PROMPTED BY TOO MANY STORIES ABOUT BALLS
Deep Breaths Everyone
Its time to sing about dicks!
Lately, there has been an awful lot of ball humour bouncing around between Krystal Mossbarger, Michael Burg, MD (AKA Medium Michael Burg)and others. I’m not too sure what the ball attraction is, but I thought, it’s high time we gave dicks a fair shake of the sausage. (That’s an Aussie expression for giving something a fair go).
I know I have to “song” something if I want to get this published under the humour tag (the wrong side of the tracks) of Songstories’, but I’m not going to switch out song names for perfectly good ones just to get a cheap laugh — I’ll leave that up to those who continue down the hackneyed path of writing the same boring crap.
The following stories take place when I was playing in my band during the mid-eighties. Dee, my new partner, was lead and rhythm guitarist. I provided bass and lead vocals, and on the drum kit was my fifteen-year-old son, Craig — a talented, self-taught drummer/vocalist, with a solid reputation for dicking around
Free Fallin’ — Tom Petty, AKA Dicking Around
We had just scored a residency in a very nice restaurant occupying the top floor of a brand-new building.
Our stage was a sizeable modular unit — put together in front of very large, plate-glass windows. Craig’s kit was set up in front of the windows, and Dee and I stood slightly to the side and in front.
Craig was, and always will be, extremely active and highly strung. His infectious humour has been a trademark, often to his detriment. Occasionally, other people find his effervescence a bit tiresome. (No, I don’t know where he got that from)!
One night, towards the end of our last set, a slightly inebriated diner yelled, “Let the kid play, “Wipe Out!”.
I was happy to oblige — it was an opportunity for me to have a vocal rest. All I had to do was introduce the number with a hair-raising laugh and scream.
Craig was hyped — he loved showing off his drum skills, and Dee was ready to let his hair down. Figuratively speaking, of course.
“Wahoo!” cried the man in the audience, pleased to have contributed to the evening’s entertainment.
Craig launched into his drum solo, enthusiastically increasing the tempo, causing a look of sudden alarm to cross Dee’s face. I could see he was worried that his lead playing would get messy, making them both look bad.
The drums were at fever-pitch, Dee had broken out into a hot sweat, and dancers were flooding the floor in excitement.
Worriedly, I turned around to try to get my kid to slow down, when suddenly, he and his stool disappeared off the back of the stage!
Everybody cheered!
I was terrified, thinking Craig had broken through the plate glass window and fallen to his death below.
My fears were allayed when a single hand appeared from behind the stage, drumstick firmly clutched.
Craig reached up and over to continue tapping on the nearest drum. Still drumming, he hoisted the stool back into its place, just in time to do his last solo.
During Craig’s absence, Dee had cunningly slowed the pace down.
Craig stayed with Dee’s tempo, probably concerned he would vibrate his drum stool right off the stage again.
The Dickhead Song —Miles Betterman, AKA The Dickhead Song (Why wouldn’t it be)?
Without our knowledge, the owner of the restaurant decided he would posh things up by employing the services of a guest artist.
We were getting the gear ready for another busy Saturday night, when a boofhead with a microphone, and a large folder, swaggered up and asked for, “A meeting with the band”.
I politely asked how I could help the stranger, suspecting I wasn’t going to like the answer.
He introduced himself as Michael Strap, forever branded in my mind as Michael Crap.
Kitted out in too-tight blue trousers, a white shirt with a frilly front, and a stupid braided waistcoat, his hair was slicked with cream. His manner suggested he thought I would be eager to fall into his arms, the moment he opened his mouth.
Dee cottoned on to this — I could tell by the frantic opening and closing of his fists, but that is another story.
It transpired that Michael Strap was a singer (crooner), and we were going to accompany him. Full of self-importance, he pushed a bunch of music sheets into each of our hands, declaring that we needed to study his precious charts.
It was our first experience with providing unrehearsed backing to anyone, and certainly the first time any of us had laid eyes on a chart.
If you don’t already know, a chart is an instrument-specific piece of sheet music. There was one for each of us. Guitar chords interspersed with lead bits for Dee, bassline for me, and drum charts for Craig.
Dee could read music quite well — he didn’t seem all that perturbed and I was semi-okay with reading the bass cleft, but not under pressure. Craig thought the guest was a dickhead, and stuffed the drum chart under his kit.
Michael Strap was an absolute audience killer! He ponced around the stage, leaping off to mingle with the audience, sticking his mic into unwilling faces, and perching on ladies’ knees.
Dee and I couldn’t take a lot of notice of Crap’s antics as our noses were glued to the mysterious charts in front of us. Dee managed relatively well; I got a few notes right. Craig was in his own little world, drumming however he saw fit.
Mr Strap annoyed the shit out of the audience for a few nights, never noticing our very ordinary backing, and was fired on the evening I gave him a special rousing introduction, “Please welcome our wonderful guest artist, Mi-st-er Michael Crap!”
Apparently, the restaurant owner thought Crap was a bit woeful but wasn’t completely sure until he heard my intro.
All it took to get rid of the dickhead, was a little bit of creative effort on my part.
Ice, Ice, Baby — Vanilla Ice, AKA, Check Out My Lineup of Dicks
One Saturday night, we found ourselves without our usual babysitter. To fulfil our gig responsibilities, we thought it would be fine to take Dee’s two young boys to the restaurant with us. They could have a meal, and play at a quiet table with some toys.
A kindly waitress opted to keep an eye on them.
We negotiated the evening successfully, but just as we were about to pack up and leave, the manager approached the stage.
I groaned. This had happened before. The manager was an idiot with grand delusions of being a symphony orchestra conductor. Sometimes, he would pay us to stay back and play to an empty room.
Taking his place in front of the stage, he would randomly wave a borrowed drumstick, telling us to shhh this, crescendo that.
It was ridiculous, but the money was good!
On that particular night, Dee tried to beg off, saying we had to get the kids home.
“Nonsense!” declared the restauranteur. “Boys, run out to the kitchen. Tell Chef Edvin you can have whatever ice cream you want!”
Edvin, the chef, was from some eastern bloc country. He spoke passable English and seemed like an okay bloke.
The boys were immediately mobilised from sleepy boredom to ecstatic excitement. They began racing toward the kitchen when their waitress, wearing a look of horror, intercepted the kids, steering them toward a table near us. The woman whispered something to the boys, shook her head warningly at me, and hurried to the kitchen.
She returned with two obscenely full bowls of ice cream. I could visualize ice cream vomit in beds later that night, but I was more concerned with Edvin and his kitchen.
Later, when we had satiated the proprietor’s desires for conductor supremacy, my men began packing up the gear. It was a chance to slip into the kitchen to see what was so disconcerting about Edvin’s environment.
Edvin had his back to me as I entered — he was feverishly working on something I couldn’t see.
When I comprehended what was before me, I froze!
Naked ice statues adorned every possible surface of the kitchen! All the statues were beautifully carved and would have been gorgeous works of art except for one thing.
They all possessed erect penises! Many of the ice works were flat out pornographic!
Hearing my sharp intake of breath, Edvin whirled, delighted to have an audience.
“Welcome! Welcome! Walk around my kitchen! Enjoy the exhibition!”
I tried to smile politely as I backed away from his sculpting tool, anxious to get away before his ice dicks began to melt!
Check out some of the rubbish that led to my rubbish being written. (Try saying that quickly without putting your dentures in a twist)!
Maybe you could read this nonsense as well — we’ve already established that you have low expectations.
That’s a Lot of Bull, not balls!