30% CONTACT HIGH-FIVE, FAILING RELATIONSHIPS.

That was rude of me, I’m sure their internet history is clear despite spending hours online because they love you, and do nothing but worship the ground you walk on.

. . .

Or they like diiiiiiiicks.

Either way, fact of the matter is none of us are perfect. We are all flawed AF despite any vanity or still-flowing narcissism from our younger years. We all get older and put in some poundage, get laugh lines, need glasses, or suddenly find ourselves unable to “down ’em like we used too”, but all that really matress is that we keep moving forward. You know, “bettering ourselves” by leaving old sins in the dust for new ones, whilst going to going to this “JIM” guy who I keep hearing is all the rage for his ability to get you into Herculean shape at the expense of your free time. Then with your new found “jacked-ness” you can get out there and really “slay that puh”.

And yet every day I see all these White Oakley Jabronies with teeny legs and wide chests walking around in drunken droves as I make my post-midnightwalk to 7/11 to get snack-wasted, and they just talk so gooood daaaamn loud for creatures that even in groups of four or more share a single tongue and almost make up a full brain.

“BRO! NO. FUCKEN, NO! YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW. I DA-*hic*-ATED THIS BITCH ONCE, AN’ SHE HAD LIKE, 86 DD TITS!”

A discarded single slice pizza box scratches loudly off my shoe as I kicked it off the sidewalk. The gaggle of assorted V-Necks and I assume the alpha who I shall deem “Purse Bitch” instantly snap in attention to the sound, staring me down with glazed faces. I may be a smaller lad, but everyone who has ever picked on me in my entire has been at least twice my size, and that has taught me that at least 4/5 dudes haven’t really had they ass whooped. Anyhow Purse Bitch chirped “SUP BUDDY. DARTS FER THE BOYS!?” to which I responded “Don’t smoke, bud”, and of course, OF COURSE, PB & the J’s couldn’t just leave it at that, he had give an addition and unnecessary “OOOH YEAH YOU DO! I CAN TELL!” and as my mouth works faster than my brain, I retorted “I can tell you can kick rocks.” and booooy they did not like that. At this point I learned several things:

– Dudes named Tyler just suck. It’s like a law.

– Even douchebags wanna wear their favorite bands.

– Creatine doesn’t make you brave. Preworkout doesn’t make you strong.

Long story short, they left after I said some more slightly more “choicey” sentences, and not to long after they did collectively “kick rocks”. So let’s talk about the bands those dudes had on their shirts and the fact that I never liked any of them before (almost), and even less now due to that experience.

BAG-SHIRT ONE:

FIVE FINGER DEATH PUNCH

An old housemate of mine jammed this song real hard for a summer and it definitely drove me a little through the wall. Personally, I think they sound like Disturbed with extra icy punky rings and as if they only drink Hennessey because they heard it in a Tupac song once. ‘Nuff said about this separate herd of wife-beater fountain swimmers, they can keep doing they’re thing singing about being both above and below fame, and how he could live without it, blah, blah, the whole song is just self-sucking drivel about false humility. I bet these guys go to see “Jim” all the time.

BAG-SHIRT TWO:

CHILDREN OF BODOM

Alright admittedly, I really liked COB when I was 15.

WHEN I WAS 15. YOU TUBBY BITCH. TAKE YOU MILLER LITE GUT AND GO SEE FUCKING JIM.

This was before I realised that what I was listening to was essentially Nightwish with a dude who has a very minimal “mongoose screaming” vocal range. The riffs were cool, and I remember playing “Kissing The Shadows” through my little 15wt amp, but man. . .COB sucks.

Sorry. *sips maple syrup*

And it makes me real sad to admit, that we have come to the last band shirt of the bunch, and one which I wouldn’t commonly talk and smack about, but it is what it is, and he was wearing what he was wearing,

BAG-SHIRT THREE:

STEEL PANTHER

Ugggghhh, I love the Panth’ boys (except for Foxy) but seeing one of their tour shirts made me imagine this fucking goomba-faced s.o.b wandering through the crowd, double fisting frothy piss-warm beer and absolutely not apologizing when some of it sloshes over the brim into someone’s bag or face. Probably jumping and barely attempting to steady his teeny red solo cup. So yeah, fuck that guy, and respectively (other than sweet 80’s hair metal babes) probably most of the crowd at a Steel Panther show. I’m not going to one ever.

You can’t make me.

(i’d go)

– BEAR