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August 2007 Archives

August 3, 2007

Tour Blog: “Two Berries on a Twig” Music Video

It wasn’t the sound of glass shattering that woke us up—no, after a week in a French EconoLodge, you’re pretty much used to the noise of brawls, guns, and whores and can sleep through World War III. Maybe it stirred us a bit, but it was the shouting of “Kaplan! Kaplan!” over and over again that drew our attention.

Margo and I seemed to awaken simultaneously. Our eyes opened and we stared at each other for a quiet moment until the name “Kaplan” registered. We both got up and looked out the window at the bright blue light of the pool. As usual, Little Riffs Nicky was taking a nude night swim. He paid no attention to the man shrieking his last name.

Posted by Girth McDürchstein on August 3, 2007 12:01 PM
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August 7, 2007

PRESS RELEASE: Girth McDürchstein Arrested!

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

Lacey’s Relations
1142 Wilshire Blvd.
Suite 600
Los Angeles, CA 90017

McDÜRCHSTEIN UNFAIRLY ARRESTED AS LEADER OF “CRIMINAL SYNDICATE”

GRENOBLE, FRANCE, August 7th — Legendary rocker Girth McDürchstein has been arrested as part of a joint effort between Europol and French police officials, Reuters reports. In a largely fictitious press release, authorities in Grenoble suggest a “stormcloud of criminal activity” that “follows McDürchstein all along the tour of Scandinavia with his ‘band,’ whose music should be criminalized.” Also included in that press release is a list of charges McDürchstein faces:

Murder - 1 count
Assault with a deadly weapon - 11 counts
Financing a terrorist organization - 1 count
Attempted murder - 1 count
Accessory after the fact (to car theft ring in Oslo) - 1 count
Consorting with criminals - 1 count
Solicitation - 1 count
Breaking in entering - 1 count
Fraud - 2 counts
Following the Church of Rafelman (illegal in Sweden and Norway) - 2 counts
Loss of identity (illegal in Sweden since 1966) - 1 count
International mail fraud - 5 counts
Indecent exposure - 5 counts
Filing nuisance lawsuit - 1 count

Longtime Abysmal fans understand this is not the first time McDürchstein has been railroaded. Abysmal attorney Harcourt Abimelech Feinstein, Esq., has already filed a motion to drop all charges. It has gone largely ignored, a result of Mr. Feinstein’s not being licensed to practice outside the State of California. McDürchstein is being held in Grenoble. No bail has been set. Other Abysmal Crucifix members have been asked to remain in the country, possibly to be held as material witnesses or arrested for their own false charges.

Speaking through his attorney, Mr. McDürchstein commented, “You gotta get me outta here! I’m begging you! These Frenchies—they like to…do things, and they’ve all heard “Bay-Ooh-Tay-Tay!”

UPDATE: Europol has provided McDürchstein’s mugshots to the press.

###

Press Contact:
Lacey Greenwood
818.655.5000
laceygstring@girthmcdurchstein.com

Posted by Lacey Greenwood on August 7, 2007 7:11 PM
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August 9, 2007

Tour Blog: Get Myself Arrested

I shuffled along the EconoLodge breezeway toward the vending machines. Around the corner, squeezed close together, was an ice machine, a snack machine, a soda machine, and a cigarette machine. I popped two €2 coins into the cigarette machine and pulled the tab for a pack of Kools. Out of nowhere, I heard shouting in French, followed by the stealthy but still slightly clanky (thanks mostly to the high-powered assault weapons they carried) running, growing louder, louder—

Until I was tackled and thrown onto the concrete by a man twice my size. He shoved me around onto my stomach. All I really remembered was that weird, kinda spiky feel of the concrete digging into the skin of my arms and legs, and even my gut through my t-shirt. It reminded me a lot of junior high. The man who sat on top of my ass, doubtless considering going tongue-wild back there, yanked my arms around my back, held my wrists together, and slipped one of those annoying plastic ties around it. He cinched it far tighter than he needed to; within minutes, I lost circulation.

It took a few moments to realize I had just been arrested. The cigarette-machine ruse must be a pretty common occurrence—something we’d witnessed at least five times since coming to Europe—but it still distressed me. Why had I been arrested? Who, other than me, had witnessed the nature of my crimes?

I received my answer much faster than I thought I would. The man sitting on me, his duty done, leaped off and twisted me back around. A lanky man with a narrow mustache and sad, puppy-dog eyes stood before me. He tossed a well-worn cigarette onto the cold concrete and, for some reason, rubbed intensely at the chest of his black trenchcoat. “Monsieur McDürchstein,” the man grinned. He spoke with an odd combination of an educated London accent and a buried, Jean-Claude Van Damme-esque Belgian accent. “I have waited for quite some time to meet you.”

“Who are you?” I groaned.

“My name is legendary inspector Gillaume Pinafore,” the man said, his grin growing wider. “I hereby place you under arrest by the authority invested in me by Europol.”

“Europol? The fuck is that?”

“It is like the Interpol, but for European Union countries only,” Inspector Pinafore replied.

“Very exclusive,” I muttered. “But why are you arresting me? What did I do wrong?”

Inspector Pinafore giggled in a surprising, girlish way—tittered, in fact. He said, “Monsieur, it would take less time to list the things you haven’t done wrong.”

Posted by Girth McDürchstein on August 9, 2007 11:43 AM
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Tour Blog: Algeria’s a Distant Land…

The moment we stepped off the boat in Algiers, the men were waiting. They took one look at my spandex-encased crotch and knew I was the guy. In all, there were four gentlemen. Two looked rather polite and pleasant, dressed in tweed suits and horn-rimmed glasses. Enormous gun-toting militants, glistening with sweat, flanked the polite-looking men.

“Girth McDürchstein, I presume,” said the shorter of the tweed-clad men in an accent halfway between English and Danish.

“What’s this about?” I asked.

The militants aimed their guns, but not at me—at my friends, my bandmates, my wife. Margo didn’t look very happy with them, but she made no move.

“Come with us, please,” the shorter man said.

I glanced at Margo again. She nodded slyly, and I went with them. They forced me to sit between the militants in the backseat of a Jeep, while the two “intellectuals” drove. We went out of the city, into the desert—harsh plains of sand that felt remarkably cool in the evening with the wind blowing sand grains in our faces.

When we had reached a point that the living world had totally abandoned—just sand, far as they could see— I saw a little black pellet on the horizon. As we drove closer, I realized it was a very small cabin—a shack, even—near the side of the road. They drove right up to the cabin and the militants forced me out.

Posted by Girth McDürchstein on August 9, 2007 11:22 PM
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August 10, 2007

Tour Blog: When We Hit Japan

I felt a little stupid wearing the pith helmet and khaki shorts, but Margo insisted. She wore the same basic outfit, although with more cleavage, and we sat across a small, private booth from a grimacing Algerian. He and Margo were engaged in a staring contest, an alarming battle of wills. This man may have believed he knew the score, but nobody knows Margo like I do, and I knew, just as I’m sure she did, that after a short time he would—

“All right,” he finally said in his musical accent. “I’ll do it.”

Posted by Girth McDürchstein on August 10, 2007 3:17 PM
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August 11, 2007

Tour Blog: Sushi Surprise

The short man had a menacing glare that betrayed his dorky Harry Potter rounded spectacles. What made such a vastly inferior specimen of manhood so terrifying to someone as large and powerful (in more ways than one) as Girth McDürchstein? The expensive black suit and matching tie? The greasy, uncombed black hair? The array of blood-encrusted tools he spread on an aluminum table next to me? Yeah, that was probably it.

He came closer, and I spat a mouthful of blood onto the dirty concrete floor. He had inflicted so much pain that I had almost gone numb; I could have spit out some teeth or my entire tongue without noticing. I merely sat in the uncomfortable ergonomic stainless-steel chair, hands wired together behind my back, and waited. The short man carefully selected a new tool for this round of torment—this time, a scratch awl would do the trick. He lifted it like a delicate flower, caressing it with alarming and erotic gentleness, then leaned in and whispered in my ear. “Will you do what we ask?”

I could barely hear him. The stench of his sour-mash breath, combined with the pain and dehydration, made me feel like passing out. I resisted the temptation long enough to whisper, “Yes. Anything.”

Posted by Girth McDürchstein on August 11, 2007 9:40 AM
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August 12, 2007

Tour Blog: Master Tetsu

After discovering, for the third time on this tour that we’d been bumped, I was furious. I first called band intern Jason Fields. He didn’t answer the phone, I assume for masturbation-related reasons, so I called the owner of Messe Makuhari myself. A mysterious man known only as Tetsu, he spoke in a series of grunts and broken-English commands. He insisted that I come to his home in Chiba prefecture and personally plead for my life.

I assumed this was a mistranslation on his part, but when I arrived in the spacious rooftop garden where Tetsu apparently lives, he stood with hands clasped on a katana sword aimed at the dirt-dusted concrete floor. He wore a muscle shirt and loincloth and nothing else. His shaved head gleamed in the sunlight dripping through the grated ceiling. His nostrils flared upon my arrival, and I heard him growling like a mangy dog.

“Huh,” I said.

Posted by Girth McDürchstein on August 12, 2007 10:17 AM
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August 15, 2007

Tour Blog: Stirrup Nation

I’d be lying if I said the Stirrup Nation gig didn’t disappoint us. It never occurred to me that it’d be a tiny, smoke-filled strip club. Maybe I should have seen it coming, but you know how Japan is—they just arbitrarily string English words together with no rhyme or reason, in much the same way that confused art students have Japanese-character tattoos of things they think mean “Poet of the Sea” or “I ♥ Marijuana” or “I will die penniless and soaked in gin,” when in actuality they mean things like “I enjoy the flesh of small children” or “Reinstate the Draft!”

Normally a strip club wouldn’t bother me, but I felt we were lied to—when we booked this gig, the promoter assured us it was an arena that would seat 50,000. Barely 100 people crammed into the tiny room, and before long many of them were distracted by the strippers. In fact, for much of the show we were distracted by the strippers. They do quite a few things differently in Japan than they do in the States, and strip clubs rate among them. I’m sure you don’t want the details without photographic evidence, and unfortunately none of us thought to bring cameras, but let me put it this way: they don’t call it “Stirrup Nation” for nothing. I’m pretty sure I saw at least two colons—as immaculate as the rest of their bodies, I must admit.

Despite our popularity, the only interest generated in our performance came from Margo’s quick thinking—about half an hour into the set, she started a striptease of her own. Inexperienced as an actual stripper or dancer, her arrhythmic gyrating and strangely unerotic attempts at pole-dancing would have instantly turned off any red-blooded American. Fortunately, we were in Japan, where American women are as exotic to Japanese men as the $15 prostitutes you find on any given street corner in a Japanese city are to us. As they pounded down warm rice wine, they stuffed ¥1000 bills into areas I hesitate to mention.

After the show, a few people—mostly the strippers—stuck around for autographs and merch sales. We used Margo’s “tips” to pay for a motel on the edge of town. We’ll be in Osaka in a few days, and I for one look forward to it. I Googled it—it’s a real place that hasn’t been destroyed and is a real arena, so I can’t wait for our two nights of magic. Any Japanese fans interested should check it out, come hell or high water.

Posted by Girth McDürchstein on August 15, 2007 2:22 PM
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August 18, 2007

Tour Blog: Osaka Flue

Crucificionados who have come to see us on our recent tour of Scandinavia and Japan may have noticed that we don’t travel with roadies. We’ve received several questions asking is why, but it’s only now that this has been relevant. It dates back to the “Thunderbird” tour in the summer of 1996. We used to travel with a full, huge crew—we couldn’t afford them, but most were such big fans they’d take what we could give them, even if that meant “nothing” (it usually did). One fateful night in St. Louis changed all that.

August 19, 2007

Tour Blog: Last Night — We Made You Cum!

After the disappointment of last night’s show, which ended after two song-halves, I was really hoping the second night—the final night of our long tour—would end well. To my surprise, I got my wish.

Posted by Girth McDürchstein on August 19, 2007 4:22 PM
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August 20, 2007

Girth McDürchstein’s ‘The Return’

Man, we’re back in L.A. and the weather’s perfect, the chicks are perfect, the sky is perfect—life is perfect. I’m just glad to finally get back to a normal place. Europe was starting to freak me out, and Japan was more violent than I thought it’d be.

As soon as we got off the plane—I can’t remember if I’ve mentioned this or not, but Hansai paid for our return airfare in addition to covering our stay at Rabu Hoteru—we were greeted by two men in black suits, our attorney Harcourt Abimelech Feinstein, and our publicist Lacey Greenwood.

Posted by Girth McDürchstein on August 20, 2007 3:50 PM
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August 21, 2007

Get Cancer

“Girth,” Margo said from the doorway, “come on, we gotta go.”

I rolled over and looked at the bedside clock: 2:30. Visiting hours ended at five, and the hospital was about 45 minutes away in midday traffic.

“Come on, we can wait a little—”

“Get your fat ass out of bed, dammit!” Margo growled. “You kept stalling yesterday and we ended up not going at all. Come on!”

She threw the blanket off me and wrapped her arms around my feet. She started yanking my legs, among other things, and I grasped the head-board. She continued to pull until I felt a weird burning sensation in my thighs. I shrieked like a little girl and finally let go of the bed. Margo grunted as she slammed against wall, rattling the portrait of us wearing matching royal-blue dresses. I fell back and caught my balls on the corner of the mattress. I gasped and reached for my crotch when Margo took advantage of my stunned state. She grabbed me around the torso and dragged me into the living room.

August 22, 2007

Debts That No Honest Man Can Pay

Feinstein’s building is down in Venice, a few blocks from the beach, in a little pink-stucco one-story building surrounded by parking lots. I parked in one of the lots—thankfully, they’re virtually deserted on weekdays, and one of them only charges $1.50 for parking during “non-peak” hours. That’s cheaper than the meter.

His secretary, a plump girl named Sheila, sat behind her gigantic desk. She looked, as usual, haggard and mildly terrified. “Mr. McDürchstein,” she said, looking pleased to see me. “Mr. Feinstein is with a client. He’ll just be a few minutes.”

“No rush,” I muttered. I set down my duffel bag and lifted the latest issue of Militant Jugz from the overstuffed magazine rack. I browsed through it for maybe 20 minutes, stealthily playing with myself. Finally, a disheveled group of middle-aged men in suits filed out of the conference room doors. Each of them wore a frown, the color drained from their faces. They resembled the ensemble from a film by the late Ingmar Bergman. In stark contrast to their colorless complexions, I noticed flecks of red liquid dotting several faces and white shirts.

Feinstein followed them out but stopped in front of the door. “Did you bring the money?” he growled at me, taking a sip from a advertial mug declaring Feinstein to be THE GREATEST AT GETTING YOU OFF!!!

“Of course.” I nudged the duffel bag full of cash with my foot.

A greedy smile creased Herc’s face. He gestured into the conference room and said, “Please, come right in.”

Posted by Girth McDürchstein on August 22, 2007 6:11 PM
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August 24, 2007

No Cure for Cancer

I’m not a doctor by any means, but since I’ve promised to cure my ex-fiancée’s cancer, I need to know everything I possibly can about the subject. I first consulted Cap’n Doucheman’s Guide to Ovarian Cancer, an invaluable resource for grappling with basic issues relating to ovarian cancer. At $24.95 retail, you could do a lot worse than a 680-page digest featuring photos, diagrams, and charts.

Click image for a larger view

Already, I’ve learned some astounding facts, including:

Only women have ovaries.
Cancer is deadly and incurable.
There is a genetic link with ovarian cancer. Since Sarah’s mom, two of her aunts, her grandmother, and one of her second-cousins died of ovarian cancer, maybe she should have seen this coming. Hindsight is always 20/20, though.

Reading the guide led me to consider two possibilities for a cure. Apparently cancer often strikes in the form of what they call “malignant tumors.” Ergo, if I can extract this tumor, she will be cured. Similarly, while it’s unclear, it would appear ovaries have something to do with female reproduction. If Sarah Goss can be impregnated by me, she will be cured of cancer. There is no way a malignant growth could survive against such a formidable opponent as my lovechild.

I suggested these two cure possibilities to Margo, and it led to a big fight that prompted her to leave. She’ll come back—she always does—but until then, ladies, it’s all yours. Until I hear from you, I’ll be working on my cure possibilities.

Posted by Girth McDürchstein on August 24, 2007 3:18 PM
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August 27, 2007

Public Relations

“I don’t even know what I did wrong,” I muttered, trying not to make direct eye-contact.

Lacey gave me an impossibly hard look—I never expected her to be such a shark with this whole PR thing. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“What did I do that was so bad?”

“I don’t know, Girth,” Lacey sighed. “You spent a month posting itemized lists of crimes you and the rest of the band were committing throughout Europe, which led to you getting arrested and escaping from a French prison and fleeing to Algeria, where you swindled $830,000 out of Nigerian scammers, then went to Japan and got involved with mobsters, played your music for five-year-old Japanese girls. You don’t think anyone here in the States will find anything…I don’t know, unseemly about that?”

“I pride myself in being honest,” I said.

PRESS RELEASE: Recently Exonerated Rocker Founds Children’s Charity

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

Lacey’s Relations
1142 Wilshire Blvd.
Suite 600
Los Angeles, CA 90017

RECENTLY EXONERATED ROCKER FOUNDS CHILDREN’S CHARITY

LOS ANGELES, August 27, 2007 — Legendary rock star Girth McDürchstien, hot off a recent tour of Europe and Japan, has put his 2007 earnings toward founding his own charity, Girth McDürchstien’s Sweet Treasures. Based in Studio City, California, the charity will help wayward girls by giving them the practical advice and formal education society has otherwise denied them.

Click image for a larger view

“It’s a really wonderful opportunity to give back after taking so much,” says McDürchstein, whose band Abysmal Crucifix is slated to release its fifth album, Girth McDürchstein’s ‘The Return,’ in November.

Girth McDürchstein’s ‘Sweet Treasures’ will open facilities in the recently rebuilt Den Himmel Clinic on Ventura Boulevard, which Christian zealots bombed in 2004. “One of America’s great tragedies is that so many girls with potential are murdered by the confused and morally unjust,” laughs charity co-chairman and Slut-Wrench Magazine founder Margo Atwater (who is also the wife of Girth McDürchstein). “Our goal is to give these girls a second chance—without murder.”

Already, the charity is not without controversy. Hank Wooster, founder and pastor of the Burbank-based Cinged Harlot “mega-church,” has promised to protest this charity’s aims and implied support of anti-Christian doctrine. “The mere fact that these musician-worshipping criminals dare to perpetuate an ideology of hopefulness to the faithless and needy—they’re simply unfit to ‘educate’ young people,” Wooster said in a telephone call to publicist Lacey Greenwood.

In response, McDürchstein says, “He can suck my big fat cock.”

Girth McDürchstein’s Sweet Treasures is slated to open its doors on September 5th. For more information, visit http://www.girthmcdurchstein.com or call the Hopeful Hotline at (310) 976-HELP.

###

Press Contact:
Lacey Greenwood
818.655.5000
laceygstring@girthmcdurchstein.com

Posted by Lacey Greenwood on August 27, 2007 2:42 PM
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Live Blogging from the Coffee Bean on Lankershim

A few minutes ago, Lacey called my cell. “Goddammit!” she bellowed. “What is your fucking problem?”

“Can I call you back?” I asked. “I’m in line at the Coffee Bean and—”

“You will not hang up on me!” she growled. “You’ll step out of line and wait until I’ve said what I have to say.”

Posted by Girth McDürchstein on August 27, 2007 3:01 PM
Permalink | Comments (0) | Cancer Crisis! | Digg It

August 28, 2007

To Hold My Tongue Speaks of Quiet Reservations…

“Would you stop trying to manipulate me, because I know what you’re doing and I’m better at it than you are?” She stood in the kitchenette, arms folded, glaring at me.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. “I’ve decided to dedicate my life to helping others.”

“Okay, asshole, you know what you should probably do? If you’re going to lie to my face, you shouldn’t write blog posts saying you’re lying to my face.”

“I’m not lying,” I said. “I read the book about cancer, and all my medical instincts tell me the way to cure her is by impregnating her.”

“Fine,” Margo snapped. “What about artificial insemination?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” I sighed.

Posted by Girth McDürchstein on August 28, 2007 5:06 PM
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August 29, 2007

Lacey’s Party

Birthdays have always filled me with a strange sort of melancholy, which is why I haven’t celebrated one since 1990. Lacey, on the other hand, loves the attention. We invited everybody we knew, except for my various arch-nemeses (why I should have more than one at this stage in my life bums me out, but them’s the breaks), to gather at one of our favorite clubs—a pseudo-dive bar called Cabo Cantina, on Sunset near Sweetzer. We’ve always enjoyed the atmosphere provided by their kick-ass jukebox, plastic-flap doors, and nachos.

Lacey met up with Margo and me at our apartment, and we drove into Hollywood. Mikey and Riffs were already at the bar, but Carl was nowhere to be found. Lacey shrugged and said, “It might be awkward.”

“What?”

“Before the tour, he tried to get me liquored up and, well—you know…”

I nodded. I knew.

“No amount of alcohol would make me fuck that—hey, Carl!”