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July 2008 Archives

July 4, 2008

Fourth of July

I stood in the baggage claim, waiting for Margo. It felt like years had passed since the last time I’d seen her, even though it had only been a few weeks. For those not keeping up with the blog (or the trades), she was offered a one-off guest appearance on an ABC series called Black Belt Irish last season. Her character, a sexy Canadian arms dealer, proved so popular, they’re giving her a six-episode arc to launch the new season. She’s been off in Wilmington, North Carolina, shooting episodes. The combination of 18-hour days and our recent marital problems have prevented us from speaking much, which I guess is why it feels like she’s been gone forever and a day.

July 6, 2008

Weighted Lure

“You’re fat,” Dean Charleston said abrasively.

“I know,” I replied softly. “I’ve been out of the limelight too long… Margo loves me the way I am. So does Perdida.”

“Unfortunately,” Charleston said, “they’re not accurate gauges of what America’s youth wants. There’s a documentary you should see called Bigger, Stronger, Faster. The takeaway from it is that both boys and girls respond to men with ripped abs and bulging biceps. You used to have them. Now you’re a ball of failure and stretchmarks.”

“What do you want me to do about it?”

“Diet and exercise.”

“But—”

“I’ll be sending a dietician and a personal trainer by your apartment this afternoon. Be there.”

I nodded solemnly.

“Dismissed.”

July 10, 2008

Dirty with You

Hey, assholes. You fans of Abysmal Crucifix are gonna be in for a real shock. That Judas cocksucker of a hero of yours, Girth McDürchstein, has no loyalty to family or friends. He’ll fuck anything in a skirt, including the woman I love, Perdida Cheyenne. I mean, look at her. How could he do that?!

For those who don’t believe me, check out this audio clip of the deed. I recorded it with my surveillance equipment. I know what you’re thinking, because I thought the same thing, but no, they aren’t moving heavy furniture. Keep listening, and you’ll hear a few good “Fuck me”s coming from Perdida.

I know it’s shocking to think that a married man and a woman of virtue could do such a thing, but it’s the truth. I just want to set the record straight.

~Colby~

Posted by Colby Witherspoon on July 10, 2008 3:56 PM
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July 15, 2008

Studio Effects

Holy fucking Christ. I can’t tell you guys how nice it is to have Margo back in the studio. It’s a weird thing―none of us really liked Margo. Like, at all. She’s treats us like shit, always gets preferential treatment from Girth, and generally isn’t as great at playing as she’d like us all to think. Girth knows it―we all know it―but hey, not everyone can be Jam Malone. She does what she can.

But I guess I’m just defending her now because Margo Atwater is a breath of fresh air compared to Perdida Cheyenne, who’s worse than incompetent―she’s dumb as a fucking rock and obsessed with the sound of her own voice. I know she’s hot, and I’m sure that’s why men in the entertainment industry “respect” her so much, but come on… Don’t people have to have at least some talent? Like Kathryn Bigelow―she’s quite a looker, but she also directed Point fucking Break. There’s a lot of talent inside that super-hot body. But Perdida? She’s got nothing in her but rhymes and irresponsible AIDS conspiracy theories.

Anyway, now that Perdida’s gone and Margo’s back, we’re actually making some headway with the album. I’m not convinced it’ll be… Oh, what’s the word I’m looking for? Right: good. It may not be good, but at least we’re making a record. And yes, guys, this record will come out.

Posted by Carl on July 15, 2008 3:56 PM
Permalink | Comments (0) | Colby & Perdida Mildew Recording Artists | Digg It

July 16, 2008

Mistaken

I wanted to believe he’d changed. I guess that’s what I get for having some faith. I should have listened to my gut: once a liar, always a liar; once a cheater, always a cheater. I just… I don’t know. I thought he could control himself. If not for my sake, then the fact that, until recently, he’d had major troubles getting it up… But now he can. For her. It was never me. The past two weeks, every time he stuck his cock in me, he felt the moist, yeast breeding ground of one Perdida Cheyenne.

I couldn’t take it anymore. Things had been going so well, I thought, “Okay, I can check out the blog again. I’m sure I won’t find anything egregious.” Instead, I find nothing but stories about cavorting with Perdida, then fucking Perdida, then trying to hide said fuckfest from me. Thank God for Colby―at least somebody in the Abysmal family has some spine and dignity, although I wish he’d come to me directly instead of posting it for the fans.

After reading what I read, I waited for Girth to get back from the gym and confronted him. He tried to squirm his way out of it, but this blog will always remain his fucking downfall. How can you deny shit when it’s all printed out for the world to see?

I told him I was leaving. Yet again. I’d already called Lacey and arranged to stay with her for a few days.

“No,” Girth said. “I should leave this time.”

“Fine,” I said. “Get the fuck out.”

He stood there, eyes tearing up.

“Now!” I screamed, throwing a prop M-16 from Black Belt Irish at him.

He batted it away, glared at me for a moment, and then finally left.

I haven’t heard from him in a few days. He canceled recording temporarily. Rumor has it that Carl and Mikey wouldn’t take him in, so he’s stuck with Riffs. He fucking deserves it.

Posted by Margo Atwater on July 16, 2008 3:57 PM
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July 21, 2008

For the Record

“Jesus Christ,” I griped, “I just want to write some fucking songs together, as a team.”

“Well, who’s stopping you?” Margo growled.

“You are!” I roared.

“Fuck you, Girth!” she shouted.

The boys’ eyes shifted back and forth, as if watching a tennis match. In the booth, Carlos Ueberschaer looked bored as fuck. I hated doing this in front of them, but what the fuck could I do? Margo decided to show up to help us write. It’s not my fault she can’t stop from being a fucking bitch. Well, okay, it actually is my fault, but I like to keep my private life separate from my work.

“Calm down,” I said softly. “Let’s just quietly work on the next song. Where did we leave off, Riffs?”

Riffs checked his notes. He looked up uneasily and said, “I don’t think we should work on anything new. We should just go over the stuff we’ve written and figure out strengths and weaknesses, you know…”

“Nonsense,” I said. “I’d rather get the whole album done, then time it out and maybe play it live to see what works and what doesn’t. So where are we?”

With a heavy sigh, Riffs said, “‘Lusty Bot,’ in which LIN-9660 discovers Kalos fucking Chery and is so overcome with jealousy, he reports her to the Robot Overlords at GlobalSyn.”

I looked to Margo, who sat in silence, quivering with rage. Smiling weakly, I said, “This is a perfect time to get the emotionality right.”

She leaped to her feet, lunging at my awesome new Kustom amp. Shrieking, Margo plowed her fist right through the fiberglass cabinet case. Billowing smoke followed a thick electronic burp, but it didn’t seem to affect Margo. She stood up, looked mournfully at her bleeding fist, and stamped out of the studio.

“That could have gone better,” Carl observed.

Ignoring him, I stepped into the dark hallway and called after Margo, staring at her shapely ass as she sashayed away. “We could really use your feminist perspective on this…”

Not turning around, she riposted with, “Why don’t you call Perdida fucking Cheyenne for your fucking feminist perspective?”

What the hell do you say to that?

Posted by Girth McDürchstein on July 21, 2008 3:57 PM
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July 25, 2008

Best Laid Plans

Last night, Riffs got tired of me sitting around his apartment, feeling sorry for myself. He said, “Come on, buddy. I got a surprise for you.”

A surprise indeed. He drove me into Glendale to an old club I used to frequent, the Sunset Strip. I hadn’t been there since I encountered the woman I thought was my daughter dancing there and had sex with her. Coming back felt awkward, but as soon as I was bathed in the soft neon and noisy DJ patter, I felt better about it.

“Private dances are on me, man,” Riffs said encouragingly.

“What am I supposed to do here, Riffs?” I asked. “Margo is pissed at me for fooling around on her. How is fooling around on her even more going to solve anything?”

“Fuck, man. It won’t solve shit―but it sure will feel nice.”

July 29, 2008

I Write the Songs

Walking into the Paint Shaker this morning, I was shocked to hear odd, foreign sounds emanating from the studio where we’ve holed up to write Girth McDürchstein’s ‘Fuck Machines.’ Since my problems with Margo, Mikey and Carl took it upon themselves to begin writing songs for the album, as if I wouldn’t mind. I entered the studio space, livid, and they clammed up immediately.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Just jamming,” Mikey said.

“Jamming… With lyrics I wrote for Fuck Machines?”

“Mikey actually has some pretty solid ideas, Girth,” Carl said.

“Let me guess: the bass gets a prominent melody while the other instruments get buried in a swirling wall of sound?”

“Uhhh…” Carl responded.

“Look, motherfucker,” Mikey interrupted. “We gotta get this shit done. If you aren’t gonna do it, somebody has to. You don’t have Jam to clean up your messes anymore.”

“Fuck you!” I exclaimed, sounding a bit whinier aloud than it did in my head.

“Good comeback,” Carl said.

“I don’t mean to be a prick,” Mikey said, “but I believe in this project, and I believe in making money off of it, so we have to finish it this time. If that means Carl and I have to write all the songs, so be it. But you have two choices: pull your head out of your ass, beg Margo to take you back, and get both of your asses back in the studio to finish writing the album, or suffer the humiliation of a co-writing credit.”

“Fine,” I snarled. “I’ll see you tomorrow―with Margo!”

As I stormed out of the studio, I heard Carl chuckle and say, “I can’t believe that worked.” I didn’t know what he meant by that.

Posted by Girth McDürchstein on July 29, 2008 3:58 PM
Permalink | Comments (0) | Colby & Perdida Mildew Recording Artists | Digg It

July 31, 2008

Clean Break

“Margo,” I pleaded from the other side of the door, “there’s just something you have to understand about male biology. I need to get off, and sometimes my hand just isn’t enough. But you’re the one I love. You’re the one I married―baby, it’s always been you.”

I heard the locks click. Margo opened the door a crack. She looked super-hot.

“You need to prove it,” she said sternly.

“How? I’ll do anything!”

“Go to that fucking cunt Cheyenne and make a clean break. You’re to never see her again, even if I end up on The State of the Union Is Bonkers. In fact, I hope I get that part just to dangle that forbidden fruit in front of you so you can continuously prove your loyalty, you little rat son of a fuck.”

“Fine,” I said. “You want a clean break―I’l give you the cleanest break you’ve ever seen!”

I didn’t care that what I said made little sense. I just needed Margo back. I drove to Perdida’s apartment in North Hollywood and banged on her door. “Perdida!” I shouted. “We need to talk!”

Perdida yanked the door open and immediately jammed her tongue down my throat. I tried to pull her away, but she yanked me inside the apartment and slammed the door.