The Radio Is Sick, And Asking For You

grave yard doom rock

Death by Party | Grave Yard: Your mom is dead, say hello to Margaret. Can I have five bucks?

Let me brake something to you…You’re dad is in a band. Before you turn to your significant other and go “Oh, that’s cool. Poppy’s in a music group”, go outside and half drown yourself in a dog-piss puddle. This ain’t good news kiddies.

Your mom left him last week. In the short time he has had to spend alone, he has turned the house into a fucking sweaty-hog mud pit of pizza boxes and old man “gazmo”. His friends came over to tell him that his increased lateness and professional ineptitude at work has forced his employer to let him go and hold on to the mini Red Bull fridge he bought for the conference room (and fought for every compliment and “thanks”).  After the assholes left, your dad started falling asleep half in, half out of the refrigerator…in the middle of finishing off a delicious two-foot sardine hoagie. He eats sardine hoagies too. Mr. provider’s a real gleaming beam of fatherhood for you, right.

Daddy befriended your childhood next-door neighbor, Mr. Hendlesbrenner.Or “Jake”, as he likes to be called.  The two of them started listening to the only records their shitty ex-wives left them after the “trial” separations. These records were made with laziness, and sound as if the engineers conditioned the tapes with swamp-ass grease. Boom, shake the room? No sir. After a little while, your pops and “Jake” began sewing ruffled vests out of old work clothes, just like the boys in Chicago used to pay Mexican chicks willing to work for Doritos used to. Shortly thereafter, the music inspired them, and they made a band, and named it Graveyard. The mired soil that their lives became inspired this nomenclature. Your dad is in a band called graveyard. He’s told me he refuses to speak with you again, and that he is now telling everyone that he, “Jake” and the other guys (all going by cool Swedish name) are in fact Swedish. But never-mind that, they all had to go to Ikea and get some new Frondelkitka chairs for their home offices, to write lyrics in. The visit left a rich stain on their minds.

However, they make their guit-boxes record well.

Light a candle, and say goodbye.
Now fuck off and get me some more coffee

-Uncle Awkward

 

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