In a fitting tribute to the only rock group from Nottingham Avenue, recently the band gathered around a horseshoe pit at Markus Stroh's house and proceeded to vomit uncontrollably on each other. "God, those were some days," James bellowed, looking across the backyard.
"Yeah, I even thought that one chord was cool. The one in that song we tried that time? That was a cool chord," Brett remarked, wiping a tear from his cheek.
Matt Bryant swung and hit a golf ball, bouncing it accidentally off John Engle's forehead. "That smarts," John said. Matt hurled the golf club onto the roof of Marcus' house, got in his car and drove away. Marcus dropped to the ground and began doing push-ups, one after another until the sun came up.
2002 - 2007 RIP
I am the great traitor. There must be no other. Anyone who even thinks about deserting this mission will be cut up into 198 pieces. Those pieces will be stamped on until what is left can be used only to paint walls. Whoever takes one slab of jerky or one drop of saké more than his ration will be locked up for 155 years. If I, Mutt, want the birds to drop dead from the trees...then the birds will drop dead from the trees. I am the Scorn of Domenico Scarlatti. The earth I pass will see me and tremble. But whoever follows me and the Banjo will win untold riches. But whoever deserts...
John, I was fired for not wanting to put a pickup on my banjo. Then they posted those pics of me on the net. Egad. Never paint a bush farther than you can promise a bale of hay.
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