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Another pain in my ass: taking one in the keister for RockRoll glory

by Kurt Hernon

How many of you have been shot in the ass over rockroll music? Well? Speak up if you have, because as of today I am a purple heart sportin' rockroll junky. In fact, as I pound away at this keyboard I can feel another pounding – the pounding of a .22 caliber hole in my right ass cheek. It's covered in gauze that's taped to a spot on my ass that some fat old nurse had to shave with a Bic disposable razor, but the throbbing from my new “second” hole in my ass is very tangible. Thank god it was only a .22 slug – a “girly gun” – but Jesus Christ it hurts like a motherfuck! I'm not sure I'll ever be able to forgive the goddamn Murdocks.

The Murdocks? Who the fuck is the Murdocks and what do they have to do with a bullet that was lodged in your ass? A good question my friends…a VERY good question. It's a question I have been asking myself since I found myself face down on that gurney with Nurse Ratchet hovering over me with a firm grip on my ass with one hand and a dull disposable razor blade in the other.

The Murdocks, my friends, are three ne'er do well jerk-offs from somewhere in a bad part of Texas (where are the good parts?) who sent me this little four-song disc that contains a joyous racket that, while it comes across as simple killer rockroll, is quite obviously an exercise in some sort of new age mind control techniques. THAT'S how I wound up with a bullet in my ass. These sonsabitches used this music to take control of my fucking mind! This disc compelled me – subconsciously – to take over the stereo at a friend of a friend of a friends friends Hell's Angels party just to play it (see what I am talking about? ME – at an Angels party? Goddamn this Murcocks music is some seriously dangerous shit!).

We'd hardly gotten through the early and brutal glory of “Dance the Vomit Shakes” when I was approached by an eight foot tall ape, knuckles scraping the pavement, and was asked to “turn that fucking shit the fuck off” (his words, not mine!) lest he have to turn me into “the party's cunt” for those boys who “don't care where their dick goes”. Needless to say this caught my attention and startled me somewhat.

“What's the problem?” I asked the Cro-Magnon man. Not the smartest response to a threat of being sodomized by a roomful of sexually confused and repressed human gorillas, but it was my response.

“The fucking problem,” my new friend snorted, “is that when you first put that fucking fuck shit on the stereo everyone thought it was gonna fucking be fucking Van Halen.”

I smiled. “Van Halen? Really now?”

“Yeah,” the behemoth wheezed, “that first song starts just like “So This is Love?” You know that song faggot?”

“I do know that song.” I wanted to tell him how much I liked girls, but that seemed like a debate for another time and place. “And now that you mention it, that opening does sound like Van Halen! Man, you are goood! But this isn't Van Halen, it's the Murdocks and that song you like so well my big dumb friend is something called “Death of a French Whore”. I know…I know, you're thinking to yourself – wow! These guys know how to write ‘em, sing ‘em, play ‘em, and name them! Or rather, fucking name them! And you're right! These guys plow through four insanely good fucking songs in under 15 minutes on this little gem.”

I could tell that music indeed was calming this most vile of beasts.

“We all fucking hate it,” he said dryly. “And all of us really hate you.”

I shot the brut a grin. “Well then, I'll, um, I'll be moving along then. Let me just get my CD out of the stereo here and I'll, um, be moving along.”

Kong shifted his weight and I felt doom coming in on me. I grabbed my disc from the stereo and then turned and threw my beer, glass and all, into his face. Then I ran like hell.

I never heard the shot ring out nor did I feel it at first. I reached my car and took off as quickly as my '98 Chevy Malibu would allow me to. No one seemed to be following. It must have been the element of surprise; the old “hit the biggest guy and run” theory – people will either think your tougher than you look or that your crazier than Charlie Manson. Then I felt my ass throb.

I slipped the Murdocks into the CD player and turned the sound up…wayyy up. Van Halen introduced “Death of a French Whore” again and I smiled. These cats in the Murdocks are the crazy ones; completely twisted fucks that are probably survivors of the ash heap that was David Koresh's Waco camp.

“My Scarlet Purpose” howled through the cold January night. I howled along with it. “There's something wrong with these boys,” I thought to myself. Then I smiled. “Dance the Vomit Shakes” revs up and I lose self-control. It's infectious. It's insane. It's rockroll in all of its out of control glory.

The fucking Murdock's, a hole in my ass, and newfound rockroll glory…who'd have figured.

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