Maybe 10% Of You Will Get This

Earlier this summer, my friend Juli, who is a Bristol Renaissance Faire enthusiast and the author of both Life on Wry and Raising Cane over there on the right, took her jewelry business — Mockingbird Studio, go buy something — to the St. Louis Renaissance Faire in hopes of expansion. This put me in mind of a little tune (“My Summer Vacation”) from an old album of which I am fond (“Death Certificate”) wherein the protagonist and his associates take their nascent business to St. Louis for the summer, and describe in riveting detail their entrepreneurial highs and lows. Subsequently this little rewrite, which is awfully obscure even by my standards, has been rolling around in my head more or less all summer:

Damn, J, this spot’s gettin’ hot
So how’m I s’posed to sell a Celtic knot?
Faire’s lookin’ at vendors like we goan get rough
In Bristol everybody and they mama sell stuff
Dressed like a hobbit
So what the fuck can I do to make a profit?

Catch a flight to St. Louie
Das cool, ’cause nobody knew me.
I stepped off the plane
Amped up hella, professional cane-sella
Ready to make some bling sell
Drove to the Ren Faire, checked in a mo-tel.

Unpacked and I grabbed a three-eighty
‘Cause where we going, Rennies look shady.
But they can’t fade tha Bristol,
‘Cause my jerkin hide my pistol
Scopin’ out every spot close,
See which one will sell most.
Yeah this is the place no doubt,
Bust a U kid,and let’s clear these weenies out.

(gunfire)

Now clearin’ ’em out meant casualties
Still had the Bristol mentality
Bust a cap, and outta there in a hurry
Whaddaya know, a drive-by in Missouri.

Them weenies got popped
Took they corner spot and set up shop
And it’s better than sellin in Wisconsin
Triple the profit, makin more on each stick pin.
Marking up stuff like half no double
Saint Louis weenies don’t want trouble
And I ain’t on edge when I sell jewels
No competition fo the tourists from the MO fools
Getting richer, and they can’t stand me
Two-thousand-and-six Louis Tiff-a-ny

Now the shit’s like a war
Of Faire violence, which ain’t ever been seen before
Pixies flee when my gun spit
Four goofy-hat minstrels kickin’ up fit
But some of them done gather up they wit
Recognize that Bristol is all the shit
Giving up much love
Dying for a Faire that they never heard of
But goofy-hat minstrels wanna stand strong
So you know what’s up, once again it’s on!

(gunfire)

My homey got shot, he’s a goner, Mac
St. Louis weenies want they Ren Faire back
Shootin’ in summer weather
Tourist-fleecin’ bidness, Rennies still can’t get together
Fuckin’ police got the 411
That Bristol ain’t all songs and sun
But we ain’t thinkin’ bout the blues
Feudin’ like Capulets and Montagues
Now the shit’s getting goofy
Hard to pull yo gat if you sleeves be poofy

Damn, the spot’s gettin hot from this battle
About to pack up and find a Faire in Seattle
But the cops raid about nine in the day, mate
Try to get us at the open of the gate
Put they guns in my face as I rub it,
Went to jail in my motherfuckin’ doublet
Bein’ tried by a jury of peers
Face’ll be fulla tattooed tears

It’s the same old story and the same old Rennie stuck
With the public defender not giving a fuck
Don’t know Faire jargon
But talking about a “double-life plea bargain”
You got to deal with the Fairies and the Sprites by hand, brah
Plus the goofy-hat minstrel Mafia
Man sells Crystal
Don’t like Bristol
And I got to face him down without no pistol?
No parole or probation.
This was my Ren Faire summer vacation.
No chance for repatriation
Cause look at the motherfuckin years that I’m facin
Ima end it like this ’cause you know what’s up
Forsooth, I’m fucked.

(Lyrics and music by O. Jackson, additional lyrics by B. Thunder)

Brand Loyalty

I now have a cellphone that, in the manner of swank luggage or eighth-grade girls, perfectly matches my old laptop: Yes, I am the proud owner of a Motorola Schiavo. The thing works just enough that I cannot bear to throw it away, but not quite well enough to be of any use. It flickers to life just as I am about to give up and yank the SIM card, but every time I rely on it to come through in the clutch, it blinks once or twice and goes silent. There is a stark division within my valued counselors on this matter, with vigorous lobbying from all directions to either “get rid of it and find one that works” or “recharge it and see if that helps”. I expect interference on a grand scale to begin any moment. I am taking it to Cingular today, to meet with a team of specialists. Stand by.

All A Friend Can Say Is "Ain't It A Shame"

A close personal friend of mine — the former author of the governmentally silenced Fatass Underground, for those of you with some seniority around here — makes an annual trip to Sturgis, and had this year promised to provide a sort of trip-blog via his fancy new Treo. Well, we got one update, and then nothing. I feel there are three possibilities:

1) His Treo does not work well in the badlands of South Dakota.
2) He has lost interest in spending valuable vacation time keeping me apprised of his behavior with motorcycle gangs and biker babes and the like.
3) He is dead.

The first two options seem unlikely to me, and so I have begun attempting to wrap my mind around this profound loss. In my grief, I have come to realize that there is only one way to mourn this untimely exit correctly: I need to create a Truck of Remembrance.

So I have arranged to have a five-foot picture of the Underground’s smiling face airbrushed on the side of my truck, and have had a large decal made for the rear window that reads:

IN MEMORIAM
FATASS J. UNDERGROUND
1974-2006

A fitting memorial for my good friend, no?

(And, on the off chance I am wrong about the reasons for his radio silence from the Badlands, the seven months spent fielding phone calls from people who have spotted my Truck of Remembrance driving around our hometown will provide a lot of entertainment for Mrs. Underground. I’m thoughtful that way.)

Go Ahead, Keep Phoning It In. Nobody Reads This Crap Anymore Anyway.

Naturally Smart

You’re a naturally smart person. Your intelligence comes to you naturally, rather than from instruction – and you are better with applied or more real-world things… which comes in handy, here in the real world.

60% applied intelligence
80% natural intelligence

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Actual writing later today. My solemn word.

Okay, Kids, Gather 'Round

I am back, unpacked, caught up, rested, tanned, gorgeous, and motivated. This week: A farewell to a friend, an advancement in my personal technology brand preferences, pride in my descendants, and Blood & Thunder’s long-awaited collaboration with Ice Cube.

I Know, I Know


What Muppet are you?


You are Statler or Waldorf.You have a high opinion of yourself, as do others. But only because you are in the balcony seats.

ALSO KNOWN AS:Those two old guys in the box.

SPECIAL TALENTS:Heckling, complaining, being cantankerous

QUOTE:”Bring on the frog!” (Okay, I changed this one.)

LAST BOOKS READ:”The Art of Insult” and “How To Insult Art”

NEVER LEAVE HOME WITHOUT:Their pacemakers.

Take this quiz!

Auld Lang Syne

The difference between robots and cyborgs, Doug Flutie’s career arc, the 0.226796185 Kilogramer avec Fromage, running up the score, California trouncing the French at home, Drew Rosenhaus “advising Terrell Owens to hold his breath until he turned blue”, and

The National Academy of Séances Debunked the Report: In the draft of a New York Times op-ed article, yours truly referred to a report by the National Climactic Data Center. Umm, it’s the National Climatic Data Center. A National Climactic Data Center would study — well, you figure it out, and I’d certainly like to meet the interns.

Welcome back, Tuesday Morning Quarterback.