From the Stinkhammer songbook...

The year was 1989, (or was it 1990? Whatever. It doesn't matter.) It was the era of big hair, aviator sunglasses, tight acid-washed jeans, the "Heavy Metal Power Ballad," and

Well, one day I was approached by our guitarist and our drummer, with a request. "Write us this song!" they said and presented me with the title, (and gave me a short list of words they insisted were used.) Never one to refuse a challenge, I penned the following little ditty, to be sung in the Power Ballad-style of the day. I give you now;

"I Love You So Fuckin' Much I Can't Shit."

So Fuckin’ Much That I Can’t Shit

Sitting here thinking ‘bout the time you left me on my own

Turned me from a proud young king to a lonely prince on an empty throne

Since you left me standing there on that stormy night,

Seems that nothing's able to come out right.

Since the time that you and separated,

Thinkin’ ‘bout you’s made me constipated,

I love you so fuckin’ much, that I can’t shit.

Seen the doctor he said the problem’s in my mind,

And thoughts about you make my bowels bind.

He gave suppositories but they don’t reach my heart.

No matter how deep I push ‘em, they only make me fart.

In my mind I see your face and my heart skips a beat,

And the pain it causes keeps me glued to my seat,

I love you so fuckin’ much that I can’t shit.

The night you left me hurt me to my very core.

It made my stomach tight and my sphincter sore.

You said goodbye and then just hit the road.

If you don’t come back soon, I may just explode!

Thoughts of losing you were my greatest fears.

Now your gone and I packed up to my ears.

I love you so fuckin’ much that I can’t shit.

I miss the love and affection that you give.

When we were together they were like a laxative.

Now you’ve left me and I’m tighter than a drum.

It’s been so long I’ve forgotten how to wipe my bum!

When you left me you took a piece of my soul,

But I’ll keep waiting for you, perched here on the bowl.

I love you so fuckin’ much that I can’t shit.

Chilling, I know.

Oh, what could have been...

Artificial Memories

Nieces and nephews are the best kids. You get to hang out with them, they are happy to see you, you don’t have to be a bad guy and enforce their rules, and if they act up, or need changing, or become annoying, you give ‘em back to their folks for the dirty work. Best of all, though, you get a chance to be the coolest person they know. I really enjoy this part. My niece and nephews have heard my tales of adventure and bravery from my days of shark fishing, singing in a rock band, traveling the globe, or some other story where a creative interpretation of my exploits trumped the the truth by a degree or two.

They are, however, children. It shouldn’t be too long before they realize that I didn’t actually work as a workshop custodian for Santa Claus, or see a U.F.O. landing when I was visiting the set where the roadrunner show was filmed. Plausibility is going to have to be factored into some the ol’ Uncle Chris anecdotes to maintain that starry-eyed hero worship that my ego feeds upon. Or proof of the implausible.

Of course I chose the latter. To me, coming up with evidence to support an unlikely claim seems far easier and more entertaining than watering down my stories. This is the basis of my “Artificial Memories” collection.

Chapters of my life, part 1: Rock ‘n’ Roll. I’ve sung the hyped-up tales of the days of my band “Stinkhammer” for years to the kids, (leaving out the fact that we were a collection of ten-thumbed, talentless, noise-polluters, o’course!) but now with the help of some manufactured artifacts, that band will have a sense of pedigree, forgotten, but worthwhile.

The Magazine Cover

Yes, that sexy bitch to the far right is your humble author...

Oh, sure it is simply a photoshop job, BUT it is laden with such extreme mediocrity that it probably doesn’t require too much imagination to conceive of it really taking place. It is just this “C-Average” setting of the bar that makes this artificial memory almost credible.

The Gold Record

Yeah. I actually made this. Did I mention the "too much time on my hands" factor?

Okay! A whole new dimension, here, (third, to be accurate!) Photoshop and doctored photos are one thing, but a real, live, phony gold record? That just speaks volumes! (Okay, the volumes it speaks are lies, but HEY! Truth can be subjective, too. Can’t it?) Destined to widen the eyes of the naïve!

And Coming Soon: The Video! If I can ever find the stinking tape of the sole studio session of Stinkhammer, I now have the means to clean it up, multi-track it, juxtapose some images, Et Voila! The jewel in the crown of my auditory forgery trifecta.

Yes, it is such an exiting life that I pretend to lead!

In the next showing of my collection; the memories of my career in television!!!