TRUTH IS A RIGHTEOUS HARD-ON          JIZZO

I'm waiting...I'm still waiting...waiting, waiting...oh, FUCK IT...I waited for true love to walk in thru this bus door, I've waited 35 minutes, if it hasn't happened by now it's NEVER gonna happen. Get thee to nunnery, Jizz, because you'll get none this season. Try the next equinox, you've always been luckier in the spring....
Such is my life so far. Under my leather pants I'm wearing the robes of a Benedictine monk, all sackcloth and ashes, condemned to die a virgin, relatively speaking. My cosmic muffin is being fucked with, yet again. This cannot happen.
Everyone's asking me what I think of all the other bands I'm playing with on this tour, obviously to trap me into a compromising situation. Spies are everywhere. Asking me what I think of someone else's music is like asking Mrs. Lincoln what she thought of the play. I, for the record, like and respect all the members of this tour. They play well, they got their shit together, and everyone's been ultra-cool to me, the Fucking New Guy. Let's leave it at that.
Music is subjective, always has been. I've been hated for years, both before and after my records. IN FACT, I can't think of a time when someone didn't think I sucked. Oh, don't cry for me, Argentina, I think I've taken it on the chin well enough. And my career still goes on, regardless of the slings and arrows. I am a terminal cynic, from the Latin Cynicus Rex, - "Man who hates everything musically and can never be satisfied with any performance, he'd tell Robert Plant how to sing 'Song Remains The Same' whilst drunk, spitting orange peels in his face." Yep, that about sums it up. Under this asshole exterior beats the heart of a real asshole...
I sit on the side of the stage and watch the performances of the other bands. Although I don't know many of their songs, obviously the people do. They know all the fucking songs, word for word. And they cheer like the Romans at the Coloseum. So I stand corrected at this, obviously I've missed the boat somewhere, who's to know?
All I know is that every night I have an open microphone in front of me. An open forum to speak my mind. This is my dream, this is my nitemare. I can say ANYTHING I want; think of it. Most people would prepare a speech of sorts; I just wing it. Every nite. Whatever pops into my head. I love the spontaneity, the danger.
We are always hearing cover songs we want to do; everyone's always suggesting a new one. Last nite Tracii ripped open my bunk curtain to suggest 'Love Hurts' by Nazareth. A good choice, but not while I'm whacking off. He's always wanting to do some new song or another. For weeks we've had to talk him out of the 'Beer Barrel Polka'. I do love the spirit of UN-conformity in this group. My other group would NEVER do covers, ever. We considered it beneath us, an insult to our own music. Whatever. If we'd done by a couple more covers maybe we'd have sold a couple more records. And maybe I wouldn't be the only one riding on a tour bus. Lesson learned. Do more Ted Nugent songs; do them at any opportunity. Do them all.
Some girls just knocked on the bus. No, Tracii is not up yet, everyone's asleep but me, the butler, but when I'm serving the boys their breakfast in bed I'll be sure to tell them you stopped by. Count on it. Fuck it, it's nine-thirty in the morning, don't you have a day job? Oh yeah, it's Sunday, I stand corrected. Well, if this were Iraq you'd be working. You'd be busily making incendiary shells for your poison gas pellets, you'd be busy chanting anti-American slogans, you'd be busy doing SOMETHING.
Every morning I sit here, alone, writing. My sleep schedule is different from the rest of the guys. I forego the Roman Orgy and try to get to bed at a decent hour. I always get woken up though by the grunts and groans of some nameless chick. Last nite some chick was appalled we were all asleep at two am. She announced she was having her own private panty raid, sort of a one-woman gang bang. She seemed a little too eager...her panties have been touched more times than the Rosetta Stone, I'm afraid. And I WAS afraid. So I just shut my curtain, I JUST SAID NO! I just said no to chlamydia and venereal warts and venereal toadstools and venereal skyscraper-like growths on my dick and balls. I said no to Drippus Erectus and Corona Rashy-rash and Mothball Urethra and Lip-all-fucked-up and Halitosis of the Underside of my Nuts. I just said no to the Michael Chancre, the Grand Poobah of open sores, the King.... I just said no. Wear a Rubber, I was told. Wear two rubbers. Wear one on your head, just in case. Rubbers seem a little too thin for what YOU'VE got, darling. I'd need a stainless-steel motherfucking body cast to keep me from He who Walks Behind the Cunt Lips...Children of the Porn. So I just said no. nonononono no pussy, no head, no squeezing of the lemon, no...not this time.
It's nice outside. When I left L.A. it was 108 degrees. Imagine that, 108. Even your air conditioner is telling you to fuck off. I'd much rather be in a more Temperate Zone, namely, East Jordan, MI, where the sun always shines and there's a friendly 24-hour mini-market next door. One that DOESN'T sell crack. Or have winos pissing their pants out front. Or hookers demanding your money. What a marked change from MY neighborhood. I forgot that there are other real human beings out there who aren't freaks of nature. Where I live it's like running the gauntlet just to get a soda.
People are always at me about moving----
"If it sucks so bad, just get the fuck out"
"You don't have to live there surely"
Hmmm...I know I don't have to live there.. I could live in a dumpster if I wanted to. I guess I'm afraid that if I leave the gutter I'll turn into some faggy F. Scott Fitzgerald type, spokesman for the woes of the very-rich. And FUCK THAT!! There's nothing worse than hearing about the trials and tribulations of the privileged few daddy's girl rich kids whose Corvette just broke down on the way to Spring Break. Let's NEVER go there, shall we?
No, for now I'll think I'll stay rite here, front lounge, coffee cup, notebook, donut, cock ring, truth. A spokesman for the man who has nothing and is damn glad of it. A pillar of pus and the standard-bearer of bullshit to society's twisted fucked-up sense of right and wrong, where it's OK for kids to shoot themselves extinct but we can't find a cure for AIDS. No one knows anything about anything, just keep paying your taxes like a good little drone, keep eating that mad cow, keep fucking with no rubbers, keep drinking that cheap beer, keep shouting those slogans, keep lying, keep loving and leaving and learning and landing on your feet after all those one-niters, keep judging and being misjudged, keep buying those shitty hip-hop records that say nothing and mean everything, keep watching the Simpsons, 'cause they're the only thing on TV worth a shit, keep having lots of kids and treating them bad so they'll grow up like ME, fucked-up and tragic and hopeful and in love with the IDEA of being in love, but nothing more...keep on keepin' on-----