Parables Of Th' Retarded Fuckface Jesus #2: Retarded Fuckface Jesus and Th' Prostitunes of Mishthahlon

One day Retarded Fuckface Jesus and all his disciples strode into the temple of a Sabbath and found there the moneylenders swapping shekels and whatnot about the place. Thick with myrhh was th' air of the temple, and redolent with gypsies and all manner of dancing harlotans.

"Verily this is not the place where thy lord seeping discharge is honored with sacrifice," quoth The Retarded Fuckface Jesus, full of ire to see th' temple thus defiled.

"Forgive us, oh Retarded Fuckface Jesus," spoke the leader of the moneylenders, "and allow us to put forth a boon of these many dancing prostitunes for thee and thy disciples, for if thy god is th' god of the seeping discharge ye shall find in three or for days that ye shall all be children of th' seeping discharge, and well-honored indeed He shall be."

Peter spake thence with a trembling voice. "Oh, Retarded Fuckface Jesus," he quoth, rending his robes in a manner frightening to behold, "where shall we repair with this dozen of prostitunes that we may all have modesty and privacy whence to cavort?"

Th' Retarded Fuckface Jesus rubbed th' bread from his beard and ponder'd.

"Shall we go to the caves of Nivea, those of the Dry Sea?" queried Jehosephat.

"Or bychance shall we repair to the Urns Of Flatula, the better to cavort?" asked Brutus Of Narnia.

A smile broke about the face of Th' Retarded Fuckface Jesus.

"Let us henceforth repair to my dad's place," he intoned solemnly, "for in my father's house there are many rooms."

Every Bit Th' Groundswell I Anticipated.

Man, with th' Knowledge I'm compiling from th' likes of th' Viscounte, Roxtar, XTCfan, Kev'n Wolf and everybody The Bobby Lightfoot Memorial Political Activism Knowledge Repository is going to rock harder than Scott Stapp fronting th' Who. Jiminy Fucking Christmas. Also, we have our fall-back compound established at Jingo Acres. There are a couple of requirements for entry.

I'm going to launch th' blog this weekend as it looks like a slow Soulfinger week. Unlike last week which just about scattered me to the four windies. With this fucking back problem of mine that's haunting me like a malicious little ghost. Who knows where it ends or if it does fuckin' end.

It'll have another name so that it doesn't benefit my personal standing in any way. I'm thinking maybe Smashing The Fucking State Is Fun or something like that.

I'm hoping we can wrap shit up by Christmas and give every poor person in the country a million bucks, whether they're musicians, victims of circumstance or just lazy, drug-addled fucks.

Onward!

Read the official manifesto

Ha ha. Bobby Lightfoot's Musician's Friend Equipment Review #1: Th' Matsutashi Schitbox 9000

Oh, Jesus MacChrist, if there's anything that makes me pray for blood in my sputum and a black, black chest x-ray it's those fucking Musician's Friend gear catalog "reviews". If you're a regular here odds are decent you've read one in your time. If you haven't all that means is that you're not a washed-up 40-somethin' tosspot who wants to be Pete Townshend at Leeds without all th' messy setup and tinnitus and traveling.

Oh, Musician's Friend has got our fucking number, sailors and sailorettes. It's a mail order catalerg don't you know and they have brilliantly, brilliantly deduced that the best market for music gear is old tosspots like us who are going to slake their midlife crises not with a Ferrari and a secretary's racing-strip shaved verginia but with some sweet prosumer gear, daddy. Just make sure you hide that bad boy 30W valvestate Brian May signitcher AC294 behind th' Passat so the missus doesn't see and then you have to explain how maybe Bucky should do th' two-year thing.

Dude, I'm telling you- th' actual 19-year-old music stars of tomorrow can't buy this fuckin' stuff. They're no kind of fucking market. They're all out on rooftops and in the street and in crappy basement clubs doing weird, striking shit with distressed computer fuckery that carries very little debt to th' crap you and I like. And it can honestly scare you with its alien jungle rhythms that try your sanity. And That Is How It Should Be.

Actually, fuck it- I'll do this tomorrow. I have to work on th' Cifarelli project. It's only 10:40 PM so I've got a good five hour session in front of me.

This'll tide you over . Notice how in the very first paragraphs references to "the serious adult side of your brain" and how you need a small amp for your geriatric back are already front and center.

"At half volume, this thing set all my basement windows to rattling. Its 300 watts drive that big ol' 15-incher like Barry Bonds smacking a baseball over the fence."

Yeah, then your wife told you to shut up or you could forgot about your bi-annual toss off. Oh, those are some big nights, hey. Oh, you close your eyes and it's just like someone else's life for a minute, right? Or yours, just...like it used to be.

Big ol' 15-incher. Boy, that reminds me of that great Aeriosmith song back in high school. Man, those were some times. When I didn't have to take 500 mg of Zantac before I et pizza.

"This thing blasts out frequencies so low you hear 'em with your teeth."

I might skip my car insurance payment this month and get a Peavey Pageifier that makes all my guitar recordings like some shit from the 70's!

Here at Lightfoot Studios we pride ourselves on being able to unapologetically recreate every fucking yestersound in the book by ourselves thank you very much.

The Parables of Retarded Fuckface Jesus #1

Retarded Fuckface Jesus came upon two Aramatheans in a dry, cracked lakebed and found that lol, they were thirsty.

Spake Jesus unto the Thirsty Aramatheans, "know thou that I am th' Retarded Fuckface Jesus, Son of The One True Seeping Discharge and that I can perform miracles like I was ringing a bell."

"Sweet," spake the bass player. "Then, truly you can perform a miracule and secure for us cool water for our parched (parch-ed) throats are sere and dry."

"Verily I can", quoth th' son of the seeping discharge. "I shall extract my holy wang, clap together my hands and thee shalt have cool water from th' Bladder Of Supreme Unction."

"No way, Retarded Fuckface Jesus," quoth the second of th' thristy. "We may be mere thristy indie-rock Aramatheans but we are not retarded as thine holy self. Know we that all that shall issue from th' Bladder Of Supreme Unction will be naught but warm piss, of which our need is small."

"So small, then, is thy faith also?" questioned Retarded Fuckface Jesus. "That thou wouldst throw thine hands up and cry foul at the suggestion? Believeth thou truly that the Retarded Fuckface Jesus would lie to his Faithful simply for the pleasure of relieving himself in their general direction? And this is how it must be?"

"Heard we have of similar miracles," spake th' first Aramathean. "Such as the Holy Loaf Of
Chaldoon."

"Yea, verily," spake Aramathean 2. "As we have heard of the Holy Fountain Of Leprosy-curing Coffee Creamer of Turin."

"Yes, yes, and The Nasal Discharge Of Eternal Life. We have heard amongst the peoples of th' South about thine miracles and wisheth to partake nought but to chance it in th' dry lake bed."

And verily were Th' Thristy Aramatheans dumpstruck when th' Retarded Fuckface Jesus extracted his robesnake and pissed a cool, refreshing stream of pure water upwards and opened his very own mouth to receive it.

And the Arameanths fell about him in hair-rending agonies, begging his forgiveness for their lack of faith and beseeching him to let them partake of the cool water. And then in his mercy did the Retarded Fuckface Jesus stand before them and piss upon them and it was the warm, acrid piss of a thousand asparagi.

And th' Thirsty Aramatheans wept at th' deception, promising a thousand years of curses as they scrambled away from the foul brew.

And Retarded Fuckface Jesus threw back his head and laughed to th' heavens.

"Now," he laughed, repositioning his prong amongst th' folds of his robe, "now thou beginest to understand religion- 'tis a promise of cool, cool water that leaveth you to die in the desert in piss-soaked robes."