5/25/2006

Th' Taylor Hicks/Bobby Lightfoot Rock Off



A-ight, listen up and listen good, cracker. I'm challenging your cracker lard-ass to a ROCK OFF, Taylor. RIGHT HERE RIGHT NOW.

Actually, let me take th' right here right now part back because there's some rules you have to conform to to share the stage with me. Dude, I don't know what you sound like. I'd rather spend a week in Cell Block D with no pants than watch yer Karaoke show, y'know? Doesn't matter. I can tell what you sound like by looking at you. I'm thinking Michael McDonald meets whats-his-name there, cocaine boy. Um, Michael Bolton.

Here's th' rules of the Rock Off, boy:

1. You have to spend twelve more years singing, my friend. Twelve years in bad vans, playing bad stages, ducking bottles. Yeah. Just be glad you're 29 instead of 19. That'd make in 22 years.

2. On the night of our Rock Off we will meet in th' dressing room of the club, sit across from one another and

1. Smoke 20 regular cigrits.

2. Share two large and fragrant jazz cigarettes. Ye gotta coff t' get off, little fella.

3. Share a fifth of Jack Daniels. In five minutes.

Yeah, you ought to be warmed up for th' Rock Off by then, my soft little buddy.

Then:

1. You will sing four sets of R&B shouters. That's 3 hours, li'l buddy. Not one single little song for th' bluerinses in Des Moines. 3 hours, Taylor. You got that?

2. You'll get the sort of monitor mix I'm used to. That means little or none, fella. Little or none.

3. After four blistering sets of th' best of Stax/Volt you will break down the entire stage and backline and pack it in the crap van. Then you will drive 3 hours. Then you will sleep 4 hours.

Is it time for th' Rock Off yet?

Nope, saddle pal. See, it's only Thursday. Th' Rock Off is on Monday.

You will then repeat the entire list for Friday, Saturday and Sunday. On Friday the truck drivin' boyfriend of the tattoed nightmare that won't leave you alone will give you a large black eye. You will then proceed with section 2: steps 1 through 3.

On Saturday you will wrench your back moving a speaker. On Saturday you will cut your hand packing mic stands. It will need three stitches. The guitarist will take care of this. What are friends for, right? Later on Saturday some ugly bag will call you a homo because your body hurts too much to accede to her demands of sexual favors. You will then proceed with section 2: steps 1 through 3.

On Sunday you will be in the middle of the third set when some drunk shit head will stumble into your mic stand and chip your tooth real good. Your tooth will cut up th' inside of your lip and the only thing that'll get you through that last set will be lookin' forward to that four hours of sleep. After the three hour drive.

On the three hour drive you will get pulled over by the fucking pigs and waylaid for an hour and a half. When you ask th' pig if it's alright if you catnap while they pull the crap van apart for drugs he will push you against the hood and chip another tooth.

Hey! It's Monday! Rock Off Time!

You ready, Taylor? What's that? I can't hear you. Stop croaking.

It's rock off time, Taylor. That's right.

See you in 12 years, li'l buddy.

5 Comments:

Blogger roxtar said...

Holla!

9:02 PM  
Blogger Ben said...

What I want to know is, who told you what I did this weekend?

10:02 PM  
Blogger Kevin Wolf said...

This idiot will be forgotten in three years. You won't be able to find him in twelve.

7:28 AM  
Anonymous Taylor Hicks said...

Your on Bobby. 'Cept you do all that stuff yourself. I'll show up Monday with my Papa Rotc in tow. I'll skip a shave or two. Have a Smirnoff ice.

Good luck.

Taylor

P.S. Andy Partridge wouldn't make it past the first round of American Crapdoll!

8:28 AM  
Anonymous taylor hicks said...

Mondays aren't good for me
Bobby. I still have my day
job as an automotive parts
location specialist. I couldn't
let the people who help me daily
down. Unless we do it before
10;30 A.M.!

11:42 AM  

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