Blue Cords 2: Wedding Day

ROLL TAPE...

Shaking off the dust and frustration of a bachelor party gone awry (that is if awry can be defined as an appointment with Jose Cuervo, and his minions, Jager Meister and Gold Shlager) David (aka "is it strangely pathetic that I have a hot chick but still enjoy brazenly rolling around half naked on top of shrieking jailbait allowing myself to be touched in places I didn't even know existed") awoke to the age old musical question "what am I doing waking up in the YM/YWCA at 9:00 AM wearing a fur-lined mumu and where did I get this tremendous hole in my head?" (age old musical answer: "so drink me in, like tainted wine, come bite down on my sharpened cup and taste the dreams that numb the mind", siren-song of JC and the Moonshine band). Seemingly, the Laws of Toyland were suspectly M.I.A.(missing in action), A.W.O.L.(absent without leave), and perhaps even P.O.W.'s (prisoners of war), as the degree of discomfort inflicted on the torturee (David) the previous evening was vastly exceed by the level of entertainment and sheer unadulterated exstacy afforded the torturer (take your pick) and his minions, most certainly having everything to do with the exceedingly gratuitous consumption of "not-water" to further the purpose of a teeth-gnashing, body-flinging, bone-rattling good time. After enlisting the help of an incredibly helpful yet giddily amused passer-by (oh, let's call her...Jen Wilcox) who had been told by a rather mischievous Sadistic Humour god (Let's call him Paul) that there was a family reunion over at Dave's place, Mark, (aka "Dr. Penfield I smell burnt toast") Paul (aka "what is the sound of an over-zealous singer with a piece of toast wedged in his eyesocket") Jeff (aka "toast is undisputedly the work of Satan and his followers and don't make me scrawl it in blood on this hotel bible to prove it"), Kevin (aka "toast...burning...toast is burning...toast is..."), and Stan(!@#$ toast, give me coffee!) collect David and his belongings (after the creation of several thousand sets of constantly changing and thoroughly meaningless lists compiled as a result of hours of redundant life-sucking and rarely accurate speculation said belongings were found to be - one pair of blue cords), curled him up in the fetal position, wrapped him in a fire-proof blanket, and attempted to get him to the church on time (ya I know it wasn't a church, but I didn't want to ruin the flow of the thing, y'know!).

Upon arrival, and after a particularly fun game of "how much of the guitarist can we squeeze out the little triangular window in the van before he loses consciousness", Stan, being the prehistoric one (oops, I meant to say oldest), and also having the highest ratio of "not-water" to blood, decides to tell David (whom he mistakes for the bride to be) that he needs "something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue". So David is sent down the aisle with Stan (definitely something old), a definition for the word revidescent (something new), his virginity (something borrowed: Thanks Jeff!...ok I know that was a bad one), and yes THE PANTS (something blue, or after years of wear, something that once resembled blue).

After the ceremony, and a round of hearty congratulations, the time had come for David to pass the torch, to hand down the legacy, to present THE PANTS (known far and wide as the perfect tool for finding women sadistic enough to whip a moist member into shape, and maybe even extend his waning wardrobe) to a dear and trusted friend. Seeing as one could not be found, the next best thing...Jen Wilcox (just kidding)...Mark, who had been so intimate with these pants during countless shows, was given the chance to be the wearer of THE PANTS (insert ooohs and aaahs here or in Mark's case is that ooows and waaahs). Needless to say, Mark was elated, but while the rest of the band seemed pleased, each were plotting a scheme to become the next to wear THE PANTS and therefore obtain the title of SEX GOD (or at least GUY WITH ANCIENT PANTS).

In rapid succession, following Mark obtaining the PANTS (and forcing them to learn how to fling guitar picks and frighten small children with onstage seizures), they were stolen by Jeff (who attempted to sacrifice them to his master, asking for a chance to get laid for once in return (obviously this is utter fiction, since we all know that he used to be a stripper and he'll "f!@#$n' shake it" for a dollar), pilfered by Paul (who attempted to sell them from David's front yard, to the highest bidder, payable only in undetermined yet certainly vast amounts of "not water"), and embezzled by Kevin (who simply rocked back and forth, trembling and wondering if THE PANTS had been washed, sanitized, scotchguarded, and laminated to ensure that they would remain lemony fresh for an indefinite period of time and if Jen Wilcox ever got her hands on them...). However no attempt to purloin THE PANTS was as amusing as that of Stan's, who while attempting to pillage the pants, broke a hip and was hospitalized, deprived of caffeine for days...

EPILOGUE:

The curse of THE PANTS continued until David was alerted to the unsavoury acts of his fellow bandmates, by none other than Jen Wilcox, and THE PANTS were reunited with David so they could live happily ever after... SCRATCH THAT, that ending sucks, try this one... ...and THE PANTS were reunited with David, while the offending pants burglars were tied to the back bumper of the van as substitutes for the traditional tin cans, Stan was used to write Just Married on the back windshield (face pressed to the glass, please don't ask), and they were dragged behind the van all the way to Thailand.

Overheard from behind the van...
MARK: Owwwwww! Waaaaah!
JEFF: You're going to hell David.
PAUL: Fuck YOU, Dave.
KEVIN: Oh My God! The Shop-Vac...
STAN: Damn You, Jen Wilcox

AND WHILE WE ARE HERE...
in response to recent comments from a pathetically-pseudonymed moistling who expressed some misplaced rage over comments made about the pants of one Mr. David Usher, let me forward your comment to the Apologies and Penitent Supplication Department. This department need not exist if it weren't for readers like you, because most readers of said narratives are fun-loving, humorous, and sentient lifeforms (hey, are these words too big for you, sweetie?) and do not complain about what are obviously jokes (definition for above-mentioned petulant twit: Joke...a thing said or done to excite laughter, a witticism or jest, a ridiculous thing, person, or circumstance). Hello...I'm sorry...Jaded would just love to go over your obviously grisly obsessions with David and the slander of his pants one by one...By all means lets do tequila, Jagermeister, and Goldshlager...Let's hold hands and skip through a landscape of bitterness and lack of humour with big happy smiles, inwardly sneering at passers by...And maybe later we can escape into the late night showing of the oscar winning film "Blue Cords" before sinking back into the malignancy and torture of moist fandom...Uh, right. I'd rather spend some quality time with Paul's drumstick wedged in my eyesocket. Okay?