I drove down to New Orleans last year despite my preconceived notions of hillbilly rape that never came to fruition. And by “notions” I mean “wishes.” Oh well. Easy come, easy go. Notice how I didn’t make a horrible “big easy” joke? You’re welcome. However, I was unfortunate enough to have one of the worst culinary experiences in my life. “Well, fuck my virgin ass,” I hear you sayeth, but friends and neighbors, put down your freshly microwaved shoe-horns and sticks of butter, for I speaketh the truth. Here are 2 things I’ve learned during m’ travels if’n you find yourself in an unfamiliar city: 1. Ask a bartender where to eat. 2. Find the nearest gay bar and get ready to party. Gay bars are awesome cuz drinks are strong and cheap, plus they love a foul sense of humor so you can talk about poop and wieners ’til the cows come home and when they do you can say, “Hey you cows-I’m not through talkin’ ’bout poop and wieners-not by a damn sight! So get fucked, cows!” Or something like that. Normally these pointers are gold, but like everything in this horseshit existence, not infallible.
We sat down to gumbo in a modest cafe, confident in the advice bequeathed upon us from the bartender tending the gay bar the night before. The end of that sentence was fun. Oh yes, some crazy shit went down that eve but I’ll get into that another time. I greeted the first bite with a neighborly smile, excited about the journey ahead into ambrosia, as the food made it’s pilgrimage into my trusting mouth, nurturing my appreciative body, and then….well, out of my ambivalent butt-hole. I was obviously unprepared for the betrayal I discovered with that first bite, and my world imploded as my taste buds cursed my foolish indiscretion. Fear, palpable and crippling, had manifested in flavor. It tasted like Chef Boyardee had choked down some Slim Jim’s and washed ’em through with a can of Campbell’s soup-no, scratch that. More like the off brand at the cheap grocery store like “Best Yet” or even “Wait’ll Next Year” soup and then gagged and barfed it into my bowl, as he’d been watching his figure. Then, to make matters almost unbearable, I heard it.
I recognized the lyrics and melody but only faintly as the structure seemed different. Hmmmmm-is that a doors song? Oh crap-it’s a doors song but done reggae style……great bleeding buckets of shit! It’s fucking UB40!!! Now, for those lucky enough to not know UB40-and oh, how I do envy you-UB40 is basically a shitty white guy making shitty black music out of shitty white music with a couple token black dudes for credibility. At his worst, he will even destroy awesome black music. I feel sick to my stomach and would like to apologize to the uninitiated, but the links are for a point. Now, I’m not a violent person but anyone performing or enjoying a reggae version of a doors song should be taken out back and beaten with a shovel. In fact, I’d be up for following UB40 on tour just to beat every audience member mafia-style without an ounce of remorse. I’m talking teeth in their stomach, blood in their stool, and a limp in their walk. A scene so horrific Martin Scorsese wouldn’t film it. I’d wager they wouldn’t even fight back. “Well, we kinda had it coming. After all, we are at a UB40 concert.” It would be like finding an old Nazi hiding in France. He’s not gonna argue when he’s caught-he knew it was only a matter of time. Now, I’m sure some of you are thinking that comparing a UB40 fan with an atrocious war criminal is a tadexcessive but it’s my blog, so suck it.
May I also remind you that I’m being subjected to this whilst trying to eat pedestrian-at-best gumbo in New fucking Orleans-the birthplace of jazz, for the love of crap! At this point I may as well have been chugging cold diarrhea while deaf people sang church hymns in each ear. Why cold diarrhea and not hot, you ask? Hot diarrhea I imagine would have an even consistency making it easier to chug while cold would be more lumpy and get hung up, only to fall on your face after tilting the glass like some brown slushee from hell. Like the rest of you, I expected the music to be ripped from the speakers and replaced with an apology telling us that yes, everyone’s meal was free, the employee who desecrated your collective hearing was immediately fired and the state of Louisiana would happily lick all of the hair from your balls like kittens at a milk bowl. Ok, I added the lost one cuz I plum ran out of ideas, becoming bored and listless, relying on immature potty humor to bail me out. It wasn’t even that funny and for that, I apologize. My main point is kill whitey.