Cheese weasels and the death of print.

We are like totally home. I celebrated this fact by having sex thirty times. My partner is so sore! Mmm.

Our last few shows were fun. The FSU House was chock-sorta-full of dudes and babies who'd rather throw mattresses at each other than listen to music, but that's how they roll. We sold some stuff, made a bit o' money and drove on home.

The deal with night drives are this: I am almost always like, "Hey, dudes. Let's just stay the night," to which they respond, "No, let's drive." This means that I drive for sixty thousand hours while they sleep. "Bitch, wake up," I say. "I just drove for four hundred miles. "Mmmppphhh. Sleeping." "I'm serious, whore," I say. "Mprrhh. Sleeping." So I continue driving so they can get home. They are true bichos, if you speak Portuguese, and total putos if you don't.

I sort of miss the Post Office Gals guys and/or girls. We're playing with them again in March, but that's kinda far and also away. I hope we'll get to fuck then, even if they won't let me pee in their asses, the Jersey prudes that they are.

TTYL, sluts. News to come.

OH! OH!

Jared Grabb is a true mid-American hero. He made us a hearty a nutritious breakfast and now we're going to go out, chop wood and milk the sheepdogs. This is how we'll become the salt of the earth.

Last night's show was wickedly wicked. First off, we got to see many old homies and bro-mies and sweetnesses. Mel got drunk and fellated an orange. We rocked the eff out and revolutionized hardcore music forever. Our breakdowns sounded like earthquakes and our doodling like birdsong. We punched each other in the face and threw our heads back in triumphant laughter. We were as gods.

I forgot to mention that Dan was adopted by a Pound Puppy in Boston. Ask him about this.

After the show, we went to a bar and met the Hottest Girl in the World. As I'd had a bit to drink, I told her this: "I just wanted you to know that you are the hottest girl in the world." She looked as me very calmly and said "thank you," like I'd just wished her a happy New Year or given her a coupon for Snackwells. Fuck that.

Today is the last day of tour, which should be fun since our dealer plates disappeared from the van and we get pulled over every fifteen minutes. "Dan! Hide the weed!" we shout.

We're playing the FSU garage tonight, which has proven to be a blast in the past. Fun times. Good babies.

Whatever! Didn't make it!

So, hello.

We are once again in Indianapolis, and Brad is making fun of me for being an atheist. When will my persecution stop?

New England. There were shows. New Hampshire was fun. Pennsylvania-slash-New York was a big fest of people who'd rather spin-kick than listen to music, especially when said music comes thirty-seven hours after the beginning of the show. Rural Ohio was full of deceit and pot laced with wizards. Man!

Last night's show was aiight. We got some see some old friends and make some new ones and get jumped on by Chihuahuas. Free beer plus us equals total destruction of your mind.

We are now en route to paying Bradley's father back. I wonder if I could knock him out with a blackjack and make off with the loot. "Ha-ha!" I'd say. "You'll never catch me!"

Hmmm. Time to shower.

Really? Only seventy-five bucks?

We're at Daniel's very empty house right now, showering up and getting ready to head back up to New England for our New Hampshire show. Being unsupervised at this house is proving a bit tempting, since his mom looks and sounds like a post-fourth season Carmela Soprano, only hotter and younger.

When we were getting out of the van last night, Daniel's mom was like, "Were you boys smoking weed out there?" and we were all, "No, we don't have any." She then disappeared for a minute and brought us a Ziploc bag full of kind bud. We totally smoked it and started a band called the Melvins.

Both the Jersey and the Taunton shows were fun, if by "fun" I mean "totally sweet." Okay attendance but not so much merch purchase, which, when combined with a Skittle and a smile, will get us approximately nuffink.

On the way to Taunton, I discovered that Dan would let me do a slew of humiliating sexual things to him for bargain basement prices. Doing pushups while I jerk off and comment on how ripped he is? Thirty bucks.

Last night's show was drunk and debaucherous, which is the way we like it. We parked the van illegally so bandmates could visit the fabled Grease Trucks of New Brunswick, and while they were parked with me sitting inside and smoking, a drunk girl crawled into the van to use my lighter and ended up crying, telling me that her brother was going to Iraq. "I'm sorry," I said. "Take off your shirt."

Dan playing drunk is like giving meth to a kodiak.

It was lovely to have seen our TPOG pals again and even lovelier to make out with their girlfriends while they were loading. Jay kay.

I ate a muffin this morning. My stomach didn't recognize it since it wasn't Burger King.

Another house show tonight, which should be fun. The N.H. kids promised us a dance party a year and a half ago and didn't deliver, so there better be some sweet jams and brew and suds and stuff a-waitin' for us.

Will you still love me if I wet the bed?

The above is the title of Liz's book, which is funny and touching and adorable. How adorable are Kevin and Liz, you ask? Well, when he showed up to the show last night, Kevin said his tummy hurt because he'd eaten too many animal crackers during the drive from Boston. See?

We are still in Easthampton and it's raining like a mutha. Dan just fell down the stairs. I heard a ton of crashing and looked at Jeremy, then went to go check on him. "Dan, you okay?" I said. Dan said, "I just fell down the fucking stairs."

"I know," I said.

Yesterday was a day chock-full of wandering around Northampton, looking at impressionable young Smith dykes-for-a-day and wandering from organic eatery to Wicca Warehouse and so on. We then went to see "Hostel," which sparked me asking my bandmates if they'd let me mutilate them for 50 grand. They are tiny manginas and declined.

The show was okay. Not a lot of dancing, since my feet were frozen into my Manolo Blahniks, but we played aiight and got to see Animal Hospital. Kevin's new stuff rules the school.

Oh, great. Brad just walked in. No more fun, anybody.

We're going to hang out in Boston today before the show and eat beans until we explode.

Epic battle to the vending machines!

So I now know the following:

1) Delaware is every bit as boring as you'd think it would be. Even the college sluts are dreary. You're like, "Hey girl, what your major?" and she's like, "Horticulture with a minor in constitutional theory," and you're like, "Okay. Tee tee why ell." The upside to Delaware is that people get insanely drunk and destroy Mac monitors with spiked bats. Downsides are numerous and include sleeping in the broken glass from said monitor destruction, plus having to be in Delaware.

2) New York is fucking fun, especially when you're me and get to eat good food and stay in some luxury-ass digs while your bandmates are swillin' Bud and sleeping on someone's floor. Ha-ha! We did the touristy thing and drove around agape until all of my band exacted revenge by falling asleep, forcing me to have conversations with myself.

3) Connecticut is a state so wee and adorable that "tear this place apart" is their state motto. Yousums a good state, Connecticut, arents you? Yes you is!

4) I am somehow getting wireless right now.

5) Once upon a time, we were in a van, musing about how Maryland is weird. "Everything just seems slightly off," we said. Just then a truck pulled up, driven by a midget who was delivering something to another midget who may or may not have tipped midget number one accordingly. We then got the hell out of Maryland before it forced us to don polka dots and speak in tongues.

We're now in Massachusetts. We play very close by tomorrow. I plan on sleeping for a hundred and thirty-nine hours. TTYL!

Fucking Diggeridooerey! Goddamn!

So we're somewhere right now. Honestly, I could not tell you where since I've had anywhere between two and seven thousand drinks. I also did some sweet heroin, smoked a bushel of crack and probably fellated a lemon tree. Damn.

Daniel TPOG and I are making a smooth jazz band that primarily covers Skynyrd. I am making this effort to reconcile with him since I accidentally impregnated his girlfriend. "Fill me up!" she said. "Fertilize me!" she said. Man. Man, oh, man did I shit the bed.

Anyway, the D.C. show was alright. Pretty much everyone in Fugazi was there, since we were playing an old folks' home for the humorless. Also, Faraquet showed up and said that we're much better musicians than them and a lot heavier. (They're secretly into chug.) Also, Q and Not U came and we beat them up, just on principle. You would've done the same.

We might not survive the night, just so you know. If we show up in the form of fat peoples' coats with bad tribal tattoos, don't be surprised.

Texting is fun if you're fifteen and don't really know how to spell to begin with. If you happen to be familiar with the proper use of the semicolon and you know how to spell "indefatigable," it's prolly not for you. But, given the opportunity, textalicious chicks can and will talk about your ejaculate, their face, et cetera, if you give them your number. Be aware.

The District sleeps alone tonight. I need to be punched to death for saying that. Or just surreptitiously be jerked off in the bathroom. Ooh. Be right back.

How to tour in your parents' Escalade.

So we're in Virginia Beach. We're staying in a luxury-ass hotel with like nine rooms and two bathrooms. Brad is watching "Real Sex 39" and I can't even hear him masturbating. That's how big this suite is. Dan is cooking a pot roast. Jeremy is in a hammock in the foyer. I'm polishing the baby grand. We are the Journey of this town tonight because off-season resort towns are inexplicably and magically inexpensive.

In a summer town like this, in a hotel like this, which is beachfront and approximately .7 feet from the ocean, you kind of wonder about the Ghosts of Springbreak Daterapes Past. How many chicks had Senor Frog sex in this room? A thousand. That's the answer. How many of them had meticulously shaved vulvas in the hope of being the next Girl Gone Wild? Each and every.

The show tonight was aiight. We rocked a bit, made some money, spent it at the titty bar and doing a Locustworth of blow, all of it off overage girls' areolas. The upside was that we got to be inspired by 15-year-old Christian kids playing commercial-core in order to get laid. If my parents bought me equipment, I'd probably go on tour too. Wait.

The Post Office Gals bought us weed tonight. We're going to smoke it and drown Buckley-style in the ocean. This will be our legacy.

I'm watching a show about Cesaerean sections. I'm not sure how I feel about this, conversational "vaginal delivery" usage notwithstanding. There are a lot of bloody babies, but it's slightly more hot than the scrambled porn.

We go tomorrow to D.C. I'm going to be the bigger man and not make a lot of Tom DeLay jokes. More our style are 10-year-too-late Marion Barry jokes that no one will get. In all honestly, we'll probably just make fun of Myspace.

Well, Diary. I love you and am unafraid to admit it. I'm also powerfully fucked up. Who knew? Heroin is like the best. K.C. was onto something.

You got nothin' on me, copper! Go Sox!

I tried to post a picture of us playing in Myrtle Beach, but I failed. Allow me to describe it to you. In the picture, I am to the far left, wearing a red shirt. I am playing a five-string bass because I suddenly joined Slipknot. Bradley is in the middle of the frame. His hair is in his face and he looks like a werepanther as he bends over and howls. Jeremy is on the far right and is making a face like someone rabbit-punched him in the throat. Jeremy is also shredding like the Foot. It is an excellent photo. I hope to share it with you some day. It was taken by a guy named Scott Smallin, whose house we also stayed with an whose girlfriend Paige gave us directions to a crazy man who could not fix my bass.

So we're in Greenville, sorta en route to Virginia Beach, where I'm going to both surf and fuck a sea turtle. Our show last night was killer. Tiny room, fun kids, mosh. We implored them to tear this place apart. They did. I slipped on all the blood and twisted my knee.

I don't have a whole lot to say about the past few days except that vodka and tenth graders go together really well. Also, making funny noises in the van for an hour is probably the best thing that has ever happened to my throat.

We played gnome football yesterday in a Chik Fil A parking lot. This was shortly after Brad went crazy and starting playing drums on our bucket seat. He was freaking out and I asked him if he was playing HellFest this year. "I DON'T EVEN FUCKING REMEMBER!" he said, which made me fall out of the van and pee my pants because I was laughing so hard.

Last night a punk rock band played, so I took a chain and began to swing it while dumpstering and burning down society and stuff.

What the fuck am I talking about, even? We're going to Virginia today.

Have you ever fucked a girl so hard ...?

So after a few days of not-so-much internet havin', we're in Athens, staying once again at Sam and Luke's, since we're true niggaz till the end of time.

The Cinci show was fifteen different kinds of sweet. Good turnout, merch sellin', and fun heavy breakdown that fucking crush you. We also got to stay at a henhouse, where clucking kept us up until the wee hours.

Were you aware that essing my dee will allow us to eff in ell? Duh.

After that, we had a day off that consisting of a bit of driving, a bit of staying, some glass explosion and shards-in-eyes, courtesy of TPOG. There was rushing to the emergency room and blood. Eyes. Sky. Knife. Face. Everything worked out okay, I guess; Danny lost the use of two of his eyes but will be okay in a few months.

Last night in Athens was kind of ass, through no fault of our wonderful Sharks pals. Equipment breakage, Jeremy yelling and me sulking ensued, but there was plenty of dee elling and ay effing and tee peeing that sealed the deal.

Tonight is Myrtle Beach, which just happens to be my favorite town of all time, except for every other town.

Flash taco! We fucking deliver!

Yeah, Chicago's cool.

So Lansing is a pretty sweet place to raise a family, I've decided. This is how I see it: I will get a job repairing trailer hitches for fat people. These people will pay me. With said salary, I will go out to singles' bars, pick out a hopefully not-so-toothless mate, buy her Wild Turkey, get her pregnant and marry her ass. I will then propagate.

It's not that bad. After Columbus, there was a drive to Michigan. We were only five hours late for the show but still manage to wreck some ass. There was a hot goth girl that might've been a guy, whom I would've willingly pleasured either way. (It's all in the cheekbones.) Alas, she was not for me.

We stayed somewhere-or-other while smoking mass amounts of superweed and drinking superbeer. I fell off the balcony and broke a toe. Kirk Cameron paid a visit. There was a slapping contest. Light bends around corners. I slept in a chair and woke up with a scalpful of hair in my fist.

Today we drove to Chicago to find a lack of show because the owner of Betty's Blue Star (not Betty) can pick the corn out of my shit and bake it into a pie. Post-cancellation, we found out a ton of kids showed up to see us, but we were busy eating dogs and drinking Old Style, just like Ben Weasel or your dad.

During the drive today, Jeremy and I colluded to make Dan stimulate himself to erection while saying dirty things about his family. For instance: "Hey, Dan. It's me, your dad. How's about you watch while I suck off your brother while he licks on your mother's clit? Oh, she says that feels so good. Then you can cornhole me with a broom handle? Sound good?" Dan was unable to show total arousal, so he loses. I came twice in my pants just talking about it.

We got to hang out with old friends tonight. We like that, especially when our old friends have beards and are suddenly huge drunks when before they silently judged us. What goes around comes around, TTR. Good times.

Mmm. There's a pool table here. I might sleep there.

Hey, goth guy! Isn't it a little cold for just a corset?

So we're in Columbus, or nearbyish. We've finally gotten on the tour, although we missed our Wilkes-Barre date due to me passing out the van after one Alize.

New van. Drives nice. Sleeps beautifully.

Brad and I have gas cans that we drink out of. Mine is named Tha Crunk Tank. His is Something-or-Other. We are gay together.

The show last night was aiight. Hecklers didn't like being counter-heckled, especially when they're easy to make fun of; i.e., clad in velvet corsets and jack boots. I would've licked them, given the chance. So yeah.

The feel-good song of next year will no doubt be "Dog Nut Butter." Ask us why.

Old acquaintance, motherfuck, and a hundred dollars worth of forget-me-now

I could say that I've been this hungover before, but I'd clearly be lying through my teeth. Everyone in the band is great pain. Thanks, alcohol!

New Years Eve = So. Much. Fun. We arrived at the house yesterday and started imbibing immediately. There was shortly rock. I wacked some kid in the face with my headstock. Brad got brained with a war-hammer. Short but sweet: kids went hog fucking wild and my doodle-doo-ing was well received. Then commenced the party, during which I administered first aid (for Anapparatus' carnage), drank a universe worth, and probably impregnated like six girls and five guys.

The fun was tempered by bro-dude douchetards who clearly hated us and everyone else who is sweet and good and were yelling sXe slogan while, you'll note, at a NEW YEARS EVE PARTY. One of the guys was clinically retarded, I think. But when it came down to it, Diary, they weren't getting kissed at midnight. Proof is in the puddin.

Dan wins in the drunk in public category. I win in the getting-my-necklace-of-hickeys-nearly-complete category. Brad wins. Jeremy died from Buttershots poisoning, but I was able to resurrect him using my warlock powers.

Item: I actually saved someone's life last night. I'm hyperbolizing, duh, but I was told that a lot. This had to do with someone falling bum over teakettle and me preventing their brains from getting dashed using my ropily-muscled arms. Also, everyone kept following me into the bathroom because they thought I had coke. Which I didn't.

Good riddance, '05. You sucked.