Screeching Weasel and Alkaline Trio, my two all-time favorite midwestern bands, sharing a stage on their home turf of Chicago, Illinois…and it happens to fall on Tony Shaddock’s birthday. Clearly, this event was constructed from the ground up with us in mind. After ordering five tickets, only three of which were claimed, Tony, Yetti and I set off on an epic pilgrimage, one that would reunite us with old pal, Doug “L’il Fart” McLaren…and change the course of history forever.
The astonishing photography and masterfullly composed captions and anecdotes herein chronicle our expedition.
Now let’s enjoy the Miami of Canada—Chicago!
On a spiritual journey to the Windy City with Yetti & Tony Shaddock.
Three guys in a car…and I’m breathin’ on Easy Street? Someone needs to spark up this roadtrip with a wet hot fart.
Who goes over my travel route before every roadtrip & makes sure to redirect me on a Dunkin Donutsless path? Whoever you are, go get raped.
We crossed time zones unscathed. Hey, 7 o’clock, we have a second chance together…try not to fuck it up this time.
Chicago arrival. First on the agenda? SUH FUCKEN REAL DEEP DISH CHICAGUH PIZZUH.
Sippin’ on a 312 Urban Wheat Ale at some Korean dive bar. L’il Fart ordered a “hot sucky” and all he got was some lousy drink in a ceramic flask. If Asian fellatio is this hard to come by (pun intended, LOL!!!!!!!!!!!!) in the Big Onion, I’m not impressed. On the bright side—according to this coaster, my Survival Kit is almost half completed…
Two down, three to go. Baby just needs a new pair of shoes, a designer purse…and flashin’ my juicy tits for some fancy beads should be easy enough in this toddlin’ town. Bring on the night!
My heart’s telling me this is a Rum n’ Coke in my hand, but my brain’s telling me it’s Roofies n’ NyQuil. I need to flee this crowded bar and get some shut-eye. I know the risk of walking these streets at night with only two-fifths of my Survival Kit…but I simply cannot go on.
No rest for the wicked. Mr. McLaren, gimme a firm floor to sleep on.
May I wax philosophical for a moment?
When you’re soaking your meat bone shaft-deep in some poon tang, you’re in a quaint village of physical pleasure the guys and I like to call “Tangtown.”
Likewise, if you and a buddy are forming a “wobbly H” with a gal, you know, having a little ménage à trois, or, in laymen’s terms, tag-teaming the ol’ broad…I’ve just determined that must be a suburb of Tangtown called “Tagtown.”
Now, it all sounds well and fine…however, after pondering this for a while over my morning coffee, I’ve uncovered a paradox.
If “Tagtown” is basically “Tangtown” with an additional person…you gain a friend, yet lose the “n”…
Is it really worth it?
After standing out in the cold for roughly an hour, desperately asking every passerby: “tickets?” or, when I was feeling articulate: “do you need tickets?”—I finally sold my extra. I lost $10 on it and missed who-knows how many bands while I was out here. Fuck you, Horseheads bums, for not taking it off my hands. “Whoa, ETC…chillax, bro. You know how much I hate awesomeness. Hey, when you get back, can you help me build a shelter incase the Soviets attack the U.S. with rainbow-colored FUN Bombs?”
A secret Teenage Bottlerocket gig after the show tonight? Free entry? Busing provided? Don’t mind if I do.
Now I’m watching Alkaline Trio. In Chicago. I’m back to rule again.
No idea what time it is.
I’m actually writing this portion in retrospect, because the battery in my phone died shortly after Alkaline Trio finished their set. This is a blessing in disguise, of course, because at this level of intoxication, I’m liable to drop, throw or trade my iPhone for a cigarette.
Speaking of which…if you’re in the Chicago school district and awesome enough to sit in the back of the bus with people of premium-grade superiority…and the seat in front of you has “www.anewlow.net for free pussy” written on it; wreathed with monstrous, cum spurting penises both uncircumcised and snipped (we covered all bases)…know your little pockmarked butt cheeks are sharing a seat once warmed by the chiseled asses of your heroes, Tony Shaddock and Eric Thomas Craven.
…though, I’ve got to be honest, I want less of this sappy lovey dovey crap and more songs about aliens, zombies and spies. Bring back The Lillingtons.
October 12th (Columbus Day)
Happy Rape, Pillage, Murder and Enslave the Indians day! Fuck you, Chris Columbus.
Crossed back into good ol’ Eastern Standard Time. 6pm October 12, 2009, it’s a shame we never got to know eachother…
Alright, gang, you can rest easy now…we’ve landed back in Horseheads, safe n’ sound.
While in Chicago, we hopped a train downtown and went to Millenium Park…only to be told by the officer on duty that the park closes at night.
Rape is already a pretty challenging sport…we don’t need the level of difficulty raised. Are we honestly expected to abduct some broad OUTSIDE the park, sneak her in past security and just use the park grounds for some sort of exotic effect? Parks are good for prowling. The rape itself isn’t performed within the perimeters of a park for atmosphere, but for the convenience of supplying victim(s), isolation, and, in the event that you take things too far, providing a satisfactory plot for interment.
Way to take the fun out of nightlife in the big city, Chicago.
Furthermore, I’ve done some research…and apparently Chicago doesn’t report its statistics for rape. Check out this city crime comparison from 2006.
I’ll tell you why Chicago’s rape statistics aren’t available: NO ONE GETS RAPED IN CHICAGO.
What kind of city has the rape record of a happy suburban cul-de-sac out of the 1950’s with a “neighborhood watch” program ? Not a very good one, I’ll tell you that right now.
Hey Chicago, go get raped.