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I hereby decree today is “face-melting guitar day”.
I challenge you to add to the “face-meltingness” in the comments.
That is all.
Hey – happy foggy Friday.
Apologies if today’s artist isn’t a stranger to you, but…I just found him and I think today’s gem is infectiously great. Crank it up and tell me what you think.
I think I dig it cuz he sounds like the love child of Sting and Peter Gabriel.
Have a good one all!
Pax.
My friends, lift your oars and take your rest. We have paddled far, yea, to the very edges of Creation in pursuit of Honour, Glory, and Drunken Ass-Hattery. But, strenuous in our labours as we are, we must pause. For here, at the edge of creation…there be demons. We must needs keep our wits about us, for there is no demon more foul, nor more insidious, than the thrice-damned Mum Bird.
Do listen to me now, I beseech thee.
‘Twas a fortnight past the Solstice of the Bubbling Sunburn that those magnificent bastards Ringmaster, Hero, and Good Friend Too did once again steer their longboat upon the fabled river Ster Juhn We’er. Yet again did they seek the most flavourful, Holy Grail of watery beasts, the Mighty Pick-Rell, and they did accoutrement themselves accordingly. With them did they carry their angles and barbs…their bedrolls and pavilions…and approximately three, Imperial ass-loads of malted barley beverages. By Odin! They were resplendent with cargo and preparations, even to a small flask of dark rum Ringmaster had stashed in his pack in case the malted liquors grew repugnant to his toungue. The Ster Juhn We’er was once again lapping their gunwales with a liquid, Syren song of Angled Adventure…and they cared not that the reason its music was up to the gunwales was because three Imperial ass-loads of brew was really effin heavy.
Mercifully, they were unawares that fate most foul awaited them down stream.
Even before the Nones did they paddle forth upon the waters. The sun did blaze down upon them from a pale and cloudless sky, turning their skins bright, itchy red. The Ringmaster noticed the slow roasting of his flesh, but sublimely decided it was too late to do anything about it at that point. Bravely, and without any pretense of precaution, he gamely paddled on. It was so even unto Good Friend Too, the poor, brave, and ultimately damned soul. Pick-Rell awaited them in his lair downstream! So downstream they would go, crisping, sun-flayed flesh be damned.
After starting the quest in high-spirits and blissful ignorance, the trio soon realized they were making very poor time. After off-loading their beer, helicoptering their long-boat down some rapids, then re-loading the beer, they conferred amongst each other and smoked some leaf. Forsooth, they decided it was the very weight of their malted liquors that did weigh them and slow them. Good Friend Too, being the quick thinking of the three, decided the better part of valour would be to make their camp early and rid themselves of the cumbersome weight. They would awake upon the morn, fresh as lilies, and make mighty recompense for their lost hours.
And so did they put ashore, erect their pavilions, make their fire, and begin the meddlesome task of drinking away their barleyd weight. Yea, and there was Mak und Cheez most horrid, it being boiled in beaver-fouled water and cooked with tofu dogs. Good Friend Too, being the quick thinking of the three, did seize the offending pot and hurl its contents into the Ster Juhn We’er. They would sup not this night, save for what sustenance could be found in malted barley.
There was much rejoicing, but they understood not that their adventurous, barley-addled antics had awoken a demon most foul. Oh, woe!
On the far bank of the mighty river did the insidious Mum Bird awaken from its sulphurous slumber and begin to scheme against the trio of winsome knights. The sun sank ever lower towards its setting, and our Heroes did grow ever louder and more obnoxious.
At last, as the sky’s shining orb disappeared into the dark forest, our pilgrims finally felt the wrath of the evil they had awakened. Unseen by our heroes in the darkness, the demon-bird did sit up in its nest of offal and broken heroes past. It opened its slathering beak and let loose a sound so foul and hideous, the trio would find their hearts scarred with it; even to the end of their days. The forest and river echoed with its horrible shriek.
“Mum.”
At first, our heroes laughed at such a hideously ridiculous noise. But laughter soon turned to unease, then to irritation most vexing as the fell Mum Bird repeated its cries. Over.
And over.
And over again still. Every time the heroes thought they had defeated the noisome bird with thrown rocks and curses most blue, the Mum Bird would again let loose its hell-born screech.
“Mum.”
Skulls were clutched in agony. Ears were vainly plugged. Throats were shouted raw in many attempts to dislodge this irritating imp, but it was all for naught.
“Mum.” In the small hours after midnight, Good Friend Too finally broke.
“WHAT?!” he shouted at the darkness, brandishing an empty bottle. “WHAT?! I’M NOT YOUR MUM! SHUT THE HELL UP!” Good Friend Too’s wits had utterly left him, and he drunkenly stumbled down the side of a beaver lodge and into the waiting waters of Stur Juhn We’er. He slipped and almost fell into the waters entirely, but he heroically righted himself and launched an epic barrage of obscenity at the Hell-bird, whilst simultaneously launching empty bottles in the demon’s direction.
Hero and Ringmaster’s wits had returned to them somewhat, and saw what peril Good Friend Too was actually in. Should he slip and get stuck betwixt beaver logs, or should he fall into a hidden, watery hole in the darkness, all would be lost. Hero strode in after Good Friend Too, and after some fiery discourse, encouraged the return of Good Friend Too’s senses. They both returned to shore where Ringmaster lent them a hand back to the realm of untwisted ankles and semi-cool beer.
“HA! WHAT DID I TELL YA?”, shouted a wet and angry Good Friend Too. “YA HEAR THAT? THAT FUKN BIRD HAS FINALLY QUIT!” The forest was silent, ’twas true. But…
“Mum.”
“AH FER CHRISSAKES, I’M GOIN TA BED.”
Hero and Ringmaster soon followed…all slept fitfully in the wreckage of their souls, heads tucked under their sleeping bags against the incessant, vicious, unmitigated, night-time assault of the Hellacious Mum Bird.
From Hell.
Happy Friday all…I’m in a “story-tellin” mood today.
Remember this one?
What’s your favourite “story-tellin” song?
(Somebody better post “Whiskey in the Jar”!)
Have a good one, all.
My friends, the hour grows late. The fire in the hearth has burned down to comfortable embers, and I must needs tell a tale. Gather ’round me now as I relate what happens when one is compelled to buy $200 trucks, and drive them with one’s foot to the floor.
Listen to me now. It was high summer in the Year of Mud-Bogging that The Hero, The Ringmaster, Good Friend, Good Friend Too, and various other adventurers came upon the fabled, Sand Pits of Tyrell.
Our winsome adventurers were in their high-spirited youth and lacking medicinal beverages, and thus, arrived upon the golden dunes astride their mighty steeds Fj’Ord, Shev, D’Odge, and Hi’Un’Die. (Hi’Un’Die was an old paint front wheel drive, but it is of no matter.)
The Ringmaster found the scene most fetching, for the legendary Pits were enclosed all about with fragrant jackpines, golden, setting sun, and disinterested ravens. The ravens, being fell messengers of War and Death, should have been regarded as a warning from the Gods, but The Ringmaster and all his glory-seeking party remained oblivious to the black-winged omens. There was much blowing of the donuts (or “shitters”) to be done, you see. And all were transfixed by the notion of flying sand and screaming engines belching blue exhaust.
Truck beds rattled over rusty frames. Empty beer cans flew in all directions as their faithful steeds roared about in sand-blasting circles. Glory and adventure was being won by the minute. But for one, somewhat tetched adventurer, “blowin’ shitters” soon grew tiresome.
“How can I make this journey to the Pits of Tyrell truly epic,” Good Friend Too asked himself as he rammed his foot to the floor. His fellow pilgrims hooted and hollered like deranged chimpanzees, and as his steed swung around for the third time the answer to his question appeared magically before him in the windshield.
What he saw was the edge of the pit rising sharply at a steep incline.
One could say it was a ramp.
“Fuck yeah,” thought Good Friend Too.
He brought Fj’Ord (his cheap, red steed) to a halt and made his adventurous proposal to all gathered.
“I’m gonna jump this bitch,” he said. Or words to that effect. “Anyone want in?” Ringmaster looked thoughtfully about the Pits and carefully assessed the crappy, red steed and the situation as a whole.
“Fuck yeah I want in!” Ringmaster said. “Let’s do it!” Is discretion ever the better part of valour for the youthful?
Hero, and the other adventurers who had not the courage to mount up with Good Friend Too and Fj’Ord, quickly made their way to a small heath above the pits; the erstwhile landing area where Glory would rain upon Good Friend Too like the showers of Early Spring. Ringmaster climbed up, strapped in, and cinched the seat-belt tight. Tragically, Ringmaster had not yet learned the law. The very law which states “nothing good ever came from building a ramp”. He applied flame to a cigarette and inhaled the vapours most deeply, for even in ignoring the law, he knew in his heart of hearts this would be a most interesting and bumpy ride into immortality. Good Friend Too looked at his companion and began to fidget and nudge the accelerator.
“We’re doin’ it!”
“Yeah! Let’s do it! This is gonna be awesome!”
“You ready?”
“Fuck yeah I’m ready – are you ready?”
“I’m fuckin ready!” The discourse was poetic and stirred the breast, and Ringmaster tossed aside his cigarette. Adventure was mere moments away! He clamped one hand on the dash board, and the other embraced the back of the bench seat.
“Punch it, fucker!!”
Fj’Ord’s aging engine roared as a beast from the hottest pit of Hades. Sand shot from the tyres as from a gun. Good Friend Too and Ringmaster streaked across the sand pit toward the sweet embrace of destiny.
Ringmaster tried to savour the moments, but Fj’Ord was shaking and vibrating in such a harsh manner, he found it hard to focus on anything. He clutched the dash so hard his knuckles ached, and he thought the balls of his eyes just might shake from their sockets.
A raven chuckled as they breached the incline and rode skyward; the engine screaming their names to Valhalla.
Suddenly, all was still and beautiful. Fj’Ord screamed as she’d never screamed before, but through the windscreen, it was only calm, blue skies and puffy clouds. The ride became smooth like fine, Oriental silk, all weight leaving our star-crossed warrior’s bodies.
“Beautiful,” Ringmaster thought to himself as thoughts of his true situation left his mind. “I’m likened to a big, ugly bird, taking flight upon rusty wings and riding capricious zephyrs.”
Anon (and there’s always an “anon”), the windshield filled with rushing trees and clumps of brush.
The end of the quest was abrubt indeed.
You see, good gentlefolk, The Sand Pits of Tyrell are made largely of sand. Sand is soft, supple and giving.
And it stops flying half-tons in their tracks.
The bench Ringmaster was clinging to pitched forward as his other arm buckled under the sudden blow. Verily, his forehed did smash the dashboard and bounce backwards, as the bench seat returned to its position with great haste, mashing and pinching Ringmaster’s arm between it and the back of the cab. There was much stunned surprise and bruising. Good Friend Too calmly turned the ignition off, and eyes wide, sat back and said nothing.
Good people, gentle people, what was said immediately after this epic, too-short flight is forever lost in the Sands of Tyrell.
What is known for sure are only these things:
Good Friend Too did use an axe handle to bash Fj’Ord’s rims back into some semblence of circular usefulness.
All tie rods were smashed asunder and left Fj’Ord sagging.
Driving on the pavement of the King’s Road with broken tie rods and tyres tilting inward 20 degrees makes a constant, panicked chirping sound.
And never…never and nary…has any good thing come from a ramp.
