Smoking can be good?

Chuck Norris Fact of the Day:

Chuck Norris is 1/8th Cherokee. This has nothing to do with his ancestry, the man ate a fucking Indian. Whole.

Anyway...


If there is one thing that smoking taught me, other than lighting up makes you look cool, mature and attractive, it's that a person should carry around a means for making fire at all times.

Even though I'm not a smoker anymore, I still carry a lighter, matches or a blow torch with me at all times. Seriously, fire comes in handy. If I can't get the wrapper off a CD, I just hold the lighter next to it long enough to create a little hole that I can stick my finger in and tear open. One night, I was walking to my car after a gig in Philly and some punk ass stabbed me. I got in my car, cauterized the wound and drove home, where I slathered myself in Neosporin.

I didn't even scar.

So last week, I was sitting at the electric piano in my house working on some new projects, when I noticed a huge blue string hanging out of my shorts. Since I was wearing tan shorts, I figured that this string was coming from my underwear. As I pulled down my waistband, I discovered that yes, my underwear was unraveling on my body.

I looked next to me on the top off the desk, swearing that my scissors I had used earlier for a scrapbooking....uhhh...I mean a football project were there. After pulling out the drawer, I discovered that I was wrong. Suddenly, as if it happens suddenly, my obsessive-compulsive tendencies began to take over. It would be impossible for me to complete any of my music projects without first removing this string.

The easy and intelligent thing for me to do, would have been to get up from the desk, find the scissors, and cut the damn thing off. Since I am neither easy or intelligent, I tried using all sorts of sharp things to cut the string. I nearly stabbed myself in the eye with a letter opener. Twice.

As I searched around for other objects that could possibly end my life with one miscalculation, I noticed my music bag sitting on the edge of my desk. My lighter was in there, and I knew it would save me from a mortal wound upon my body.

"Oh you bastard. I've got you now!" I proclaimed with glee.

How the silver gleamed as my lighter emerged into the light. Quickly, I pulled my pants down so they were hanging off my ass urban-hip hop style, then I knotted the string. With a flick of my Bic, I lit the son of a bitch.

Yup...it became official: I'm a moron.

Within two seconds, the entire waisteband of my underwear was on fire. I jumped out of my chair and began hopping around feverishly trying to vanquish the flames. For some reason (probably because I hang out with a lot of foul-mouth musicians, and I love Tenacious D), whenever I'm in a bit of trouble. I start screaming "fuck, my ass!"

Sooooo....I'm hopping up and down, patting my crotch and shouting "fuck, my ass! fuck, my ass! FUUUCCCKKK MMYYYY AAAASSSSSSS!!!" when I realize that the window is open, and the blinds aren't drawn, and my neighbor is standing outside watching, and he can only see me from the waist up.

Now, my neighbor is a tad bit strange himself, and when I noticed the goofy smile spread across his face, I actually took the time to reach out and shut the blinds. I wanted him to realize that I did not want to be fucked in the ass, and figured that third degree burns were worth him not walking into his house and jacking off to the image he had just seen.

The phrase "Everything you need to know, you learned in Kindergarten, " tookhold in my mind, and finally, after about two minutes into my futile effort to extinguished the flames, I stopped, dropped and rolled.

Ah, relief.

With the tips of my fingers, I felt around the waistband of my underwear and there was nothing left but charred cotton. My skin felt all right, and I thanked God that I decided to use a moisturizing soap that morning. Jergens had saved me a visit to the Burn Unit at Franklin Square Hospital.

Without missing a beat, I sat down at my piano, and began working on my project again.

To date, I have said nothing to my neighbor about the incident. As a matter of fact, I avoid all possible contact with him.



Peace out bitches...... a cold shower on a humid morning, here I come.