank’s empty!”

“Goddamn kokopellis.”

We chugged about six beers apiece in celebration of our reunion with the drugs. By the time we returned to the venue, nature was calling long distance. We lurched through the front gate, past the old folks and security, holding our media passes in front of us like talismen. Once inside we made a beeline for the port-o-potties and grabbed the furthest two.

“Hey, these things aren’t so bad before people use them. They’re kind of nice.”

“Damn, I forgot the ecstasy.”

“I have it. Want one?”

“Better give me a couple, it may be a long night.”

I passed him two through the air vent.

“Well I don’t know about you, but I’m hotboxing this sucker.”

“I’m down, brah. Got a lighter?”

“Oh, shit.”

“DUUUUUUUUDE!”

“Just kidding, here you go.”

“That’s not funny. That’s not funny at all.”

Once fortified, we emerged and staggered stageward. I glanced back at the port-o-potties and it looked like the furthest two had bonfires inside.

After claiming our seats, we decided splitting up was our best option to get backstage. I took the left-hand side, my editor the right. I strolled leisurely down the lawn, displaying my Willie talisman all casual like.

To my horror, the backstage area was guarded by a muscular seven foot kokopelli with a SECURITY pass around his neck. I did a 180 and high-tailed it back to our spot. My editor was already there, digging into deluxe fry bread with a plastic fork and drinking Budweiser from a can.

“No luck?”

“Nope. I told the guy who I was, but it didn’t seem to make any difference.”

“Damn it. The mission, man, the mission!”

“As your editor, I strongly advise you to forget about the mission and grab a cold one and some of this fry bread. It’s delicious.”

“OK, but I’m not giving up yet.”

“Don’t stop believin’, brah. Hey, aren’t you glad we’re here to see Willie and not Journey?”

“Good Lord, yes.”

“Oh man, I ate that too fast. I’m feeling bloated.”

I went to the fry bread stand and ordered a deluxe. While they were making it, a guy ran up and breathlessly told the owner:

“I just talked to Willie and he said, ‘You go get me some of that fry bread now.'”

The owner took it coolly in stride.

“Does he want onions?”

“OH, yeah!”

As he handed over my order, the guy gave me a look that said: “Yep, that’s right. Willie Nelson wants some of my fry bread.”

I gave him a look that said: “You the man.”

I started back to my seat and then came to a halt. Through my drug-addled confusion an idea arose, lucid and clear. It was almost too simple. I reversed direction and went behind the fry bread stand. I took out every drug I had in my pockets, crumbled them up and sprinkled them all over my food. I waited for Willie’s toady to come around the corner and then ran smack into him. I managed to knock the fry bread out of his hands and onto the ground.

“Aw man, that was Willie’s fry bread!”

“Gosh, I’m sorry. Here, take mine.”

“Well, that’s mighty nice of you.”

“No sweat. Tell him it’s from a fan.”

“I will.”

I bought another fry bread and a beer and went back to my seat on cloud nine.

“Mission accomplished.”

“No kidding?”

“Nope. And it’s all thanks to the wonder of fry bread.”

“Is there anything it can’t do?”

“Well, I think our man Willie is about to discover something he never thought fry bread could do. Like get him high.”

“You’re a bleedin’ genius.”

“I have my moments.”

We toasted our beverages and then I turned to dinner. Unfortunately, my fry bread had mutated into a giant blinking eyeball with lettuce for lashes. I tore into it anyway.

It was the best damn eyeball I had ever eaten.

**** for Hunter S. ****

Washington, DC—The Senate outlined the unilateral concession of men today, which will allow women to proclaim victory in the Battle of the Sexes. The news came as quite a shock to those wealthy established Romney supporter-types, but the true effects of this legislative proclamation may have even deeper ramifications for men and their relative sperm counts.

“This has been the longest war,” said Peter Whipped, the spokesman for the National Organization of Buddies (NOB). “That Hundred Year War shit is a skirmish compared to this bitch, which probably started when the first cave woman demanded to stop being dragged by the hair into the cave. It’s been all downhill ever since. Today, more women are finishing college than men and they’re getting better degrees. Yet men are still expected to do all the things our fathers and grandfathers did, plus half the housework and child care. My wife makes more money than me and has me washing her clothes while she and her friends sit around watching football and drinking beer. I fear burps and farts will start occurring within a year. Let’s face it, I’m screwed and you’re next! They’re here; they’re already the head of the household!”

Vice President of NOB, Dick Limper, said, “Women are just smarter than men and they actually care about shit. It sucks. They have been plotting and planning for centuries and I just want to eat chicken wings and catch up on Walking Dead episodes. We’re not thinkers and we’re not planners and now we wear aprons. One day I was watching the tube and my wife speeds off in her new Mercedes after telling me to watch the kids, cuz I’ll be back whenever I feel like it, bitch. Back in the day that used to be me! Well, if you substitute Pinto for Mercedes. Oh shit, I had better get back home or she’ll make me wear the French maid’s outfit again.”

Not everyone is convinced that now is the time to concede. Political activist, Stiffy McTosterone, is forming the Lilly Better off Deadbetter Act in retaliation. Well, it’s not so much an act as a Meetup Group. Their official mission statement is a little demeaning and crude, not unlike The Daily Discord’s. You can see it on their website…(um, my wife only allows an hour of internet a day, so I’ll try to hyperlink to it tomorrow).

Professor Sterling Hogbein, of the Hogbein Institute and Barber Shop, said, “We should have seen this coming. All these eons of trying to keep women in their place through religious totalitarianism crumbled into ashes when Nietzsche killed God and then what was left of the Church started raping children. Without that societal control, the dam opened wide and men were no match for these multitasking maniacs. Soon we’ll be little more than second income earners. We will be reduced to sex objects, staying at home with the kids and cleaning the house while our women hang out with their friends, drinking tea, and discussing their emotions like they were important or something. I predict that within a generation all of our sperm counts will reach Congressional levels. Oh excuse me, that’s my wife on the phone. Oh, you need me to…”

I stopped recording here when the professor began to weep. I can’t help but wonder how this decision will change our lives on a day-to-day basis. It remains to be seen, but I’ll let you know as soon as my wife gives me permission to tell you what she thinks I should say. Hey, it’s almost internet hour! Hooray! Oh shit, she’s blocking that site. My spousal control settings and filters are getting kind of strict. Remember porn? I don’t.

If I were to sit down and calculate the actual fluid ounceage of Olympia beer willingly dumped into my system during my 20s, it would surely make me barf. I would probably have to pee real bad as well. It’s the water, honest. Olympia was originally manufactured by an independent brewery in Tumwater, Washington, founded before the turn of the century…

It came back strong after prohibition and was a favorite of those residing in the northwest. In the 1980s, the owner was involved in a sex scandal with a young boy and Olympia was sold to the Pabst Brewing Company of Milwaukee, makers of horrible pig-swill-like Schlitz, Old Style, and Frank Booth’s favorite, Pabst Blue Ribbon.

The recipe was thrown out and today Olympia, like its cousin PBR, is made from the leftover dregs of other beers and sold to cheapskates who can’t tell a good brew from a pitcher of warm spit and don’t really give a hoot after two or three of ’em and can live with the associated daily diarrhea.

Back in the day, we consumed so much Olympia that it may have irreparably altered our DNA. For the better, let’s hope. I tried to keep up with everyone, but after about five cans my body would be crying for mercy: “Please. Stop. No more.” It was all we could afford though, so the next night…

The mystique of Olympia grew around us like moss or kudzu. Its aura was nearly sacred. We stared at the can label for hours looking for symbology and numeric patterns, like those orthodox Jews in the movie Pi studying the Torah. There was a waterfall in the middle ringed by a lucky horseshoe with flowing longhand prose underneath describing the wonderfulness within.

“It’s the water!” the can proclaimed.

Within the raging river stood a single cryptic word: Tumwater.

Tumwater? We puzzled over this one day after day, week after week. What the heck was Tumwater? It wasn’t any kind of water we had ever heard of. My roommate postulated that since Olympia made you feel so awesome, perhaps it was brewed with water that was good for your tum. Kind of like Pepto-Bismol, but better. It was sound reasoning.

A weird macho pride and herd mentality develops around the consumption of these bargain basement beverages, as if swallowing this corporate pisswater makes you more punk rock or something: “Yeah, I bought the schwaggiest crap they had at the store, so what? Here, drink one. I SAID DRINK ONE, FAGGOT!”

Many of my “healthy” vegetarian friends won’t let a molecule of meat or dairy pass their lips, yet they chug down PBR like it’s going out of old style. Health-conscious, they are.

I have a bud, about my age, who plays in a local band. He and his girlfriend have degrees and semi-lucrative careers. They are well-dressed, attractive, funny and smart people. They have expensive mountain bikes and take frequent vacations. They own a house in a good neighborhood with nice furniture and stereo equipment. He drives a 2011 Jeep Cherokee, purchased new. I’ve never looked in his fridge, but I assume he eats well. He’s basically a man in the prime of his life, making money and having a ball.

What beer does he drink exclusively? Pabst Blue Ribbon. This is a guy who can easily afford the extra few dollars for a 12-pack of Four Peaks or Newcastle, but he opts for the shit that costs less by the ounce than Keystone Light or St. Ides. Anyone else find this odd? If price was no object, which would you rather have, a filet mignon or a 99 center from Wendy’s (insert vegan parallel here)? I suppose it doesn’t matter if you can’t tell them apart.

It’s like a fart in a can. It’s the reason the term “schwag beer” was invented. It’s like toxic sludge with a pop-top. It makes Budweiser taste like Chateauneuf-du-Pape. Next to it, Miller High Life really IS the champagne of beers. It makes ordering a Coors Light seem like a good option. It makes going home and sleeping for twelve hours seem like a good option. Or sobriety. If there’s a line for the restrooms, you can just empty your bladder right in the can and keep drinking and it makes no difference. If you’re under 25, there will probably be a keg of it at the next house party you attend. It’s the brew of choice for college freshmen everywhere. High school freshmen too. It’s ALWAYS on sale.

It’s the water!

A man must possess standards. I never had a big brother growing up, but my buddies and I knew older guys in school that were concerned enough with our upbringing to pass along whatever nuggets of knowledge they could. To these men I am ever grateful. Without their help, I never would have known truths like this one: every day, Kenny Loggins wakes up, hops out of bed, sits down in his kitchen, and eats a big fat hairy gorilla weiner for breakfast. EVERY day. Where else is information like this supposed to come from? It might have taken me YEARS to figure that out on my own and I shudder to think what my record collection would look like today.

A quick study of irony and beyond-irony:

Your average drug addict spends all his money on dope, so when he needs new clothes, he grabs whatever is in the free box at the mission. This results in unshaven, sallow-eyed, smelly, scabby, creepy young men junkie-slouching around the Pacific Northwest in pink unicorn t-shirts. College kids see them and go, “Hey, look at that guy. Is he in a band? Wow, that shirt SUCKS! Wonder if they sell those at the mall?” And soon enough, they do.

This leads to legions of wannabe hipsters and amateur dickwads buying, in the words of Patton Oswalt, the douchiest t-shirts they can find, as if to say, “This shirt is lame, but I KNOW it’s lame. I’m being ironic, so my coolness obviously overrides the pure shittiness of what I’m wearing.”

For years, that is where it ended. Around 2007 or so, we hit the next stage: the hipsters and dickwads hand their smarmy t-shirts down to younger siblings who are too stupid to understand irony. They put the shirts on without being aware of how much they sucked in the first place, which was why they were in the free box at the mission.

“Hey, that’s a sweet pink unicorn shirt.”

“Thanks. My big bro gave it to me.”

“Lucky. Do they sell those at the mall?”

You can trace a similar path with those wolves-howling-at-the-moon shirts and the movie Napoleon Dynamite.

The internal filter that once allowed us to determine good art from bad has nearly eroded. Everything entertains us, no matter how idiotic. The phrase “Oh my God, this is stupid. Turn it off” has left our vocabulary. People just don’t have any idea what sucks anymore. Maybe nothing sucks to them, maybe they’re willing to give everyone and everything the benefit of the doubt. How frightening.

I have seen grown men defend the music of Phil Collins, Justin Timberlake, even George Michael. I suppose they’re afraid of saying, “Yeah, Phil Collins sucks!” only to be told, “No, Phil Collins is cool now. We all decided.”

Or they don’t want to be the unhip guy going, “Ugh, what’s THIS crap?” and be told, “That’s Nick Drake, you asshole! He’s a genius, we all decided!”

The phenomenon of Rickrolling was funny at first, seeing as how “Never Gonna Give You Up” was the epitome of 1980s emasculated synthesized shit-pop. It became less humorous when the trend resulted in a large boost in sales of Rick Astley’s CDs, followed by the dreaded comeback tour.

Let us reexamine this:

Rickrolling began when someone somewhere realized that “Never Gonna Give You Up” was one of the schlockiest, most vomitous and spineless pieces of pop dreck ever to disgrace the top 40, and that interrupting people’s web surfing with a video clip of Mr. Astley at his most effeminate and eunuch-like was somehow highly amusing. And it was.

Then, people who were too young to remember the agony of when the song was in heavy rotation (and too stupid to understand irony) said, “Hey, that’s a snappy little tune!” and went out and bought Rick Astley’s Greatest Hits. They currently drive around your neighborhood cranking Rick’s big ones dead unironically. And now “Never Gonna Give You Up” is stuck in my head. God damn it.

We have a friendly neighborhood pirate radio station to which I contribute much time and music. I was idly cruising through our iTunes library recently when I came across “Girl, You Know It’s True” by Milli Vanilli. The whole LP. I immediately knew who had stuck it in there and asked him upon our next meeting what his motives could possibly be. He smiled weakly.

“C’mon, dude … you know, Milli Vanilli. It’s funny.”

Yes, the entire album. Hilarious.

I once had a lady friend who was the type of person who should never be allowed near a jukebox with money. We were shooting pool one time and she returned from her sojurn with a big smile on her face as her first selection played: “Free Bird” by Lynyrd Skynyrd. I looked at her inquisitively.

“C’mon dude … you know, Free Bird. It’s funny.”

Yes, eight minutes long as well. A real gutbuster.

Her next song was “Three Little Pigs” by Green Jello. Ever heard a drunk person tell a really long joke badly that you already know the punchline to?

A few years ago, there was a TV commercial where the scenario was: square dad tries to teach hipster son about “real” rock & roll. The kid is rolling his eyes while dad is rocking out to “Hit Me With Your Best Shot.” I immediately sprang to my feet and began yelling at the set:

“Good God, man! In the name of all that is holy, just what do you think you are doing? That’s a CHILD with a developing brain, he’s VERY impressionable! Listen buddy, if you have an ounce of love for your offspring, if you wish to impart any fatherly knowledge that will affect his life positively, for Pete’s sake TEACH HIM THAT PAT BENATAR SUCKS! AS EARLY AS POSSIBLE! What happens when that kid hears the Velvet Underground for the first time? Huh? Did you even THINK about that? He’s not going to be able to PROCESS it! He won’t have any frame of reference because YOU taught him that “Hit Me With Your Best Shot” and “Don’t Stop Believing” are what rock and roll sounds like! I know parenting is hard but JESUS, man! Steer that boy in the right direction, the future of our species depends on it!”

Those of you who already know what Yacht Rock is, bear with the next few paragraphs:

For the uninitiated, Yacht Rock is an internet comedy show consisting of a dozen 5-10 minute episodes, all of which are posted on YouTube. It’s basically an irony-soaked parody of those VH-1 Behind The Music strokefests, set in the late 1970s/early 1980s, the golden age of smooth music: Loggins And Messina, Christopher Cross, Michael McDonald-era Doobies, Steely Dan, The Eagles, Toto, Fleetwood Mac … Yacht Rock. Punk and all underground culture were basically invented as a reaction to this era.

Yacht Rock’s dialogue is cheesy, the acting is bad, and each episode looks like it was shot with a handheld video camera and edited on a computer during the hour allotted at the library. It shouldn’t work at all but the show is pretty goddamned hysterical, near genius. Steve Perry from Journey appears out of the sky like a superhero; Nate Dogg runs over Michael McDonald while Warren G is making banana bread; one guy in Steely Dan has to translate what the other guy is saying; Hall and Oates fight Loggins and McDonald in a karate/songwriting battle that ends in horrible tragedy involving a harpoon…you get the idea.

The actors involved (as well as host Steve Huey, one of the geeks-in-residence at allmusic.com) are around my age, old enough to remember when the radio was filled with this lame plop. Their love/hate for the music shines through. They take obvious joy in portraying these rich white “rock” stars of this wretched period as complete jerkoffs and buffoons. Except for Steely Dan, they were OK. But Christopher Cross … wow, what a dick. Fuck that guy.

A fellow music head turned me on to Yacht Rock a few years ago, knowing it would be right up my alley. All the episodes were on heavy rotation at my place that summer. My roommate and his crew were nearly ten years behind me, too young to remember the music, but they dug the show anyway.

One day I came home from work and headed in back to the opium den. Everyone was sitting around grooving on “What a Fool Believes” by the Doobie Brothers. These were folks whose regular musical tastes ran the gamut from White Zombie to Korn and everything in between. I gaped at them in disbelief.

“Are you kidding me? Turn that shit off! What are you thinking?”

“C’mon dude…you know, Yacht Rock. It’s funny.”

Back to school, kids.

2012 is over, thank the Lord. Every year for the past five, I thought the next year just HAD to be better. How did that work out? Not so good. I sincerely hope this year will actually be better than the last, but ah-aint-a-holdin-mah-breth. Here are my predictions for 2013, which has implications for the global economy, rock & roll, and comedy bloggers everywhere.

The Rolling Stones:

They will all die onstage amidst their latest tour, but the show will go on anyway. Keith Richards will later be revived and, in his current disguise, will be the only one to survive the upcoming zombie apocalypse.

Ozzy Osborne:

He will put out a Polish wedding dance music album called Goin’ Off The Rails On A Nagel Train. I am 100% certain of this, but there are several title variations are possible…Roll out the War Pigs?

John Boehner:

Boehner’s home town will unveil a bronze statue of him, but no one will be able to tell them apart.

Harry Reid:

He will resign as Senate Leader after being asked to actually accomplish something. Then we will discover he’s had Alzheimer’s and has been living throughout his tenor under the volcano at the Mirage. The reason none of the 190 some-odd-bills sent from the house were voted on was because he couldn’t remember where he put them.

Chris Christie:

Unfortunately, New Jersey’s Governor will be the subject of an intervention when the New Jersey State Police find him at 3AM, drunk and naked, trying to break into a Krispy Kreme factory “to ride the glaze machine.”

Hugo Chavez:

The Venezuelan leader will die of cancer and Sean Penn will be elected the new President of Venezuela.

Hockey:

Hockey will resume but no one will notice—even some of the players, especially those with multiple concussions.

Barack Obama:

He will approve the oil pipeline, but only if it goes through Venezuela so we can pay them and Canada for the oil. When it’s done, he will veto the purchase of any of the said oil because he doesn’t want to risk polluting the Gulf of Mexico as it’s shipped back. Liberals will later hail this as a “major victory for the environment.”

Kim Kardashian:

She is pregnant and her ass will get so big it will be named the Eighth Wonder of the World by Guinness Book of Records.

Our Budget:

No budget will be passed this year, mainly because it’s been so long since we’ve had one no one really remembers how to do it. Oh, and we will go over the fiscal cliff eventually, only to find it was only a three foot drop.

The Congress:

They will find out the hard way that trying to take guns away from people with guns may be “problematic.”

The mentally ill:

They will protest that the terrible shootings are blamed on guns instead of the plight of inadequate care of the mentally ill. The media will call them crazy, as it’s obviously the gun’s fault.

The Department Of Justice:

They will charge RGIII with treason.

Sly Stallone and Arnold Schwarzenegger:

This duo will make one more action/adventure film about old men fighting for freedom. It’s going to be called What did you say? Heh?? They will then start a garage band called Sly and the Family Schwarzenegger, which will never make it out of the garage.

Piers Morgan:

He will spend the rest of his life inside Heathrow Airport when he gets deported from America, but England refuses him entry.
The Queen later said, “It took 40 years to get rid of him, you keep him.”

Liberals:

Progressives will come to the realization that people with differing views DO need to be respected. They will then shake their heads and say, “No, that can’t be right.” They will giggle, make a ‘pppfff’ sound and say, “Never mind.”

The U.S.:

Will finally accept Sharia Law and all the liberal women will say, “Wait…what?”
We will import “The Liverpool Plan” from the U.K.’s healthcare system, for its managed euthanasia plan for the elderly and the terminally ill. The Older Dems who made fun of “death panels” will say, “Wait…what?” But they will enjoy the surplus of Soylent Green.
We will mint four one-trillion dollar coins so Obama doesn’t have to negotiate the debt ceiling. When the dollar becomes worthless and our debt is downgraded to junk bond status, rich Dems will say, “Wait…what?”

Football:

The NFL will make all player-to-player contact illegal, leaving the defense left just yelling “no, please…stop” and waving their hands at oncoming players. Gays will then embrace football like never before.

Contests:

A contest will be announced looking for the “girl with the biggest breasts in the world.” The winner will then be immediately hired by either Fox News or the Daily Discord.

Collapsing Shack, AZ—Life forms from the distant planet Blog arrived on Earth last week only to discover the Mayan Apocalypse was a complete bust. The Blogganinians, a race of evolved gecko-like creatures, were quite shocked to find the Earth still functioning as usual and they were even more annoyed to find the human/feline alliance still as strong as ever.

I caught up to their leader, RrrrackaksarrinotickpthHhHhtththt-Jo, and his fellow space rangers drowning their sorrows and scooping human brains out of severed skulls at a local watering hole. It’s okay, that was the special that night.

Bone:So why are you so upset to find the Earth in one piece? Some of us are rather pleased to be alive.

R-Jo:No offense, Earthling, but we were hoping all of humanity and certainly all of those damn cats would be destroyed, then we could have dined on your corpses. Now, with all of you still alive, we’ll be lucky to eat a few dozen of you before we have to head back. And do you know how much it cost us to get here? Hell, my wives and I were going to claim this whole continent for ourselves, but I guess we can’t now. I mean who wants a place polluted by industrial apes, cluttered primitive combustion engines, and swarming with shitloads of those infernal cats!

Bone:Why do you hate cats so much?

R-Jo:Who doesn’t hate cats? They are the scourge of the Multiverse. Oh, and they eat lizards, cough up hair balls, shit inside, and think they are cooler than everyone else.

Bone:They sound like the guys I blog with.

R-Jo:Blog? Oh yes, Blogging. Yet another insult to our home world. Humans are almost as bad as cats. Oh, I’m a cat. Look, I can wash myself with my tongue…like that sounds healthy. Disgusting freaks. But, I must admit, this phenomenon was covered in a recent Crank featurevery thoroughly on that site of yours.

R-Jo:Can we ask you a question? Hold on a moment, Earthling. Wrrrrrracureamurmanure-Bob, put the bartender down. We aren’t supposed to eat the staff until they try to give us a bill, remember?

Bone:Ah, sure go ahead, just add it to Mr. Winslow’s tab. I’m sure he won’t mind as long as he paid off the new bullet train between his third copter pad and Big Uns Hooter’s Palace.

R-Jo:So why are you talking to us, especially seeing as how we’ll be eating you after we finish this pitcher?

Bone:I’m a servant of Yig so all reptiles are my allies or at least cool enough to follow on Twitter. Second, I’m going to post this interview on this blog I work for and—

R-Jo:There you go again, insulting our planet, Blog. Oh, our home world is just as important as a silly website on your primitive interweb. And why is everyone asking us about good car insurance deals? I don’t understand that one at all. Why not bang two rocks together while you piss in your loincloth, flea-eater?!

Bone:Cool it, man. I’ll let that one go, because you’re a reptile, but I don’t need any lip from a bunch of creatures who were hoping to feast on the corpses of our dead world.

R-Jo:I don’t have lips, you dirt farming, cat loving, warmblood. And its Yig’s fault the Apocalypse didn’t happen. I think he’s gone soft and is starting to like you pale-bellied bipeds.

It was about then I tossed my chicken wings into their faces and grabbed a chair. I was about to go to town, when I noticed Zano had excused himself to use the restroom and the Crank had walked out with his cell phone, mouthing, “I have to take this.” Then T-Ballz chose that moment to go order another pitcher.

Alone I faced the eight Blogganinians. Damn it, where were some cats when you needed them? I might have been a goner if Ballz hadn’t distracted them with a full pitcher. (It’s okay, he put it on Winslow’s tab.) Later, we smoked them out, but not before we managed to set up an Interplanetary Weed Initiative. Don’t worry, it’s all medical marijuana. Everyone at the Discord has glaucoma, honest. Apparently, pot’s legal everywhere in the Multiverse, except parts of the U.S. You see, the Blogganinians prescribe pot for their cat allergies as well. Too bad Winslow’s taking 95% of the profit, since the deal went down during Discord hours. At least he’s letting me and my cats crash in the gardening shack behind his sixth home after the gecko bastards destroyed my home.

In an attempt to compete with media giants like The Onion, Fox News, and Quilting Monthly, The Daily Discord disclosed they will be turning to black magic to increase their ratings. The Discord’s CEO, Pierce Winslow, told the press, “I only resort to satanic rituals when absolutely necessary…you know, to maintain power, or if my stocks are tanking, or if some ass face unfriended me on Facebook.”

When I caught up with Mr. Winslow back at his office, I asked him why he would take such a chance with his very soul and he said, “Oh, I don’t have one of those. Besides, we need more traffic so I can get more cash. I’ve been having some trouble funding my seventh home which is being built on a private island off the coast of Bermuda and two of my Swedish mistresses are asking for boob jobs, so I figured we needed to up the stakes a little here.”

“Off the coast of…?” I decided to change tactics, “So what made you think of black magic?”

“You did. I always see you lighting black candles in the basement when I’m getting my third bottle of wine right before lunch, so I figured what the hell, let’s try to get some help from Hell. Now get out of my office! And I want that article by Friday Bone or you’re finished!”

I left Discord Central and found The Ghetto Shaman out back, rummaging through the trash for cans to recycle for beer money.

The Shaman chimed in, “I don’t think Winslow’s idea is that bad. It’s not like if he were possessed he could be any meaner. Besides, maybe we’ll get some hot succubus action out of this deal.”

When I asked if the site’s hits had improved, he only threw up on my shoes and asked to excuse himself.

I caught up with myself and I had this to say, “I’ve been a follower of the great dark God Tezcatlipoca for quite some time now and he assures me that as soon as the End of Days arrives all other news stations will be leveled and the Discord will control news throughout the globe. When I asked him if he could increase our views before that, he cursed Yig and disappeared into a cloud of inky smoke.”

Winslow had already left for his quarterly three month vacation and I still didn’t know whether our ratings had actually increased through all of these diabolical efforts. Then I found the Crank trying to break into Winslow’s office with a chainsaw, I asked him if he had heard any updates on how our ratings faired.

“The only people who read this shit are liberal dweebs in some dreary Seattle coffee shop,” he said.

“Umm, what are you doing anyway?”

“I’m just doing some redecorating while Winslow’s gone. And if you see Zano, tell him he’s next!”

Feeling more frustrated than ever, I was about to go drown my sorrows in the wine cellar, because Tezcatlipoca had promised to leave the door open for me, when I saw the Discord’s newest writer, T-Ballz, wandering the halls. “Hey Ballz, what are you doing?”

“Looking for a place to piss. Doesn’t this place have any bathrooms?”

“No, Winslow said that they were a waste of money, besides when the Discord tower was being built he said all of his assets were tied up constructing a second rollercoaster for his children’s private amusement park. So we usually just piss out the windows.”

“That works,” said Ballz. “Hey, let’s smoke a J and then use the Xerox to make copies of our—”

“Okay, but have you heard if our ratings went up after my dark efforts and Winslow’s deal with the devil?”

Ballz smiled, “Well, my friend, Vealatarian, who’s under house arrest, said he reads the Discord all the time…but I made it is home page and he doesn’t know enough about computers to change it.”

So there you have it, our spells have obviously begun to work and soon the whole world will bow to our evil sarcasm!

“Hey, don’t Bogart that thing, Ballz. And why does it smell like urine?”

Records are great. You youngsters call it vinyl, us old folks call them records, or LPs. Vinyl is what your car seats are made out of, or a raincoat. I have records by a band called The Raincoats, but I don’t think a band called The Car Seats exists. I’ll have to Google it.

I woke up from the party on my living room floor, a dull pain in my right side. I rolled over and saw that I had passed out on my 180-gram Sundazed reissue of the Stooges’ Fun House which was cemented to the floor in a puddle of hours-old beer. I got a cigarette butt out of the ashtray and lit it. Blah! Menthol. I stubbed it out in the grooves of Fun House, right in the middle of “Loose”. I pried the record from the floor and went over to the turntable. My copy of Scratch Acid’s first EP from 1984 on Rabid Cat was still spinning round, stuck in the inner groove, and it looked like someone had smeared cat food all over it. It might have been me. I flung it aside, and slapped on Fun House, the sticky side with the beer spill.

It sounded fantastic. The guitars were real warm.

I went to use the bathroom and found myself urinating on my original 1969 Elektra copy of the MC5’s Kick Out The Jams, the one with the word motherfucker intact, before the label had to recall them. It was sitting in the toilet, half-submerged in vomit and pee. I cleaned it off by swishing it around in the bowl and carried it back into the living room. Just then, a glob of gunk on Fun House’s surface caused the needle to break off and go flying across the room, right in the middle of “1970”. It sounded like this: Ah feel all riiight! Ah feel all riiight! Ah feel all riiiPKK! GZZSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. I retrieved the needle, scotch-taped it back onto the cartridge, and put on the MC5, still wet from the toilet bowl.

It sounded bitchin’. The guitars were real warm.

I stepped outside and quizzically surveyed the carnage in my driveway. Then I remembered my redneck friends had brought their shotguns to the party, and we had decided to play a late night game of The Kids Are Alright. The ghost of John Entwistle smiled upon us as we skeet shot some of my faves. The Repo Man soundtrack. BLAM! Absolutely Free by the Mothers of Invention. BLAM! In The Flat Field by Bauhaus. BLAM! The first Grateful Dead album on the gold Warner Bros. label. BLAM! The original 1967 The Who Sell Out on Decca. This one’s for you, John! BLAM! The insanely rare 12″ 45-rpm Everything Falls Apart by Husker Du on Reflex that I found at Bookman’s for $5. BLAM! Bitches Brew by Miles Davis. 2 record set! BLAMBLAM! Bonus round.

Those of us who made the playoffs had to hit seven inches, and they took a lot more skill, especially the old big hole 45s. “Up on The Roof” by the Drifters on Atlantic, BLAM! Sorry guys. “Open My Eyes” by The Nazz on SGC, BLAM! Hope that wasn’t too painful, Todd. Dwight Twilley’s “I’m On Fire” on Shelter, BLAM! See you in hell, Dwight. “Mongoose” by Elephant’s Memory on Metromedia, which I’ve had since 1974 and have never found a backup copy of, BLAM! Dammit, missed. “Savory” by Jawbox on deSoto, BLAM! Sorry Kim. “We Love You” by the Stones on London, BLAM! You guys were the greatest.

Amidst the morning after debris, I spied my old 7″ of Black Flag’s “Nervous Breakdown”, intact except for the edge of a shotgun blast which had widened the center hole considerably and singed the SST logo. It looked like a motorcycle had peeled out on it, too. I took it inside and put it on.

It sounded awesome. The guitars were real warm.

Recently, a local publication ran a cover story about how cool records are, and I was (not very) surprised to find that the author hadn’t talked to any club DJs or punk rock fans (the two main subcultures keeping vinyl alive for over 20 years), just his friends. Now, there are lots of indie rock bands I love, but those people don’t give a shit about records. They would buy the latest Iron & Wine or Calexico if it was pressed up on a Ritz cracker, as long as it cost $45.99 and was a limited edition remaster.

Records are now what CDs were when they first came out: overpriced vanity items for a niche market. A fetish. Thanks to the internet, music is free at last and CDs are recognized as the crap plastic they are. This means Compact Discs can finally be cool because now everyone can afford them, not just snotty audiophiles and collector scum. See, one of the main reasons records were/are cool is that they’re AFFORDABLE. They should be $10 or less, not 10 percent of your paycheck. And you’re supposed to PLAY them, not display them. It’s the difference between a record collector and a music fan.

Personally, I’m heartened by the fact that old farts with great LP libraries are croaking every day. Their children say “Let’s get rid of this junk” and give their records to Goodwills all over this white trash country of ours. Happy hunting!

Screw the election, I want to take a moment to talk to you about an important subject, nerds. Nerds are not sexy. Sorry, ladies, if you are an attractive single woman who owns a “Nerds Are Sexy” t-shirt, you should come over to my house. My roommates go to bed early and I have the director’s cut of Buckaroo Banzai always playing in the background. Bring tequila.

The word “nerd” brings to my mind an image of Harvey Pekar’s pal in American Splendor. Ladies, if you want to have sex with that guy, more power to you. You’ll make his day, no question. Nerdiness is not a fashion, it’s a state of mind. It’s an attitude, much like punk rock. Just as putting your hair up in a mohawk doesn’t make you punk, putting glasses on Brad Pitt does not make him a nerd. It’s only Brad Pitt, devastatingly handsome and famous sexy guy, wearing glasses.

And fellas, I don’t know how to break this to you but… Zooey Deschanel is not a nerd. Neither is Olivia Munn. They’re nerd fantasies, sure, but definitely not nerds. They constitute what is commonly referred to as “babes”. They don’t play World Of Warcraft for sixteen hours straight; they have something called sex for sixteen hours straight. They have no time to reread Star Wars novelizations or practice the accordion. They hire assistants to do that stuff for them.

At some point in the past decade a certain coterie of young hipsters decided they wanted to be nerds. God knows why. So they started referring to themselves as such, and pretty soon everyone with a hobby was now “nerding out” on it and Hollywood gave Star Trek a gazillion dollar facelift and everywhere was nerds, nerds, nerds, and eventually you couldn’t throw a Harlan Ellison anthology in the air without it landing on some trendy jerkoff in $1500 black framed glasses cranking Weezer in his convertible and blowing through stop signs because he’s busy texting his girlfriend (who’s in the passenger seat) and “nerding out” on his iPhone!

Then somewhere in here Paris Hilton, or whoever ultimately decides these things, went “OMG, nerds are like SO HOT!” on her Twitter account and all this narcissism came to a head with the “Nerds Are Sexy” t-shirt, best worn by super cute stuck-up twenty something girls who say puh-LEEZE and begin every sentence with that little (tsk) sound and an exhale.

“I’m heading home to nerd out on my O.C. box set!”

“Well, I have to go to the library to study for my test, I’M SUCH A NERD!”

No you’re not, honey. You’re an attractive popular young college girl with a social life and more cash on hand than most nerds cough up at a dozen comic-cons. You’re on the other side of the schoolyard from the nerds. Nerds are society’s outcasts. As adults, they stay at home 95% of the time. They are usually unattractive to look at: either grossly corpulent with all the hygiene problems that follow, or painfully emaciated with Adam’s apples resembling Fukushima-style Granny Smiths. They may have somehow managed to achieve coitus with another humanoid, but possess nothing resembling a sex life. They have zero dress sense and are generally completely devoid of social skills. They don’t “party” on the weekends, or ever. They certainly don’t play drums or any other instrument in an indie band. Many still live with their parents. They masturbate A LOT. Women usually refer to them as “that creepy guy”. And they would never ever have the cojones to call themselves “sexy”, unless there were buckets of sarcasm on the side.

If none of the above sounds like you, guess what?

The irony of “Nerds Are Sexy” is this: the lack of attention from the opposite (or any) sex is one of the major contributors to a life of geekiness. A fairly steady supply of you-know-what helps keep the psyche balanced, boosts the ol’ self confidence, and it feels real good too. It’s also an excellent reason to leave the house, unless you ladies are going to start delivering, like Meals-On-Wheels for horndogs. To most nerds, the constant humiliation and rejection associated with approaching a potential mate isn’t worth the trouble, so when Buckaroo Banzai is over they would rather just walk up to the TV and hit replay. And when they do go out, all the prettiest girls—the ones who would rather choke on their frappuccinos than be seen talking to a loser like you—are wearing “Nerds Are Sexy” t-shirts.

Mmm, irony.

So the next time you females out there spot an obvious pocket-protector high-waters zitface dorkeroo in a public place, don’t be shy. Walk up to him and stick your tongue in his mouth. Let things progress naturally from there. You bought the shirt, now take the next logical step.

Folks, it’s time to give nerds back their nerddom. It’s all most of them have, and you hipsters can find another subculture to co-opt and slap on a t-shirt, there’s hundreds to choose from. How about Migrant Workers Are Sexy? Albinos Are Sexy? Aging Metalheads Are Sexy? Bestiality Enthusiasts Are Sexy? Parrotheads Are Sexy? Hetero Men Who Speak With A Lisp Are Sexy? Clowns Who Smoke Meth Are Sexy? White Sox Fans Are Sexy? Middle-aged Twilight Freaks Are Sexy? Sexy Grandpas Are Sexy? Come on people, be creative.

OK boys and girls … to see if you really are a nerd, here’s a quick quiz (answers have to be off the top of your head, no Googling or any of that lifeline crap):

1. What is Captain Kirk’s middle name?
2. What is the square root of 169?
3. In Monty Python and the Holy Grail, which troupe member plays Patsy, the guy with the coconuts?
4. Who was the inventor of Dungeons & Dragons?
5. Tell me, how many lights do you see?
6. What the HELL is Buckaroo Banzai?

And these are EEEEEASY ones, kiddies. Baby steps. OK, here’s the answers:

1. Tiberius
2. 13
3. Terry Gilliam
4. Gary Gygax (R.I.P.)
5. THERE! ARE! FOUR! LIGHTS!
6. A flop 1984 sci-fi film about a particle physicist/brain surgeon/rock star/comic book hero/time traveller/genius/Zen master/stud/coolest dude in the universe/renaissance man and his motley crew of fellow scientists/band members/misfits/best friends battling to save the earth from the evil red lectroids from the 8th dimension starring Peter Weller, Jeff Goldblum, Ellen Barkin, John Lithgow (in the performance of a lifetime), Christopher Lloyd, the guy who played Carla’s shifty ex-husband Nick on Cheers, and the guy who played the teacher in Fast Times At Ridgemont High (not Mr. Hand, the other one with the curly hair and the hot wife who was the chick that Phil Spector killed).

The whole concept and design for the flux capacitor in Back To The Future was outright STOLEN from BB’s oscillation overthruster (they call it an homage), and if there was ANY JUSTICE IN THE WORLD, this charming and witty low budget film would be just as popular and beloved and obsessed over as Star Wars and they would have made the further adventures of Buckaroo and his buds into sequels like the end credits promised … but NOOOOOOO, instead we got pathetic whining sissy-boy Anakin and stupid Jar-Jar Binks and the God-damned Ewoks, God DAMN I hate those little furry mother fuckers, they suck SO BAD, those piss puddles nearly RUINED Return Of The Jedi, what the FUCK was Lucas thinking?

I mean OK, the guy has this opportunity to tell the back story of his hands-down best character, an orphaned boy who grows up to be the most vicious sadistic feared son of a bitch in the galaxy since Cheney, a hideously deformed half-human half-machine clanking around in black armor strangling guys without touching them and blowing up ENTIRE PLANETS of innocent people … adult men are quivering like little girls and shitting their pants in his presence…and the kid’s nickname is ANNIE??!! FUCKING ANNIE??!! REALLY, GEORGE? Not Damien or Beef or Thor, something like that? Annie, huh. You don’t think that tends to undercut Vader’s whole satanic living-embodiment-of-pure-evil vibe and makes his character, I don’t know, KIND OF A PUSSY?

No wonder he changed his name. “Darth Vader” sounds like someone who’s about to rip your head off and shit down your neck, but “Annie Skywalker” sounds like an intergalactic hooker who will blow you for pocket change. “Uh-oh, Chewbacca’s been with Annie Skywalker again, hope the whole crew isn’t infected. Get the penicillin.” Annie? Give me a break. We should have known everything was doomed when those goddamned Ewoks showed up. Assholes.

Well, you can bet your balls there’s no cuddly little squeaky cocksuckers annoying you underfoot in The Adventures Of Buckaroo Banzai Across The 8th Dimension (full title), just a bunch of badass shit going down and some of it makes absolutely no sense and there’s a few dead spots and it could have used a better soundtrack and the special effects aren’t that great either and everyone’s wearing white shoes and, although Ellen Barkin is a very attractive woman, she can’t act her way out of a paper bag … but none of that matters because the coolness factor here is off the charts and MAN, it still had the potential to become one of the greatest franchises EVER. I think “Laugh while you can, monkey boy!” and “The deuce, you say!” could have been awesome ’80s catchphrases and Weller is perfect in the title role. I couldn’t imagine anyone else doing better, and Goldblum is transcendently goofy as always and there’s great gadgets and dozens of in-jokes and you bet I’ve got a t-shirt.

And hell yeah, Buckaroo could kick Han Solo’s ass AND nail Princess Leia without scuffing up his white loafers or getting a wrinkle in his pimp Versace suit and, oh sweet Jesus, EVERY WORD out of Lithgow’s mouth is freakin’ GOLD, PURE 24 CARAT GOLD, that man is an ARTIST, A MASTER OF HIS CRAFT and …

Where was I? Oh yeah, nerds.

For that last one, the following answer is also acceptable:

6. The greatest movie ever made.

There, how’s that for nerding out? Am I getting you hot, baby?

Washington, DC—Jack Primus is coming under a lot of fire over the past several days as hordes of the tentacle-ridden maggoty fungi, known as the Migo (no relation to our politicians), are assaulting humans all over the globe—not to mention the Romney family’s endangered species petting zoo.

Firearms have had little impact on this interstellar menace and Jack’s advice to soldiers is ‘to chop them into small bits’ isn’t winning him any new friends. While the rest of the world is hunting down Jack in the hopes of offering him up to the Migo in order to stave off this destruction, I managed to find him lounging in front of the local pub called Scallywags. There, he agreed to this exclusive interview:

Alex: “Hello Jack, how strange seeing you here.”

Jack: “Well, I do work here. At least I have since I spent all the gold Yig gave me, and my former squeeze, Loni, changed all the locks on her door. She didn’t like it when I became a serpent during sex. Chicks these days, eh?”

Alex: “So the War on Women is becoming a War on Serpents?

Jack: “You can say that. It doesn’t really make any sense, but you can say that…”

Alex: It’s amazing stalwarts such as yourself still have jobs. I thought with your new book coming out you’d never have to work another day in your life other than maybe lifting your cuter fans onto the back of your Harley.”

Jack: “I didn’t write that book. Griffiths is stealing all my ideas and not giving me a cent! I heard he raked in so much loot after one of his last book signings that he and Zano ordered a whole bucket of chicken wings. He sent me the bones in the mail—the bastard.”

Alex: “So how do you feel about the big C sending the Migo after you? And can I get Loni’s number?”

Jack: “F-Cthulhu and no you can’t. Old squid face can come after me whenever he wants, the damn parasite. I prefer an honest fight. If these off-world scum think they can just come down here and walk all over [insert seventeen minute rant against aliens here].

Alex: “So what is it about the second Chronicles of Jack Primus, now available on Amazon, that has them all fired up?”

Jack: “For one thing, it doesn’t portray the scum of evil in a handsome light. These days vampires have bling, werewolves make good boyfriends, and ghosts make people horny. WTF?! It won’t be long before zombie prostitutes are on every street corner. Hell, vampires would rather tear out your neck than snuggle and the closest some chick will ever get to a werewolf is when he’s shitting her out the next morning.”

Alex: “Does your book expose their weaknesses?”

Jack: “Hail Yig, it does. No one likes to be hit between the eyes with a sledge hammer. My book also lets the reader know what their strengths are as well. dyevils use fire, Selectors move like ninjas on meth, and darcarre prefer blondes—which was also a great movie.”

Alex: “If you had to sum up the book…”

Jack: “It’s a non-stop, kick ass, explosion of action where I prove once and for all that I’m America’s next heartthrob hero, well, in between ordering beer and cheese steaks.”

Alex: “Any plans on how you’re going to stop this Migo invasion?”

Jack: “Oh yeah, but I can’t tell you because some of their crawdads allies have learned to read, but I will say it involves Northern Arizona, a soon to be active volcano, blowing up a dam, and eight-thousand tons of butter. Oh shoot, here come a few dozen Migo now. Time to step up, Boneman, I have an extra hammer you can use.”

Alex: “Damn it, why does Zano get all the cushy haunted pub assignments?”