THE FINAL DRUGGED MONKEY: Poignant Hand Panty Analogies

It was the type of enlightenment that could only come from eating bad seafood. As I lay there in bed spinning and sweating I began the foundations for the band. We’d be one of those Indie bands from Canada. We’d have all sorts of cred, because I’d wear a scarf and two of the other guys would have beards. I mean two beards in one band has got to get us some serious attention. Hell, what if I grew a beard too? I don’t know. Too many beards and people will think we’re hippies, but we’re clearly for ultra-violence. Which is why we’ll leave bits of animal blood in the beards. I’ll use my scarf to direct traffic and the band. We’ll give bizarre interviews. I’ll tell people that I haven’t eaten anything that tasted good in over two months and I don’t know why. It’s not that we don’t live large and dine well. It’s more about the growing dissatisfaction inside me. That way I’ll keep my cred even though I’m rich as hell. I’m sure I’ll date supermodels, but I’ll be damned if I’ll let them take off my scarf even when we’re banging our bony skeletons together (We may need to duct tape pillows to our bony bodies to prevent injury.) Each morning we’ll dine on our breakfast of pills and wear giant sunglasses as we run from the cameras to our Prius. If babies happen to be in fashion I’m sure we could pull some head shots and hire a nice looking child to play our beloved vaginal refugee. I’m sure several band members would confront me for my outlandish magazine cover behavior, but that’s where I’d have the upper hand as I falsely told them long ago that I was deaf and I can’t read lips through beards. I suppose it wasn’t the politically correct thing to do, but it did seem like an interesting new model for keeping bands together through manipulation, deception, and guilt. As time wore on I’m sure our act would get old and we’d sell more and more records, but lose our cred, if for no other reason than people like us. And we’re damned likeable. We can’t help but be, except for that ultra-violent side. Some days I think we were meant to work in a slaughterhouse or an Asian brothel, but here we are singing loveable songs about my necklace I made from my own foreskin. I never really thought that song would be licensed for a minivan commercial, but then again I never thought a pair of hand panties would eventually control my every waking thought. It was a hard way to fall. I guess I shouldn’t have answered every question the media asked with a hand panty analogy, but hand panty analogies are just so poignant.