Untitled 6
By Jon Gonnelli

I believe the year was 1996. Rye Coalition was doing its annual summer
tour. Somehow we met a girl who was house-sitting for a family in
Orlando, FL. For some reason we thought it a good idea to accept said girl's
invitation to stay at the house which was basically a more than modest
suburban, two and a half children, atomic family kind of pad. In less
than a fortnight the joint was turned into a hospice, ridden with a lose pet
rat, laundry machines that came to life, marathon showers that never ran
dry, and a hidden explicit video tape unearthed in the master bedroom.
The calming domesticity of suburbia is holistic when you're in a dirty
touring rock band. We had become so comfortable at the house that the
police actually knocked on the door to investigate the appearance of a
suspicious "handicap" van parked in the driveway for three nights.
After hours it felt as if we were on that naughty island that Pinnochio gets
sent to when he runs away where all the donkeys are gambling and smoking
cigars.We came across a video in the master bedroom called "Jennifer In
Bondage," soft core stuff with a young teenaged girl tied up in rope you'd find
in gym class. Clearly, the bread winner of this place needed a little extra
relief. Many caps were busted. The laundry became a game of who can
make their clothes the cleanest while certain people washed one t-shirt
maybe five or six times in a row. The shower became a new world in itself
where rain never stopped and being clean became the new being dirty.
The wierdest thing that happened aside from my illness, which I'll get
to in a minute, concerned a saxophone and an albino pet rat. Upon
discovering the rat, Dave finds this saxophone and tries to do his best impersonation
of his uncle Frank. He starts blowing some Jeff Coldtrain type shit all over
this poor rat's face. I mean he had the fuckin phonepiece right up to this
rat's lip through the cage and was making these nasty sounds spray all over
the place.The rat eventually has his revenge. In the end, I pay the for the
karma of the rat and our blatant abuse of this American domestic trophy. In
between, Ralph feels a little of hell's heat. During the first night, Ralph
shares a room with Rizzo the rat. He wakes up in the morning with the fucking
rat on his chest staring him directly in the eyes, head to head. There is
screaming. There is a saxophone thrown. and the sad part is, I don't
think we ever got Rizzo back in his cage.
The next night we play Tampa at the dude from Assuck's record store and
this is when the payback begins. Karma store's open Jon Chrome, come on in.
We stop at a Steak N' Shake. I eat meaty vegetable soup and some fries.
Within an hour as we get back to Orlando I get violently ILL. I am
vomiting and shitting at the same time. It will seem to pass and then I have to
shit again. This continues for close to two days. Toward the end I was
shitting out this yellow foam which I thought was bile or might have been yellow
foam. So, after two days of not being able to do anyting accept shit I
thought it best to get to a hospital. Ralph being the good friend that
he is drove me down. They shot me up with some smashing drugs and I was
out for a while. I got hooked up to an IV and they took stool samples. I had
a nurse that was not very nurse-like. She would reprimand me for moaning
or expressing any sign of weakness. I thought that was odd. When you are
in pain you moan and express pain-like symptoms. I had a nurse administer
a little bit of the enema police on my sweet little asshole. An oddball
sherlock Holmes looking doctor came back from a golf outing and stuck
his fucking thumb up my ass. And then when I got home I had the pleasure
of being analy raped by a god damned motor with a tube on the end that
pumps air into your intestines so they can look in their with little scopes
and lights. All for what? They told me I had Camplobactyr which is like
E-coli's or Salmanela's little cousin or something. Long story short,
Fuck Florida, Camplobactyr can blow me, and Karma is real man. In the end,
I understood that this was my fate. I don't have a strong ass. No one
is perfect. And to all the dudes out there that think their shit is ice
cream, you're ass is gonna go when you hit forty. Start snaking that shit
now. Prostate cancer can get you if you don't take the time to have a look
up your asses. It got Zappa. Dear colon, you shit on me, I shit on you.