current entry older entries message board contact
5:39 p.m. - 2005-05-14

REST IN PEACE BOSS HOGG

So I did the second of my two 12 hour gigs last night.

SCENE: Town park in small town Alabama.

Everything's going decently until I get on the microphone and say "If anybody has any requests ...."

BAM!!

Kids freakin' EVERYWHERE.

And I mean prepubescent kids ... not teenagers.

I learned a few things last night.

1) Prepubescent kids LOVE Ciara and would be completely happy if I played her three singles back-to-back all freakin' night long.

2) Prepubescent kids also love the song "Candy Shop" which contains the adorable chorus:

"I take you to the candy shop
I'll let you lick the lollypop
Go 'head girl, don't you stop
Keep goin 'til you hit the spot"

Gawsh!!

What a nice guy that 50 Cent is! He's going to take his girlfriend to the candy shop and buy her a lollipop and then force her to CONSUME THE GODDAMNED THING UNTIL SHE HITS THE SPOT WHATEVER THE HELL THAT MEANS.

Sorry kids ... but Uncle Bob doesn't play that song in front of children because he's totally against forcing women to consume candy.

Anyway ... the night goes on until 10 p.m. when it's time to light the luminaries that outline the track and read off the names of those who've succumbed to cancer over the last year.

This is the most solemn portion of the evening. All the lights are turned off and everyone's walking quietly around the track while I read out the names of the people.

They get the list to me like 10 seconds before I'm to start reading it.

So I read it while fucking Bette Midler's "Wind Beneath My Wings" is on continuous loop which is considered political torture in some countries.

Here's a quick impression of me reading the names:

"John Smith.

(Five second pause).

Bill Smith.

(Five second pause).

Carol Stevens.

(Five second pause)"

Et cetera.

Now ... there's about 150 names on this list and this takes a while to do.

I finish the first page and flip to the next page.

And there ... at the top of the page ...

"Cooter".

No last name.

Just ... "Cooter".

Now I'm not an Alabama native. I wound up here 21 years ago and stayed because it's nice to live somewhere where you feel somewhat superior in intelligence around the majority of the people.

Sure, I could have moved to the jungles of Africa for the same effect, but Alabama was closer.

So I'm still kinda grappling with the concept that people can adopt a nickname like "Bubba" or "Junior" and stick with it for a lifetime.

But "Cooter"???

Sorry ... but that's just a comedic slang term for a vagina in my book.

So my five second pause between names has now hit about 15 seconds because I'm trying to say the word "Cooter" as solemn as possible over a PA system without busting out laughing.

How do you say in a strong and solemn tone ... "Cooter"?

Looking back, it's all a blur now. I figured I'd say it and hear a park full of people titter and giggle their asses off.

Ahem.

"Cooter."

Nothing.

Nary a giggle anywhere.

In fact, if anything, I'm guessing that out there in the dark, these gap-toothed hillbillies probably gave each other knowing glances that said "Shit, man. I plum forgot 'bout Cooter dyin' from the ass cancer. I sho' do miss that sumbitch."

And then spitting out their tobacco juice on the track as they kept walking and waiting to hear that next name called out.



While the gig was supposed to go until 6 a.m., these organizers have yet to figure out a way to keep people there all freakin' night long.

By 11:30 we were down to an old man and woman sitting in their lawn chairs in the middle of the park.

There were four organizers and their kids.

And me.

I walked over to the organizers and said "Is this still officially a relay when nobody's relaying?"

The organizers said that we had to stay until the bitter end and give the illusion that a party was still going on.

I shrugged and walked away because yes ... I agreed to be there until 6 a.m.

But we had a huge park that was empty with the exception of an old man and woman in the middle of it and dammit ... I thought the least we could do is go put a mirror under their noses to make sure they were still breathing and hadn't croaked on us.

Finally, at midnight, they got up, folded up their lawn chairs and left.

So I waited for the organizers to walk over and say "That's it. Cut the music off and go home."

Uh uh.

The organizers were sitting and having a grand old time listening to the music and shooting the shit.

It was just a matter of time before their OBNOXIOUS FUCKING KIDS came back up to bother me.

"When are you going to play something that won't make me throw up?" the 11 year-old girl said.

(At the time, I was playing "Pieholden Suite" by Wilco. I know ... not the most "party" song I could be playing but goddammit ... the party was over and I was trying to point that out to the organizers by playing shitty music.)

"What would you like to hear then?" I grimaced, waiting for the inevitable answer.

"Play Candy Shop!" the kids said in unison.

Goddammit.

I know many of you have no idea what I'm talking about here ... so here. Read the lyrics and you tell me ... is that appropriate shit for a kid to be listening to??

I don't think so.

And maybe their parents don't give two shits about these white trash punks, but I wasn't going to contribute to their deliquent tendencies.

I told them no and played teeny-bopper shit like Kelly Clarkson and Avril Lavigne instead.

They kept harassing me with the stupidest shit. Granted, it was late and they were tired and wired and being complete fucking morons.

"Tell us where babies come from," the girl said.

"Yeah!" the boys said. "Tell us!!"

What.

The.

Fuck.

I had half a notion to look that little girl in the eye and say "You know the hole you pee out of? Well, it comes out of there. And that hole has to stretch until it rips and tears and blood shoots everywhere and the doctor has to use a knife to cut that hole open even more and it's the most painful thing you've ever experienced and most ladies ... they DIE when they have to give birth."

Instead, I just shot her a disgusted look and said "No."

They wanted me to lift my equipment up and drop it on the concrete. Why? No explanation. Just do it.

Suddenly, I was these kids' goddamned playtoy.

And the parents weren't doing shit to control them.

This went on and on and on.

Finally, at 1 a.m., I turned the equipment off without saying a word, packed it up and left.

I'm supposed to pick up my check on Monday at the local office.

If they try to say "Well, you didn't stay until 6 a.m." I'm just going to say "You weren't paying me to babysit four obnoxious kids and that's what I was doing. My role as emcee and DJ were over when the party emptied out completely. Fuck you. Give me my goddamned money now."

Yeah.

That's me.

Always the professional.

12 comments so far
The last one/The next one


NEW!!!Come and write some BAD EROTICA with the cool kids!

My Diaryland Trading Card
Now go write a Suck Ass Poem™
Write me a note here.
Read my notes here.
Hey! Take the Uncle Bob Quiz!
What the hell! May as well take the wildly popular Uncle Bob Second Quiz too!
Thanks Diaryland
Designed by Lisa


CURRENT - ARCHIVES - MESSAGES - EMAIL


Have you read these?

The End Of Uncle Bob - 12:28 p.m. , 2009-02-19

Losing Focus While Trying To Write A Blog Entry Is Cool. - 1:47 p.m. , 2008-12-04

Buck Up Junior, You Could Be Digging Ditches - 11:36 p.m. , 2008-10-31

That Sinking Feeling - 6:09 a.m. , 2008-10-28

Return Of The Karate Kid And His Slow Kitty-Lovin' Accomplice - 5:44 a.m. , 2008-10-22

Sign up for my Notify List and get email when I update!

email:
powered by
NotifyList.com

HEY YOU!
Click on the button below to order the book "Never Threaten To Eat Your Co-Workers: Best of Blogs" featuring Uncle Bob.
You WON'T be sorry.

DISCLAIMER


Read a random entry of mine.