JAMMER5'S POLYRANT

Rants My Way

Sam’s Butt

Okay, so you’re really not interested in how we got our name, are you? Well sit your substantial derriere down, grab a keg and read on anyway, you frikin’ pig.

Sam’s the name, and playing bass is my game. I was looking to hook-up with a couple of like musicians, if any such existed, and form a band that specialized in playing a combination of Irish Dance and Punk Rock. Maybe we throw in a little bit of rap just to piss off the listeners. Not that it would be necessary, mind you; the Irish dancers are so freakin’ protective of their music anyway, I figured every time we started playing, they’d start gnawing on their freakin’ platform shoes, but isn’t that what punk’s all about?

Anyways, I placed an ad in the local paper that read, I’m looking for sick musicians. If you walk around with vomit on your shoes, if you look at people around you as flopping fish out of water, if your parents try to pass you off as a cloning experiment gone bad, and you can play an instrument, call me. 123-555-1234.

I got a couple of returns the first day it ran. The first was from a guy who called himself  Schnutz. Why did he call himself that? Damned if I know. He was way too scary to ask. Just the type I was looking for.

Schnutz played the drums. Well, he didn’t really play them; it was more like smash them. This guy was huge, as in tree-big. When he threw his sticks out to the audience, people bled. Needless to say, he was in.

The second was from some bloke named, “Eric something.” This wad actually combed his hair for Christ’s sake. He said he used to play with dominoes or something like that. Frikin loser, if you asked me. Bet he probably ends up playing country . . . gag. After that one, I didn’t get another call, so I dropped the ad because it was costing me beer money. One day was enough for me.

Now Schnutz and I were really hard up to play. We practiced for three whole days . . . well, maybe a couple of hours each day . . . and learned ourselves a couple of old standbys we could jam on most of the night.  And I gotta tell ya, we sounded pretty damn good for a bass and drum band, although the neighbors seemed to think differently until Schnutz straightened them out. After that we went around to all the clubs in town looking for a gig. We finally got one at some ignorant little dump on the East-side, which we almost got thrown out of, probably because the first drunk who asked us to play, “Secret Agent Man”, got an ear full . . . of my bass guitar. But Schnutz, living up to his size, beat up the bouncer with his drum sticks, and they let us stay and finish our set: Frikin’ awesome, dude.

After we were done, and leaving the club, promising not to return, some guy, who was really listening to our impeccable rendition of “Carolan’s Concerto,” hailed us from about sixty feet away.

“Hey dudes,” he shouted. “That was an impeccable rendition of ‘Wooly Bully’. You ain’t going to pounce on me for asking if you need a guitar player, are you?”

Wooly Bully? Oh well, this guy had on a pair of jeans that was probably thirty years old, and four sizes too large for him. I wanted them: mine were wearing out.

“Hell no,” I shouted back. “I noticed . . . Schnutz, put the trash can down . . . I noticed you giving us a good listen. Think you can keep up with us? You gotta have an IQ or something. We gotta trade pants first, though.”

“I had a teacher one time who told me I got an IQ, and teachers know stuff like that. I gotta a guitar too,” he said defiantly. I liked that: A defiant guitar player. Whodathunk? “Sure, let’s trade now,” he continued.

Right then, some assholes dressed up as cowboys came out of the club. They all jumped on our new guitar player and proceeded to stomp him senseless. Why? Who knows; they were cowboys. Well, maybe the fact he was pissing on the tire of their truck had something to do with it.

Schnutz casually walked over, bopped the three dudes on the head, picked up “Pant’s,” as I named him, with one hand, carried him back over to where I was standing, and unceremoniously dropped him.

Approximately two minutes later Pant’s jumped up and started swinging wildly, yelling, “I got em . . . I got em!”

Now Pant’s was a pretty skinny dude, and his belated display of chutzpah told me we could count on him in a crunch. Not much, but still . . . we did need a guitar player.

After we got him calmed down (which consisted of Schnutz grabbing his arms and grinning like he’d just won the friggin lotto) we proceeded with the exchange of jeans.

It turned out, though, that the joke was on me. I shoulda had him turn around, as the jeans had no butt. But all good things, yadda, yadda.

Schnutz said the first words I ever heard him say, and understood, after Pant’s and I swapped: “Sam’s Butt,” he said, pointing and laughing like a freakin’ moron. So that’s what we started calling ourselves, Sam’s Butt.

The rest, as they say, is history: We’ve been proudly kicked out of every bar in this town, and are looking for gigs down the road. Some people got no class whatsoever.

(Something I wrote eons ago having a bit of fun :-) )

August 10, 2010 - Posted by | Uncategorized

22 Comments »

  1. Hmm, lucky the hole was in the back or the band may have been called …ah never mind :)

    Comment by frigginloon | August 10, 2010 | Reply

    • Come on, looner, spit it out. We can handle it :-)

      Comment by jammer5 | August 10, 2010 | Reply

      • The Penile erectus dysfunction band?

        Comment by frigginloon | August 10, 2010

      • Now looner . . . :-)

        Comment by jammer5 | August 10, 2010

  2. I keep trying to call 123-555-1234 but all I get is some sex operator.

    Comment by bearman | August 10, 2010 | Reply

    • My ex runs that one. Figured I’d send some business her way. How long were you two on the phone anyway?

      Comment by jammer5 | August 10, 2010 | Reply

      • wat long? bearman got recruited…you can get through to him if you ask for Madam Shabooboo haha

        Comment by Susi Spice | August 10, 2010

      • EEeuwuuuwww . . . I’ll pass, thank you very much.

        Comment by jammer5 | August 10, 2010

      • haha—nice post mang :-)

        I heard if you go to Bearman’s place wearing assless leather chaps and a sailor’s hat—you can knock 3 times on his bulkhead, ask for the Honey-Bearman—and he’ll gladly let you in…hehehe

        Comment by Ron-Yves Strouteau | August 10, 2010

      • You’ve heard, or you have personal experience :-)
        hehe, again, couldn’t resist . . .

        Comment by jammer5 | August 10, 2010

      • Was it that obvious? Sorry Honey-Bearman—our cover is blown…

        Comment by Ron-Yves Strouteau | August 11, 2010

    • Damn, and here I though a good blackmail was in order . . .or was that blackmale . . .old age can be so confusing.

      Comment by jammer5 | August 11, 2010 | Reply

  3. It’s funny how you end up coining names for some people.

    I once had a neighbor who was huge. After shaking hands with him, I started calling him “Bonecrusher.” The name stuck, and that’s how our family remembers him now.

    In the military, I knew a guy who decided to shoot his friends car because he was drunk and got pissed off at the beach one day. We took to calling him “Car Hunter.”

    Comment by writerdood | August 10, 2010 | Reply

    • Don’t I know it. A guy, when I was in basic training, who couldn’t pronounce my last name no matter how hard he tried. He started calling me Screech, and it stuck until long after I got out of the service. Seems there was always someone around who knew me way back when. I even thought of suing the people who named the duffus on the TV show :-)

      Boy, did I just screw up :-(

      Comment by jammer5 | August 10, 2010 | Reply

  4. entertaining post!… and just how did you know that my derriere was substantial? hmm…oh and i gotta IQ 2. :-)

    Comment by Lynn | August 10, 2010 | Reply

    • A true gentleman never reveals his sources :-)

      And, Lynn, I’ve read your posts. You have an IQ higher than 2 . . . knuck, knuck . . .

      Comment by jammer5 | August 10, 2010 | Reply

  5. At least you won’t get too hot with them on, Sam. And think of ease of use going to the john if you arrange them just right.

    Comment by Lisa | August 10, 2010 | Reply

    • Sam has become the master of the bottomless pants. In fact, there are now two guys who are doing the same thing, and isn’t that supposed to be the sincerest form of flattery?

      Comment by jammer5 | August 11, 2010 | Reply

  6. You writing in this noir style was …hilarious. Wish I had the lingo down or I’d do it myself.

    Comment by Scott Oglesby | August 11, 2010 | Reply

    • Muchos gracias (I think that means, what did you do with my copy of Maxine, in German) Scott. And you can doeet!

      Comment by jammer5 | August 11, 2010 | Reply

  7. Any story that starts with me sitting on a keg is a good story to me! But this one was also good on account of featuring ass-less pants.
    Also, for what it’s worth, I can understand you guys ditching Eric Something, where is a bloke with a name like that ever going to get?! Not in an ass-less pants band, that for sure…

    Comment by RubyTwoShoes | August 12, 2010 | Reply

    • Ya, I heard he’s playing on the street selling pencils. And ass-lees pants are so, like, cool.

      Comment by jammer5 | August 13, 2010 | Reply


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