News Digest: Bedroom and Bathroom Become One, Bunny Hops the Fence
•Bunny’s synthesizer count has hit nine. He traded his monolithic Yamaha CP-30 for a much more portable, much more versatile, and much more ’80s Oberheim Matrix 6R. Can you say “Prince?” A good portion of his axes have also not been named yet, so if you’d like to submit you or your cat’s name for consideration, please contact us.
•Vostok 4 had a show in Somerville recently. After the set, Timmy Boit started feeling a bit off. Whether this was due to the enormous burger made from a solid chunk of cow ass that he’d eaten, an excessive alcohol intake, or the steadily increasing Yah Dude contingent at the venue, we do not know. However, as a result, he decided to go take a nap in the back of his car. After an hour of this, he felt the need to visit ye olde restroome. Rather than use the plumbing at the venue, though, he went home, which was mere minutes away. Upon reaching his throne, King Timmy of Boit fell asleep. On the throne. It was only after his wife banged repeatedly on the bathroom door yelling for him to get his stupid ass up that he awoke and rejoined the party.
•Bunny recently, for the first time in about six years, set his sights on a girl. This girl was in attendance at the aforementioned show. During a subsequent set, the two of them were dancing together when she gave him the old “come hither” wag of the finger. Uh oh. He leaned in, and she told him, “I hear you have a crush on me.” Oh God dammit. How did this hit the wire service? She promptly threw Chunky Dog under the bus for spilling the beans, even though it was later revealed that her sister had told her. After many compliments, she turned Bunny down. Oh well. Guess it’s back to the old hogan.
•Further on the subject of Bunny’s love life, he has permanently extricated himself from the hideous maw of online dating. He leaves it to the teeming masses of boring yuppie cocksuckers, Family Guy-watching grad students, and fat broads, and puts his undying faith in the goddess Fortuna. It’s like they used to say on that Chef Boyardee commercial, “good meals take time.”
•The gang was out for drinks one night at the Publick House in Brookline. While we enjoyed our stouts and Pilsners, a group of serious Yah Dudes gathered outside—Brookline seemed to be overrun with Yah Dudes and hipsters that night for some reason. The Dave Matthews fans started horsing around outside our window, undoubtedly getting out their pent-up homosexual frustration while saying “no homo” to one another. The roughhousing got increasingly forceful, as the effects of the Long Island iced teas reduced their inhibitions. One of them, a fat disgusting lummox, picked up a nearby traffic cone and hurled it at another of the bros, hitting him square in the face. We all cringed. The game had changed. The victim started bleeding from his eye. The Fat Fuck, however, seemed to show no remorse and egged his opponent on further. They took the fight to the street, and just as the others hailed a cab to hightail it out of there, Bleeder threw a mighty punch at Fat Fuck. Their comrades held them away from each other. Bleeder tried to board the taxi, and so did Fat Fuck. The cab driver was having none of that, though, and promptly kicked the two of them out before speeding off. I wonder which one lost their butt-virginity that night.
•Unbeknownst to most people, Cutty is currently in space. To his crack team of spacemen, he is Col. Foster, commander of the Sidehatch 8 deep space exploration vehicle. We have recently received a video communiqué from the mission, which Chunky Dog has edited and turned into an important documentary and public service announcement on space safety. It can be viewed here.
•Bunny’s guitarist down in NYC is dating Jon Bon Jovi’s daughter.
•The Reverend and Chunky Dog’s landlord got married recently. Despite, or perhaps because of this, he continues to wither away, an empty shell of a man. He now whiles away his remaining years doing things like placing useless folding tables in the foyer which prevent our door from opening all the way, and when we move said table out of the way, he posts a passive-aggressive sign with something to the effect of “TO ALL TENANTS OF (OUR ADDRESS), THIS TABLE IS FOR PACKAGE AND DELIVERY RECEIVING. PLEASE DO NOT MOVE IT. SINCERELY, JOSEPH (OMITTED), LANDLORD.” Seriously? There are only two other apartments in this house aside from yours. You couldn’t just tell us that to our face when you’re out on the porch on a Sambuca drunk at 2am checking the emails you never receive on your iPhone and we come rolling in from Videodrome or the Kowloon all tore up? Eat a bag of dicks you mutant. Send your zombie bride’s ritalin-addled hell-spawn off to reform school while you’re at it.
•Cutty and Bunny, before he left for space, were enjoying a nice lunch from the Brookline Spa one day. They were eating it in the living room while watching Top Gear. As Bunny leaned on the couch, he felt a wetness on his right elbow. At first he thought that part of the cushion was just colder than the rest of it because it was in the shade. No, this was definitely moisture. He then remembered: someone had crashed on this couch the night before, a friend of MM+TK, our fourth roommate. Bunny immediately thought the worst, so he bent down and gave it the old whiff. Sure enough, it was urine. Piss. Peepee. Tinkle. Lemonade. Good Lord, the guy had pissed our couch. Who does that? Chunky Dog has repeatedly affirmed that in all his years of getting bodaciously soupy, never once did he wet himself while asleep or awake. So he went to MM+TK and told him the situation. He immediately felt bad about it and initiated the cleanup procedure. As of this writing (two weeks after the fact) the foam cushion is still wet from being doused with the shower head, so when the honeys come over and see the couch is short a cushion we have to make up a story about how we donated it to the local homeless shelter on our way to bring our latest book of haiku to the publisher.
