I Got More Crickets Than Friends            KING JIZZO

Today is Saturday. It's just me and the cat, hangin' out.

My girlfriend left me about a month and a half ago to take up with some other

semi-famous rock dude; if I told you his name, you'd know him. Oh well.

I wish I could feel more emotional about it, however, it seems I have a

deficient gene on my DNA chain that prevents me from giving a shit.

I always knew that my ex was a groupie-in-waiting, otherwise why would

she be with me? And it's not like I never thought she's leave. Girls ALWAYS leave

me, that's a given. But the way that she literally leap-frogged from my cock to

his surprised me. It was like groupie ballet.

Now don't any of you start feeling sorry for me. I have been and always will

be a loner by nature. And of course when you're in a band you're NEVER alone.

We all know that credo. I'll miss her the same way I'll miss it when Seinfeld

goes off the air. I hope the two of them are very happy together. I really do . . .

Anyway, she left me with the cat for the weekend while she goes "a-cock-sucking."

I like the cat. Maggie, named after the baby on the Simpsons. She's in heat so

every now and then I've got to diddle her with my pen. I hope it doesn't spoil

the narrative for you.

As I told you before, my apartment has bugs. Big old cockroaches that will

actually stand their ground instead of running. Well, my cat is a voracious hunter

and likes nothing better than stalking and eating crickets, flies, snails, and the

afore-mentioned roach. Unfortunately, she is also nocturnal. Every night when I

go to sleep, she does lion country safari. My bedroom has become the killing floor.

She will pull the legs off cockroaches so she can play with them easier, you see.

Then she'll remove head from thorax, thorax from abdomen -- you get the picture.

So every morning, I have to get toilet paper and pick up bits of cockroach, all parts

still moving, mind you, and dispose of them. She used to eat the cockroach parts,

but that made her puke. I won't even go into how fucked that duty was.

Then there's the litter box ritual. When she's pissed off she'll shovel all the litter

from the box onto the floor. Then I have to patiently sift the clotted chunks from the

still-usable litter and replace it. At least she's not a finicky eater. It's one thing to

get free room and board, but quite another to get shitty about it.

Cats have great lives. All they do is eat, shit, watch TV, occasionally fuck --

wait, this sounds like MY life. Well, cats can't wear a Les Paul hung real low and

pose about the bedroom like Jimmy Page, can they? That's what separates us from

the animals; we can pose, they can't. AND cats can't get record deals, lets not forget.

They can't tour on a bus, they can't shoot heroin, they can't lose all their money in

Vegas, they can't bring their wives on tour with them to annoy the rest of the cats,

they can't give anyone herpes, oh, and they can't say the wrong thing to a club

owner and get 86'ed. So in retrospect, my life is much different than a cats. Oh,

and one last thing: cats can't have a kit-kat clock on the wall that was the only thing

that was theirs when their fucking girlfriend tool all their shit and bailed. Hmmmm,

I guess that sounded bitter.

Wait a minute . . . maybe she moved out 'cause I wouldn't eat her box. Chicks

like that, I'm told. I've never been an avid box eater. Something about burying

your face in something that looks like the dude in Predator is not happening. Of

course, I like my dick sucked. In fact, I would say it's a goddamn necessity. But

with a dick, you can always see what you're getting. A chick could get a magnifying

glass and scrutinize every nook and cranny. She could highlight every suspicious

ridge or raised area. She could carefully note every pimple, every blister, every rash.

In short, she could see what she's getting into.

But with cunt you don't know what you're getting. They can look all nice and

manicured but smell like a grease pit inside. Or you might have to hack through a

forest of pubic hair with a machete just to find her cunt. Well, speaking for myself,

I prefer a small Groucho down there. Just enough to let me know that she's old

enough to GROW hair.

Yeah, I'll bet my ex was pissed off 'cause I wouldn't eat her box. Many's the

night she would pace our room back and forth, "Eat my box, eat my box," she

would say. It's not like it was a BAD box. I just didn't like that ammonia smell and

the . . . things in there. You know, little bits of . . . I don't know . . . call it not

cunt. Plus, you're only an inch away from the asshole and who knows what the

fucks in there? Corn on the cob, chili con carne, artichoke, whatever. If I drink

REAL hard and don a lobster bib, I can do it. But sober, just having it starin' at

you with those big rubbery lips. Forget it.

I realize there's a double standard. I won't eat you, but I expect, nay, demand

that you blow me. I admit this isn't a fair world we live in. Rock 'n roll will always

be a chauvinistic and male-dominated society where a woman's role is sometimes

relegated to the back of the bus. (I exclude my manager from this. She's a great

person and would no doubt roast me for my opinions.)

I didn't make up the rules; they just are. Like bringing your wife on the road, for

example. Anyone knows that the only people who can get away with this are the very

rich. They hire their own limos, drive their own buses, just so they can keep their

wives out of everyone's face. This is true. Nobody wants to see your wife on the

road, nobody wants her opinion. Every now and then it occurs to me that what I do

is a business and that I wouldn't go to my girlfriend's work (if I had a girlfriend) and

sit next to her computer console all day because it wouldn't be APPROPRIATE.

Certain people don't understand this and then it becomes personal. They have to

side with the wife and against the band and so on -- a no-win situation. So, lose the

wife, keep the band, I say.

Here are some more do's and don't:

--Don't get too fucked-up to play so that you make the band sound like shit.

--Don't be a fucking leech. Buy your own drugs once in a while.

--Don't talk shit about you band dudes. You know, cliques within cliques. Secretive

whispering. Campaigns. Secret handshakes. Conspiracy theories. Who killed

JFK? Fuck if I know.

--Don't get too possessive about the songwriting. Let the best song win. Not every

band writes songs like Van Halen. It's a good thing too, 'cause they suck.

--When you're on the road, don't be a slob. Don't leave your used condom in your

best friend's bunk. A little gift from the sperm fairy.

--Don't be late all the fucking time. There's nothing worse than some dildo who

keeps the band waiting all the time.

--If you have drugs, don't hoard them. I hate people with their little mini-pipes

and single-hit portions hiding in the corner like Reefer Madness. Stinginess is for

fags. Share.

--And numero uno of them all -- don't fuck your band mate's girlfriend. Don't do it.

Letting a chick break up a band sucks. There's always going to be another chick to

fuck.

SO that's the rules. Follow them carefully and you'll probably still never make it.

You do everything right and you still get fucked, that's the wonderful business we're

in. Music by geeks for geeks. Years of misery and poverty punctuated by occasional

glory. The best thing I've achieved in my career is that I STILL don't have a day job.

I can still act like a kid, get up when I want, piss on my neighbor's lawn, let him piss

on mine, dress funny and get my dick pierced with a rusty needle, get hangovers

regularly, fuck chicks, hang out with twenty-year-old rock dudes that DON'T think

I suck and don't dole out advice like Socrates and then contradict themselves in the

same sentence. My advice is, if you wanna stay young, don't grow up. If you start

to lose your hair, shave your head. If you start getting a bit too fat, hang yourself.

KINGJIZZO