Another week, another ocean of blood and sweat poured from our writhing, pulsating torsos out onto the increasingly squelchy carpet at Shabby Road Studios. Never has so much pain and sorrow gone into one recording. (and this is before people have heard it) Once again, we give our fans unprecedented access to the indescribable torment and agita involved in the birthin’ of this here song. Ladies are cautioned to view these pictures in the optimum position for fainting.
“Someone has been in our stash bag, man. There was a whole half ounce in here yesterday. Where’s Gregg?”
You don’t know what lonely is, till you get to herdin’ cows.
“Hey mom! I’m in a real rock band. I mean it! I really am! I’ve got a guitar around my neck as I’m writing this. I’ll write again once we get to the Fillmore.”
Ellis occasionally flashes back to the time he ate the brown acid at Woodstock.
Kevin and Ellis engage in role play to perfect their “Begging Groupies for Sex.” technique.
When Ellis’ brain starts to itch, there’s no way he’s going to let a couple of eyeballs stop him from scratching it.
Kevin treats his guitar just like a woman. Therefore, he always leaves it frustrated and unsatisfied.
Because of his age, the band is used to Ellis dying at least two or three times a rehearsal.
Interesting band fact: Darrell can hold up to three quarters of a school of migrating grunion in his double chin.
Kevin collects detailed information on all the women who come to see our shows, like their home address and sensitivity to chloroform.
Ellis tries very hard to remember what instrument he plays.
When the band runs out of drugs, we just put our heads in this stolen paint shaker.