Nowhere, AZ—Having barely paid off the fines from the last time I was bored, I decided to channel my energies toward Youtube.  Entering this series of tubes that is the internet, I became lost in my own Youtube adventure.  For starters, I played Dylan’s and Guns & Roses’ version of Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door simultaneously.  Never do this.

Dylan sang through Slash’s guitar solo, and then, not to be outdone, Axl Rose sang through Dylan’s harmonica solo.  Other than that, it kind of worked…well, in a ‘God, I would rather be gouging out my own eye balls right now than listening to this shit’, kind of way. 

Warning! Don’t do this for too long, or that cold black cloud starts comin’ down…

My grand experiment was almost over before it started, then I realized, if you use the pause button you can help keep the various musicians in sync, sort of.  Next, I played All Along the Watchtower, Dylan v Hendrix.  They were closer in speed than one would think.  But, in the end, no matter how many times I dallied All Along the Pause Button, Dylan just couldn’t keep up with the Jimmster.  

‘scuse me while I pause this guy. 

The clear winner in the dueling Youtubes was Van Halen’s California Girls v Beach Boys’ version.  The speed was really close.  They hung 10—whatever the hell that means—for a long time.  It was beautiful…and by beautiful, I mean, barely tolerable.   You just have to pause one of the two vids so they both start at the same time and it’s like magic, really cheesy beach magic (RCBM).

The Bonnie Raitt, Jackson Browne version of Poor, Poor Pitiful Me was wonderful played alongside Linda Ronstadt’s version—at least the first verse, anyway.  Jackson kind of shouted over Linda a bit, which is when I realized you can adjust the volume on each vid.  I am not horribly savvy at this You of Tubes.   

Then I played Skynyrd’s version of Free Bird v Skynyrd’s Guitar Hero version of Free Bird.  Turns out, they are identical.  Heh, heh.  No surprise, really.  This was like the control group or something.  I am a psychology dude, after all.  This was the play-cebo, so to speak.  Sorry.  (Edit that one out, Winslow. I wouldn’t want to lose one of my three fans.)

If you crank Cheryl Crow’s volume, she kind of hangs with Axl Rose during Guns & Roses’ version of Sweet Child O’Mine.  This is a little surreal to listen to, though.  It’s like listening to a record backwards, while in a tunnel, while underwater.  It kind of freaked me out a bit, like that time I was listening to a record backwards, while in a tunnel, while…you get the idea.

You Really Got Me:  Van Halen v The Kinks was really frustrating one for me.  It was a deeply disturbing exercise in futility, which I try to limit to my Crank rebuttals.  The old Kinks’ version is waaaay too slow, but then the Kinks’ Live version is waaaay too fast.  So I guess Diamond Dave’s version is just right.

Then, as often happens in my world, things took a turn into the absurd.  I pitted The Kingsmen against Motorhead’s version of Louie Louie.  Little did I know, I had entered one of the darker corners of the Youtube Zone.  No matter how badly these two versions were out of sync, it always sounded pretty good…well, as good as Louie Louie gets.  Maybe I was channeling an old fraternity party?  Maybe it triggered some type of flashback?  But, no matter what I did, I couldn’t kill it; it didn’t seem to matter who was singing what garbled version, guitar solo, chorus, what have you.  The song is impervious to attack.  It’s like the Borg of all fifties tunes.  Well, we’ll just see about that…

For the hat trick, I decided to throw the Kinks’ version into the mix.  Wow, still not bad.  Hmmmm.  I conducted another search…Mr. Morrison?  Yes, I threw in a Doors’ version to boot in an effort to break on through to the other track. This song was the thing that would not die!  The thing with 7 tracks!  I paused and moped by brow.  It’s assimilating all the versions!  It’s the Borg of all fifties tunes!  Did I say that already?

Would one more version cause a tear in the virtual space time continuum?  I starting saying, “It’s alive, alive!” and laughing manically.   This signifies it’s time for my “medication.”

Sometimes you have to push the envelope, so I threw in an Iggy Pop version of Louie Louie and all hell broke loose!  Don’t try this at home!  This many versions of Louie Louie made it very difficult to know what I was listening to, which actually helped.  However, my operating system may never recover; heck, I may never recover.  Now, every time I click on the Youtube icon on my desktop…well, I can swear my laptop has developed a nervous tick.  But I would do it again.  Well, the next time I’m really bored.

Washington, DC—On Oct. 30^th The National Mall was packed wall-to-wall with celebrities attending the Shaman’s Rally to Retrieve the U.S. Soul. After a long weekend of bashing in the skulls of the foul Darcarre, Jack Primus swung east in support of the Discord’s cause.  Being a fictional character doesn’t stop Primus from doing any number of cool things on a given day. You know that dude, the world’s most interesting man, from those Dos Equis commercials? Jack Primus won’t return his calls.

Jack is the archetypal hero. He captured the new century’s zeitgeist and keeps it chained in his basement next to his morning star.  Primus rarely does interviews, but for the Discord…we paid him—virtual money, of course.
The rest of this post is courtesy of Mr. P himself:

The Ghetto Shaman has given his blessing to Yig.  He is truly wise. Since he’s been receiving death threats from both the Xemmoni underground and the Sharron Angle campaign—both sworn enemies of Yig—I decided to help out my old friend. He asked me to support his cause, protect him from the super natural forces that be, and, of course, buy him some malt liquor products. Actually, I only agreed if GS promised me a plug on the Discord to sell more books.  He also promised me all the chicken wings I could eat. The joke was really on them; I hid an extra eighty in my backpack on the way out.  I heard Zano is getting his “wages” garnished over that one. But GS told me he’s got Winslow wrapped around his little chicken wing and I could muscle-in whenever I wanted.
If what happened at the Mall on October 30th continues to plague America, you’re really going to need the Chronicles of Jack Primus.  It’s not just a book; it’s a survival guide for the coming apocalypse!

To rewind a bit, everything had started out well enough. The Discord was bussing people down to the event. The Ghetto Shaman was reading excerpts of Jack Primus to the cheering masses. But those who could not decipher the Primus Code, never got a bus ride home! This book was their return ticket, you see. Without it, they were forced to hang out at Capital City Brewing—that big dumb brewpub downtown; the one with small portions and rubbery chicken wings. If you get stuck down there and the Xemmoni or the Darcarre get you, don’t come bitching to me. You’ve been warned. They’re in all the major cities, and they tend to know when you know…you know? So now that you know, you better read this book and learn how to stay alive…and don’t order those chicken wings.

I probably shouldn’t have told you that. Can you edit that out, Winslow? Not the staying alive part, the other part about the wings. Sometimes they’re OK drowned in enough blue cheese dressing. But you should buy the book and try to stay alive, of course. Geesh.

So, you want to really know what happened on October 30th? Why GS needed me as he shifted into an alternate dimension? He isn’t called a Shaman for nothing. They did come after him that day—in mass, I might add. You see, anyone and everyone must guard his or her corporeal body during any exercise in soul travel, especially one this important.

When The Ghetto Shaman drank his potion on the Lincoln Memorial steps, those damn Darcarre moved in like bed bugs in an Econo Lodge.  They surrounded us, alongside their unwilling slave, Jeff “come-on-in-guys” Probst of Survivor fame. They didn’t want GS’s message to get out to the people.  They will derail any message resembling Yig’s.  Could you imagine what would have happened if GS told everyone on national television to dissolve our differences and embrace the All Father snake? Yep, you’re right, we’d all be in a state of bliss, with all hunger and wars a thing of the past. Don’t look at me like that… Snakes are all about bliss… duh.  Haven’t you ever read any Graham Hancock?

So when they came, I was ready, or at least I was after I wiped the BBQ sauce off my weapon hand.  GS even helped with the battle; he was pretty bad ass with those chicken bone nunchucks. We gave those Serial Killers a good licking, but the damage was done. They jammed the telecast and those other stooges claimed all the credit for the rally.

Why do you think the special wasn’t on television and they switched all the coverage to those Comedy Central dudes with the weird haircuts and no sideburns?  It was a diversion!  I kept the Shaman safe until the police…er, “took over.” 

There you have it, right from the hero’s mouth.  Some call Primus a Yig-loving fictional freak. Whereas this is true, it’s still not a very nice thing to say. We would rather you stay alive, learn your enemy’s secrets, and read The Chronicles of Jack Primus.

In this age of horrible economic times, amidst constant rallies to restore sanity and/or fear, and/or Honor, or to retrieve the U.S. Soul and/or Other Imortant Things and stuff (God, Zano’s an idiot), I would like to vent my frustration about something completely different, the program known as COBRA. 

COBRA, much like the name implies, really bites.  The Consolidated Omnibus Budget Reconciliation Act (COBRA) gives workers and their families, who have lost their health benefits, the right to continue group health benefits for limited periods of time under certain circumstances.

Qualified individuals may be required to pay the entire premium for coverage up to 102% of the cost to the plan.  Currently the government is even offsetting some of the cost by paying a percentage of this for the many displaced, disgruntled, and discharged workers across our country.  You know…most of us.

The idea is sound. Let’s face it, people need insurance and this helps people maintain it for a time between jobs.  The operation itself, however, is as dismal as the Daily Discord’s marketing team.  You know…..me.

First, you sign up and you have a large time frame (about 45 days) then payments are due the 1^st of each month with a thirty-day grace period.  Basically, I got a monthly payment coupon book with a box on each slip stating payment amount due. 

The block of coupons I received came in on the 15^th of the month, so I filled out that month’s coupon, in crayon, and just discarded the coupon sent for the previous month.  I continued to mail my payment in by the first of each month.  Please note, they have no website, or contact number of any kind to make payments.  There’s no way to check on your account—just these old fashioned snail-mail coupons from hell.  In August, I mailed my check out on the fourth, but, heck, you get that 30-day grace period to get it in, right?  Besides, I had never received a late payment notice.  What’s the worst that could happen?

Then I received this letter in the mail on August 16^th.  The ‘mailed on date’ was August 10^th: 

Realizing the Family no longer had health insurance (actually hadn’t had any for the last 16 days), I looked through my bills.  I had accrued over $2,000.00 in medical bills during that time period (most of which went to having a mole removed and then placed strategically somewhere else on my person).   Now my mole relocation project (MRP) would not be covered by insurance (to say nothing of my lobomasto-mnemonic-inhibitor—an operation to help me not think about women’s breasts so much).

I called the COBRA people with a verbal tirade that would make the Crank and the Ghetto Shaman proud.  It got me nowhere, just like college. 

I then sent in this letter of appeal:

Dear Cobra Control Services,

This letter is to appeal the termination of my cobra coverage, on July 1, 2010.  I was in error, I believed that the payment I sent in on 8-03-2010 was for August, but it was July’s payment making it after the thirty day grace period.

It was in no way meant to be taken as I wanted to discontinue coverage, which my family needs.  I received no notice as to anything being late and was not aware of my error.  I ask you to consider reinstating my coverage.

If reinstated I would make immediate payment for July and August.

Please contact me at if you have any questions or need further information.

Respectfully submitted,

David Tiberius Atsals

In a letter received from COBRA ten days later I was informed that my appeal was denied and reminded that any medical bills, or mole migration procedures from July 1^st on, were now solely my responsibility. 

THANKS!

I have several complaints about this whole confusing process.  No late notices? No way to check account activity?  No notification before the fact that your coverage was terminated?  The worst part of the whole affair, the check I mailed out on August 4^th was somehow cashed by them for insurance which no longer existed!

The follow up letter I will be sending COBRA Control Services, LLC will be authored by the Ghetto Shaman and the Crank—after I ply them with enough alcohol, Coca Cola, and nutmeg to “down a rhino.” 

Maybe I’ll even send COBRA a few non-covered bills.  Hell, I can’t afford to pay them anyway.   But I love my new mole!  I look Marilyn Monroe now, sort of, and I can say that now without even thinking about her pookas.   Well, at least not as much.

I then authored this letter to President Obama:

Dear Prez,

Whereas I appreciate extending the coverage to young people until age 26, in my case this falls about 16 years short of the mark.   My parents will happily allow me back on their insurance plan, provided they don’t find out.  Oh, and when you get a chance please shut down COBRA.  It should be replaced with an organization that is at least as technologically savvy as John McCain for fuck’s sake.

Respectfully submitted,

Dave Mortimer Atsals

As Mick Zano would say, I didn’t send the ‘for fuck’s sake’ part, but it was implied.