And the Rocket's Red Glaaaaaaare!

I’m headed out in about thirty minutes. Tonight we play in Philly and it’s gonna be off the proverbial Heezy. Are you bringing me a cheesesteak? With Cheez Whiz? Thanks so much. Last time we were in philly, we forced our bus driver to drive down to Gino’s and Pats (the two famous places to get cheese steaks in Philly. Perhaps you’ve seen them on Food Wars or Pig Out Paradise or something [and yes, yes, these are touristy spots. I’m sure that they don’t have the finest cheese steaks in all of Philadelphia, but we’re tourists, and we don’t know where to go, nor do we REALLY care about that, so yeah. Just telling you what happened. No need to get all defensive]) for a late night snack.

Now, our driver was a big old hillbilly boy who truly didn’t know how to back up a bus and believed with all his heart that shopping at wal mart was good for America (just ask Rubber Maid). He was also highly passive aggressive and stupid in a way that can’t be overstated. He was stupid in an almost mythical way. He didn’t know how to do laundry. He didn’t know how to heat up canned soup. He was as equipped to exist as an adult human being as a hamster dressed in a brooks brothers suit is to diversify your stock portfolio.

I could write about this guy all day, actually. We fired him in San Diego for massive incompetence and constant insubordination (which sounds like we were being dicks, but when the standard, agreed upon program is that we wake up on the bus in front of the next club every day, but instead we’re waking up in truck stop parking lots with him asleep in the front lounge (leaving us with nowhere to go, because the front lounge is where the bathroom, tv, coffee, and couches are), still 4 hours from our destination and we’re consistently late for load in, well, you get the idea of how completely terrible this dude was at being a bus driver.

He also couldn’t drive. He also was a cocksucker. He was also dumber than a box of rubber gloves. And he wouldn’t back up the bus. He didn’t know how. This was at various times amusing and enraging, depending on the severity of the situation.

ANYWAY, someday I can probably fill up a whole weeks worth of this dumb blog talking about this driver and his various dumbassisms, but for now I’m getting back to Philly. We make him take us to get cheese steaks. This is highly unusual, as bus drivers understandably don’t tend to like to make little food runs in giant busses, (it’s not a taxi, after all) and this dude was no exception, but the show had been amazing and we were all loaded and we decided to berate the driver and force him to take us there, despite his hemmin’ and a’hawin.

So we get about half a block away, and the bus gets stuck. Philly has narrow streets and we can’t get any closer. We’re blocking traffic, it’s Friday night down town and our driver starts throwing up his hands and losing his mind. The cars behind him are honking and going nuts.

So we all kind of laughed, and got out of the bus right there and left him to suffer while we went and got cheese steaks. The whole time we waited in line we could hear the honking and see the growing line of dead stopped traffic. We took our time. Some of us even sat and ate there, in the restaurant’s outside patio.

Eventually, after twenty five grueling minutes of dealing with the ire of uppity northern city folk, our driver was finally able to close the door and let a bunch of drunk, cheesy turds back on his bus and head off to another truck stop parking lot.

That night, I woke up in my bunk completely dehydrated from eating such a salty, greasy treat so late at night. At first I thought there were fireworks going off, but then I realized, no. It was the tiny explosions and gas rockets of nocturnal farts that only a rolling sarcophagus full of drunk men stuffed with cheesesteaks can produce. It was like a tiny little fourth of july, but instead of red white and blue, it was just a few different shades of brown.

I’ll see you east coast kids soon. I gotta go pack.
Toodles!