Oh, hell, I can’t hold on to this horrible knowledge any longer: the Dead were gay.
It was men being men together and, occasionally, all over each other. Lineup changes, health problems, financial chaos? The music got them through, along with regular sessions of group masturbation.
Not just in the old days, when Pig would whip out his thick, greasy hog and announce, “Let’s put our hands IN our pockets!” No, it was a constant throughout the years. Almost as much as they hate books, but let’s be reasonable: no one hates anything as much as a drummer hates a book. The Drummer (if male) will almost certainly remove his shirt. Once a drum solo gets a name, it immediately accesses the Dungeon Dimensions and becomes NIGH-UPON UNSTOPPABLE and goes for thirty fucking minutes and it’s unbearable. IF YOU SEE A DRUMMER: Do not under any circumstances let him or her name the drum solo. They understand only the lash, and in most cases, request the lash, please and thank you. They exist solely to play when you don’t want them to, disappear when you need them, collect noisy things, and have too much sex. Which has–INEXORABLY–led to this:ĭrummers cannot be reasoned with. If you don’t keep a sharp eye on percussionists, the amount of timbales, congas, and other hollowed out fruit/skull/animal skin combinations in your life will multiply like Tribbles on Molly.Īnd, obviously, the other drummer allowed a vote is Neil Peart. I don’t know if any of you have known any drummers but this shit right here is why every band that has ever existed (except for our protagonists and one other) doesn’t let the drummer vote.
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