Band Name: Pool Party
Interview with the leader of the band: Stinky Fingers
The interview took place at a hotel pool, half in a beach chair, half on the high dive in-between gainers, triple lindys, jack hammers, cannon balls, flying squirrels, arch angels, pencil dives, flips back and forth, cherry bombs, belly flops, and a few Olympic quality beauties. I held his vodka in my left hand, and he had placed his “stash” in my underwear. He had hair way past his shoulders and was wearing a neon pink leopard print Speedo.
So do you think only playing at actual “Pool Parties” limits your playing?
Stinky Finger: “Not at all! If you aren’t willing to come to a pool party every time, than you just don’t get it.” He did eight jumps at the end of the board, and then finally into a beautifully leg straight, arms tucked flip. “And fuck’em if they don’t get it.”
Some say your band, although the following is decent, is not actually talented, but draws crowds for other reasons. What do you think about that?
Stinky Fingers: “Well we rock, I’m definite on that. But what we lack in talent is made up for with strippers, and heroin clouds, sure.” Sprint into a gainer.
Okay. Do you find it at all ridiculous that your band has a dress code for your Pool Party concerts, either neon colors or naked?
Stinky Fingers: “NO.” Dope fiend languidly walked into a god inspired back dive, full twist, straight position. “If you come to a Pool Party concert in a black fucking T-shirt I will spit on you.”
What do you have to say about your tattoos?
Stinky Fingers: “Fuck it, who cares if they are shitty. They are tats none the less. I still get boned for them.”
When is your next album going to come out?
Stinky Fingers: “Well, I say never. I want to ride the last one out. But, the rest of the band wants to do stuff,” he grabbed his vodka away from me and slugged casually, “I am fucking sick of doing stuff. Everybody is doing stuff. I want to be different. I did something a while ago and I am still sick of it.” Casual, as always, long hand stand in a perfect hold, back triple summersault tuck, and the extremely straight minimal splash entry into the water.
A lot of people and fans our worried about your long time girlfriend, her being missing for six months now, and you seem unconcerned. Do you care to comment about that?
Stinky Fingers: “Dude, Whatever…” And then he sprinted into a really cool, and fun looking squirrel jump, he had a great hold, it seemed like it lasted ten seconds, his legs pulled behind his back. He was in fact gliding.
Everyone knows that you like to play different instruments; can we be expecting something other from you out of the next album?
Stinky Fingers: “Were gonna take a break on the interview for a while. Do me something titties and call the Concierge. Tell them Stinky Fingers is ready for his room service but I changed my mind on the order. Tell them, two blondes, and two brunettes, and any and all exotics. They will know what I’m talking about. I explained it to them in great detail earlier through a two hour conversation; the whole thing was kind of an ordeal. They just weren’t getting me.” He reached in my crotch and grabbed his “stash,” and went through it, “And tell them now.” He forced me to comply before we could continue the interview.
Is there a reason that all of your stage names our sexual? As in Stinky Fingers, Titty Bop, Anus Gun, Filatio Rose, and most notably Necrophilia Nick.
Stinky Fingers: Laid out in a beach chair, towel over his face except when drinking. “Yeah, there is a reason.”
Do you care to elaborate?
Stinky Fingers: “Well, we each like to attract a certain type of female,” eating out of his “stash” like it was a bag of M&M’s.
Doesn’t Anus Gun get sick of wearing only a towel around his waist for every show?
Stinky Fingers: “No.”
I mean the towel gets ripped off of him every show by some girl in a neon bathing suit.
Stinky fingers: “That’s kinda his point man. I wish I had thought of that one.”
What is the truth, about the dead and sodomized bluefin tuna found in the closet of your smashed up hotel room?
Stinky Fingers: “Who cares about the truth? I say it was Necrophilia Nick. See, we had a Pool Party show, and it was a salt water pool, so we thought we would make it a special show, you know, like, deep, and spiritual. Yeah? So, Titty Bop drum sticks thought it would be cool to bring in some wild animals. Yeah? Weird story short, Necrophilia Nick rape mouth job’ed one on my balcony.”
Mouth Job’ed a bluefin tuna?
Stinky Fingers: “Yeah. But, really, it wasn’t that weird. There was much weirder stuff going on in the room, than on the balcony. And besides, the bathroom, people barely could look inside without puking in there. So I mean it was relevant at the time. You see? Yeah?”
And, why did you jump from the third story window into a bush in order to try and get away?
Stinky Fingers: “See it was all relevant. All three hundred of us were trying to get away. It wasn’t even so important, it was more of a mood. Everyone got into it.” He shook his hair over one shoulder and began to pet it.
At this point in the interview, the drugs he had spiked my drink with (without my knowledge) had taken complete control of me, and I was forced to abandon the rest of the interview.
* * * * *
Yes, of Course Eddy Money Could Save The City of Lake Forest, But do we Have The Money to Pay Him to do it
Yes, in short, we do. However another but, but will we give it up? Sudden boredom is a real problem. There is no reason this town can not pay to have Eddie Money sleep at Gorton Community center every night, hand cuffed in the basement to play a show. Why not? It would be great. The last time he played Lake Forest I have not seen so many imposter mullets the next day on “cool” dads, dark sunglasses on wives, sheets in the washer, pants to the cleaners, deleted email addresses, ignored phone calls, plastic surgeries, called bars for missing credit cards, bloody Mary’s, and turned over mattresses. Eddy Money kicked this city in the balls. I went back to high school that night, literally, I tore down the goal post at Lindenmeyer field and smoked menthols till a girl noticed how many I had and I got laid on the fifty. My uncle has not worn a shirt since he picked me up in my tight letterman jacket at dawn and I puked on his Hawaiian shirt. My date never did get a ride home because the D.U.I took so long with all the screaming involved. “Do you know who the clitoris I am? I’m Eddie Fucking Moneys manager, that’s who… You Fucking Ant,” my uncle wobbled out a ton of good yarns while I fingered my date again. “Yeah, Eddie, Fucking, Money, Manager.”
“Yes, Mr. Money seems to have a lot of managers tonight.”
A friend of mine, Brian, even said he went down to the beach to crank some Eddie after the show, and ended up skinny dipping with some chicks from the college because he said he was a roadie. After blow jobs in the woods and shit, he said he got fresh and through a glass of beer in her face, and says it was the best night ever in this town. You can not find a guys bedroom in this town with out a Jesse Money poster above the bed, and an Eddie on the door.
I guess the police station was the place to be. All the best partiers in town were there, Bill Donlon in a cowboy hat, a straight jacket on Chip Whiteside, a muzzle latched to the jaws of Sheila Dennet. It was a blow out blast.
Reportedly, Eddie Money blew a blizzard of cocaine off of moms. So, you know they had fun. Its just what this town needed, and needs again. Lets put Eddie on call in our wine cellars. All we would have to get him is cool shirts, a hair stylist, and vodka-sea-breezes. That’s all he seems to require as a human. Maybe the occasional tambourine he breaks. Anyways, its my suggestion to the town, that we lock up Eddie Money at the Gorton Community center for our daily use. Even when he’s not scheduled to play, people could go look at him or drink beers all day with him. Thank you.
* * * * *
The Maroon Mustache
A romance language classic by: Captain S.
His Cadillac was maroon colored, interior and exterior. And so was his mustache. He drove from gas station to gas station across America to eat poorly, show off his wheels and face, and fuck the women America had to offer. He said gas stations were the cheapest places to look rich.
The Maroon Mustache was somewhere just inside of Wisconsin, near Kenosha. He pulled his maroon wheels into a white gas station with signs for cider and cold beer. He always parked blocking the front doors to the gas station. His first step was to ask for the bathroom key, for two reasons. One, to have it in case a woman needed it, and two, to have a room to bring a woman to.
A red head of no great appeal came in and was eyeing cigarette prices. The Maroon Mustache came right in behind her, sniffed her back, and then yelled at the gas attendant while pointing his gold watch to the pumps, “Are those pumps topped off, Damn it. They need to be. Do you understand? My god you must know absolutely nothing about gasoline, oil, and whiskey.” The attendant and the red head looked at him incredulously. He continued with pride, and now louder that he was sure he had an audience, “Make sure the gas pumps are topped off. And the premium gasoline, my god the premium, get some better premium gasoline. How many times must I tell you.” He gave a disbelieving face to the red head while pointing at the attendant. Then the Maroon Mustache put his arm around her back and led her outside, “How can I help you today, Miss? Never mind the carton of cigs, they are on me today. Sorry for the miss communication with the premium gasoline today,” he sighed, “you never know who you are hiring anymore.” He opened her car door and let her in and gently shut the door. The Maroon Mustache smiled at her like bull horns, “Say, I will be playing darts over at the closest bar to here tonight around 9:30 if you would like?”
Her chest perked up, “Its called the Meat Rack, I’ll be there at ten.”
She drove off, and the Maroon Mustache went back inside and bought some Red Man and a case of cold beer to stake out in the car. He would still hang on to the bathroom key, gas stations are open forever.
* * * * *
The Maroon mustache sat perched on top of his Cadillac and ate slim jims two at a time. His shirt was off, and as it turned out, his chest hair was a thick carpet mat of maroon fur. The New Mexico sun made his eyes squint like a lynx with mighty whiskers. The squinted eyes were just staring at the doors to the Mobil. Every time a man would come out he would wisp, “Finger-banging, ass-hole, son-of-a-dick,” and suck on some jerky juice, “Fuck.”
When a woman came out, he would swallow the two chunks of Slim-Jim whole, and smile his maroon bull horns straight over to her, wiping his jerky hands off on his mat. And he would say, “Listen,” and stare at her for a open ended three minutes, his whiskers in the wind just smiling like a mad dandy. “I think I am over this town. You might want to be to. The next town over is suppose to have the cheapest motel deals in the region. The amenities are 6*.” The maroon mustache grabbed her by the arm and brought her right up to the horns, “This here bristling ass whip under my nose isn’t just going to be talking all day, Mam.”
Her knees had become week, subtly shuttering in awe, “Put me in the car and take me with you, I cant walk, sir.”
“I would be delighted to, mam. I will just be getting some vodka for you from the Mobil, and I like to chew tobacco over blow jobs and news paper readings. Don’t mind giving me a minute?”
He let her arm go, and she collapsed to the floor panting, “Hwa, Hwa, Hwa,” like a butchers dog, and grabbing her groin rolling on the floor in a puddle of gasoline, “Lord, praise be to the light,” she looked to the sky.
The maroon mustache took his hunting knife out of its sheath and went inside to get the vodka, condoms, news papers, Slim-Jims, and chewing tobacco. He had only actually stabbed a few people, he usually just yelled really loud and slapped people around with the side of the blade, while he called himself, “The Maroon Comanche Mother Fucking Psycho.” He would always brag about how many pussy’s he had scalped, Forty-five under age balled vaginas, and three-hundred Mexican vaginas, enough Russians to make a suit out of, a winter hat and mittens from Brazilians, a fur top hat of Europeans, and a quilt of moms. When he left a gas station, he always peeled out and left tire marks, and honked and waved good-bye.
* * * * *
He sucked on a Slim-Jim like it was a cigar and his hands wrested in his jean pockets. The shirt had been popped off again. After the maroon mustache had fought three dogs in the ally he was hungry and kicked open the door to the gas station, and pointed his Slim-Jim at the attendant. “Give me one of those fancy hot dogs from the rack, along with the best mustard you got on the shelf, and a frozen fifth of vodka,” he shook the beef stick in the attendants face.
“No frozen vodka.”
The maroon mustaches face smudged, “Put it on ice, or in a snow cone moron.”
“Me no waitress.”
“You are not befit to be a gas station attendant.”
The attendants hands went up along his sides, “I don’t get?”
He chucked the Slim-Jim at his face, but it hit his shoulder, “Then make it warm, or put it in heavy cream, with kahlua, and stir it up, and hand it to me.”
“No. I don’t get?”
The maroon mustache took the attendant by the ears and bashed his head into the register, climbed over the counter and smashed every bottle of vodka but one over the back of the attendant. Twenty-two bottles of vodka. The maroon mustache wandered outside to wait for chicks, and put the hot dog to his maroon horns. He shined majestically in the sunlight.
* * * * *
Bio: Captain Shipwreck writes in speech patterns that use the inhaling and exhaling of breath to induce third eye visions. His inspiration for the work comes from adoring jerks, beach landscapes, and the taste of premium rum. He is currently rumored lost at sea along the equator.
