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 :-) )