Messianic Acid Tripping

Messianic Acid Tripping
(Copyright 2009)

I don’t know much, but I do know God must’ve dropped acid at least once. There is no other scientific or logical reason for what he was thinking when he came up with bass players. If there’s one indisputable fact about rock and roll, it’s that bass players seem to walk in a ceaseless state of bewilderment. I know I’m speaking in generalities here, but it’s been my experience that this particular breed of musician couldn’t find his way to a urinal by way of the end of his dick.
Case in point, Buster; a bass player I once shared a rhythm section with in an L.A. band called the Bullwhips. Buster possessed an innocence that routinely betrayed the few threads of common sense that he struggled to maintain and relied upon to navigate his way in a band that he was easily the greenest member of. His youth and gullibility were perpetually his undoing as we unmercifully set the lad up for one torturous act after another.
Like for instance, one night after practice we sent a girl across the room to visit him armed with a fist full of fiberglass which we had pulled out of the insulation soundproofing draped around the practice space. The sporting girl easily forced her hand down the drunken fool’s pants, grabbing at any and all loose appendages. In his state he was more than happy to accept the unsolicited hand job and was none the wiser when he woke the next morning to an insatiable itching. A hot shower did nothing but intensify the itch as it caused the fibers to sink deeper into his pores. A few cleverly planted accounts of his actions the night before with a particularly disreputable groupie and we had him convinced that he was harboring a healthy case of the crotch crickets. In a panic he shaved himself from chin to rim, which to our delight, only exacerbated the already hilarious condition. There’s a reason why these dudes only play four strings.
Buster was the genuine bass playing article. If we weren’t causing him some mental or physical anguish, then he would find a way to perpetrate the damage upon himself. What I remember most fondly about Buster though, is that he will go down in the annals as the architect of the greatest line ever conceived of, and dared uttered, while under interrogative duress by an inquisitive girlfriend. I will forever raise a glass to this wayward bass player for the sheer audacity and brass balls he displayed as his girlfriend wondered allowed “Why, in the hell,” he was buttoning up his pants while emerging from an equipment trailer parked behind a club we were playing.
The demise of Buster begins with one of my favorite groupies in the entire universe, the one and only, Miss Sandy Gallagher. Sandy, or “Sandbox,” or “Gaggler,” as we called her, was one of the most respected and desired groupies in the area during that time in the early nineties. She was a cataclysmic, wet dream of hips, lips, hair as black as a hearse, tightly wound up in a tube-top, attitude and confidence that would make Gloria Steinem wish she were Monica Lewinsky.
My first experience with Sandy was when I happened to be nailing her to the backseat of a Ford Taurus while my friend was chauffeuring us to McDonalds. The people in the drive-thru didn’t seem to mind so much, but unfortunately we also caught the attention of a police officer. He was obviously amused by our compromised situation and couldn’t hold back a Cheshire cat grin as he queried us about what we were up to. I figured we were destined to be spread eagle on the side of the car, but Sandy calmly took command of the situation and used her witchy little charm to talk her way out of it. I was stunned and not just a little taken with the girl. The cop let us go with a laugh and a couple of warnings about seatbelt safety. The poor bastard never knew what he was up against.
Sandy wasn’t Playboy material now, but her confidence, imagination, openness and intelligence put her on a whole other level that few girls ever touched. She was an especially talented cock fifer who could suck the sap out of a Dogwood. She was exciting and up for anything. Everybody wanted to party with her and she even inspired one of my infamous song lyrics “you’re no bombshell baby, you’re a nuclear war.” God, I’m the fucking James Joyce of rock and roll!
Amazing song lyrics weren’t the only thing Sandy inspired though. We started doing this thing we called the 10 under 20, where we’d get her to try and give ten complete blow jobs in under twenty minutes. It sounds easy but as it turns out, even for a premier gob-guzzler like sandy, this is no small feat. She’d be jacking and jawing away like Mother Theresa up-ended in a monastery while someone timed her and documented the progress. I don’t know if she ever made it in under twenty, but I do know she sure tried a lot.
So it was for this reason that a group, including Buster, had her chin-down inside our equipment trailer one night before a show. She was buck naked and hammering away, doing her thing surrounded by a bunch of swinging dicks, all piled inside this little trailer waiting their turn. Buster apparently was one of the first finished and haphazardly swung the side door aside to step out with his jeans half pulled up, only to run face-to-face into his astonished girlfriend! There was virtually no chance of explaining anything away because she could plainly see the fully stripped Sandy giving lip service to a large contingent of comers all shouting and cheering her on. Plus, some super-intelligent member of our road crew had seen fit to gaff tape a pizza box to the side of the trailer that read: “Club BJ – No Cover.” That may have tipped her off too.
They both stood speechless for a few seconds and then she turned and stormed off! Buster was still in a state of shock when suddenly, like an epiphany, the answer came to him and he shouted the greatest line ever conceived of, and dared uttered, while under interrogative duress by an inquisitive girlfriend.

“Babe, I never even touched her; I just came on the side of her head! She’s my cousin!”

I think this bears repeating… “Bla bla bla bla, something unimportant about coming on someone’s face, and… SHE’S MY COUSIN!”

I’ve been known to talk a line of shit once or twice. I’ll admit I’ve been caught holding a smoking gun more than a few times and made every attempt to jive my way out of it. I’ve never however; not in my most desperate hour, dreamt of bringing incest into the conversation. I might be off base here, but I tend to think that that may just aggravate an already touchy situation. I could not, however, fault my shameless bass player for his innovative stab at a defense. This had to be the most blatant attempt at weaseling since Bill Clinton tried to debate the meaning of the word “is.” It was truly admirable.
Need I write more? At this point, can it really be disputed that the day God created bass players he had to have been tripping his cosmic balls off hotter than Ken Kesey curled up in a trunk and crashing the Mexican border? As insane as his excuse was, I had to be impressed with the youngster until I found out later that he wasn’t at all bullshitting – SHE ACTUALLY WAS HIS COUSIN!!!!! Apparently the kid, having surveyed the scene unfolding in front of him, could not restrain himself from jerking off to the sight of his hot cousin administering multiple crotch whistles to a crowd of his peers; and then proceeded to finish the job by delivering a sack of jam to the inside of her ear! Bass players. That must’ve been some otherworldly shit.
© Copyright 2009