Played a gig in a fucking barn (a real barn, with horses and hay, we're not queers) near Houston. Got extremely drunk and busted my chin. WHATEVER, my chin is like paper, in that it too beats rock. Fearing the floor hadn't learnt its lesson, I struck it again with my now-bleeding chin.
We stopped twice on the drive from Houston to Dallas, where I made consecutive deposits in the First National Bank of Puking-in-a-gas-station-parking-lot.
We had a blowout near Corsicana, and I must say that the bassist did a commendable job bringing the van safely to the side of the road. Too bad he's a twunt.
Having sobered up to a solid hammered, I got straight to work standing and staring as the singer did all the work. He positioned the jack in a terrible spot which didn't get the van high enough and bent the frame, so I got way under the van and set the jack on the axle, which may or may not be a good idea. Either way, I cut my shoulder pretty good on the exhaust whilst removing myself from whence I whas. Whord.
The gear trailer's front wheel crank (the thing that lets you unhitch the trailer) was broken, as useful things like these generally are, so 4 of us had to basically deadlift the front end while the 5th drove the van forward away from the hitch. The PA was in the front of the trailer, so probably a good 2000-2500 lbs on the hitch end, pretty beastly.
Somehow, I ended up doing the rest of the tire change, not that I particularly remember it. I do know that I got a big bag of cheetos at the next gas station and ate the whole 1,440 calories worth without washing my completely-black hands. I always did like greasy food HYACHACHACHA.
To the Songfight community, I submit that you are not as rock as I. I await your rebuttal with anecdotal evidence and/or pictures.
