Jerry's Deli, They'll Fucking Give you Hepititis.

These are the times that try men's souls...good thing I don't have one....what with all the forced penetration, urine hoarding, and he-she rendezvous. But times are lean and I've resorted to snorting the last traces of Ludmila's personal stash of smuggled butt hash off of my limp johnson. Oh, I didn't tell you? I'm married...or was married...yeah, she's Russian, she's called Ludmila, and she came in the mail.

Ludmilla, the busted cherry of my eye.

It's amazing what an Eastern Bloc chick will do when you give her some back alley dental work and an Iron Maiden mix tape. Shhh.....its not really Iron Maiden - just some shit grind band from Pico Rivera. But yeah, I traded her to Sergie for a handful of raver drugs but that shit only lasted the bus ride to the blood bank. No complaints, I got 10 bucks for some plasma and a full release from all the needle play in the lobby. But that only got me as far as the liquor store for a bottle of Cobra.

But, back to my point....actually I don't have a point..well besides the one I used to bust some trust-fund cherries in the Amoeba Records parking structure. Yep, I hate to admit it but I had to get a job. Wait, no...a real job...one that doesn't involve exploiting your band & your trust fund or blowing CEO's in the back alley behind Tribal Cafe. So naturally I applied to the first and ONLY roach infested restaurant that would let me bathe in their kitchen sink and give a skag-haggler like me a job - fuckin' Jerry's Deli. You know, its amazing what Javier, the head "chef", will let you do in the meat freezer for a tube sock and a half full can of spray paint. FUCKING SANDWICHES!!1 I don't know what got into me. There I was - Shitloe started playing on KXLU, I had just slammed a fist full of Fontana biker dope, and I found myself geeking out over the pig meat. My shit-fondling boss was yapping about the finer points of prosciutto and how it's not safe to cook pcp by the propane tanks and next thing I know I'm involved in some sweet horizontal action with the ciabatta rolls. The mustard ended up down my pants and I deposited whats left of my sperm count on the pastrami.

I must have passed out because the next thing I know I woke up next to a poodle carcass in a Norm's dumpster. Anyway, long story short...if you ate or touched anything...and I stress ANYTHING from Jerry's Deli in Westwood, congratulations....you have a nasty skid row leper strain of Hepatitis. Its not Hep C so it'll only destroy your craving for one of Jerry's dumpster reserve sandwiches, not your liver.

Cash Grab of the Week - Iggy Pop Edition

Rock n Roll is dead! It withered up like a washed up geezer's scrotum - dried, shriveled, lifeless upon a heap of self tanner at a Tampa "Sun Club"! The point is that you have to remember the good times...like in '78 when, mid set, you had to deliver your girlfriend's baby in the dumpster behind CBGB's - you popped that sucker out and sold it fast. Shit, you were even back in time to hear the power get cut on Television's gig - spared shitty art punk wanking by the Rock Gods. Good times.



Or in '84 when you sold your Stones tickets for what you thought was a speedball and then the next day you woke up with dead hookers littered all over your Travel Lodge bathroom in Lancaster. At first you thought "shit, I should have just used my ticket to nod off in my bleacher seat, pay $20 dollars a beer, and watch that fuck Mick Jagger actually work for his scag and coke money by eating a mars bar out of a hooker's snatch." But then you remembered anything goes in Lancaster and realized that you made the right choice. Yep, Rock has given you, well,...great times!

Flash forward to 2010 and Jack Daniels is sponsoring its own music festival. Shit, I use that wash for sobering up and disinfecting lacerations from shank fights with Silverlake drag queens. Weak shit, hey fucko, yeah you! Spike is having his own music festival. Its called Fucko Festival, sponsored by Ether. Now that is a worthy sponsor, that shit will grab you by the balls man! Now, if I could only get insurance, preferably insurance online, I could make a go of this.

Another death knell - Hauled ass down to the Roxy the other day to dropkick the owner for not allowing my powerslop band, Beefgore, to play the battle of the bands and the youth were drinking light beer before the gig. When I was their age I was dropping straight grain and black beauties like mouth wash and tic tacs.

And now Iggy Pop is trying to sell us insurance. Ironic, since the amount of abuse he put on his kidneys would make Stevie Nick's nose blush. That alone would disqualify himself from actual insurance coverage.

The torment of selling out must have been soul crushing - the convo went something like this, "Well Mr. Pop its been 25 years since you were last relevant and your fans are too stupid to actually use a computer and/or too broke to have insurance so we are prepared to offer you some Lo-Carb Red Bull and a Snickers bar for your services and namesake" to which the reply was, "Where do I sign!"

Fuck, rock is DEAD - insured, bloated, smeared with peanut butter, and floating two inches deep next to a shopping cart in the LA river. The epitaph reads, "Just Ride! - brought to you by The Man."

One more thing, Fuck you Iggy!



Oh, and here is the flyer/evidence of the battle of the bands that my band was booted from. Beefgore, voted best LA powerslop band by the LA XXpress and LA Reader - remember the name.