At 5:30am I changed my shirt.
I put parts of a drum set into the van and headed straight to a place in my neighborhood named McDonald's.
My plan for today, a Tuesday, was to find somewhere to record the best possible music with parts of my drum kit.
Unfortunately, McDonald's did not have a recording studio.
Nor were there any other musicians willing to make good music there.
But I did notice that they served coffee and breakfast there.
I gave the man at McDonald's some money and he gave me some coffee and something he called "breffix."
I drove and drove and drove a van.
First south, then east, then south.
That breffix from McDonald's made me feel like sleeping while driving and dying.
I was in a place they call "Indiana."
It almost rhymes with Windy Banana.
It was early and you could see the sun starting to get all bright and shit.
I thought about the recording I was going to find somewhere, and the cool musicians I would meet and immediately gel about with.
I thought of the perfect name for this band: Windy Banana.
Then I thought of a better one: Windy Morgana, the Kissing Bandit with Problem Flatulence.
After that I thought of several worse names: The Friendies, Friendies Forever, Frendz Forevz.
I never thought of a better perfect band name than Windy Morgana, the Kissing Bandit with Problem Flatulence.
It was getting early still.
I pulled over in a town named after Bloomington, Indiana called Bloomington, Indiana.
There were crazy hippies all over the place playing football and taking tests.
At a thing named Circle K I found a location for my used coffee, and walked aimlessly down a whimsical alley you might say. It reminded me of that movie about the girl and the annoying dog, and the witch, and the midgets (I'm allowed to still use this word), and The Monkees, and the stagehand who hanged himself from a prop tree supposebly.
On a big set of double doors were the letters R, and R spelled backwards.
A cat answered the door. He said "meow" or some shit.
Then a boy with a beard let me in and noticed I had parts of a drum kit in my van.
He forced me to add them to his vintage red sparkle Gretsch round badge drum kit.
All I had were some cymbals, a kick pedal, and a snare.
He didn't care, he said, and forced me to augment his mangy, old, collectable drums.
Then two vagabonds from the big city kicked open a door.
Everyone began fighting.
I got punched in the haircut and kicked in the facial expression.
Someone broke a rake.
A wedding cake was upset, but nobody laughed.
Not even the laugh track.
The boy with the beard said "Enough" and went away to feed several thousand cats.
The big city vagabonds rubbed their eyes and spit in my direction.
They velcroed me to the elderly drums and shut off the lights.
"LET'S SEE WHAT YOU CANNOT DO!" they shouted in unison through the loudest microphones.
All I could do was cry.
My woeful, sadful tears bounced off the drum skins like crying butter, creating the most magnificent music ever recorded. That's more magnificent than Chuck Beatles and Virginia Slims combined!
But the boy with the beard forgot to turn on the red light machine, and did not capture it.
After another fight involving urinal mints, a weather balloon filled with meat water, and Chinese stars (I'm still allowed to call them that), we had to do it all over again.
"Oh no," I muffled under a painters-taped mouth.
The big city vagabonds waterboarded me with vinegar and melted ice cream.
Anything to make those beautiful, elegant tears scream from my wonderful, classy eyes.
The bearded boy and the big city vagabonds captured four total sounds, and ripped them directly to iTunes, where you can also garagehero movies and burn bands.
In a separate room, they relaxed by wrapping pineapple-jalapeno pizzas around their rock hard penises and made individual love for their amusement. I was only allowed to watch and eat the leftovers. It was okay and shit.
By the time I got back home it was time to work again.
I'll never take another day off from work ever again as long as I shall live forever.
Verdict: Win
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