Dave flipped on the stereo and the Cramps came oozing out

epub or mobi

His band was a well-oiled rock 'n' roll machine: two drummers, two bass players, two guitar players, full horn section, and Little Richard's grand piano front and center. He strolled onto the stage to a hard-pumping vamp, wearing what is best described as a purple chiffon shower curtain. His hair was about three feet high, and he had on more eye makeup than GG Allin and Alice Cooper combined. With the help of a couple of younger, more masculine bandmates he stood on top of the piano and signaled for the music to stop. He had something very important he wanted to share with the audience. "WHOOOOOOOOOO!!!!" he squealed. "I AM THE BEE-YOO TEE-FUL LITTLE RICHARD!!!" He gave the band the signal to continue, hopped off the piano, and began banging away at a positively pugilistic version of "Bama Lama Bama Loo." After that he slid through a set of greatest hits, whooping and hollering and only occasionally stopping to proclaim his greatness or make some sort of vital non sequitur. "Look at my hands!" he screamed. "Aren't they bee-yoo-tee-ful?? Can you believe I once had to wash dishes? Me?? The Georgia Peach??!! WHOOOOOOOO!!!"

Mariconda and I had a little powwow before we left: we promised that there were to be no more bags of mystery pills on this jaunt, and no excessive day drinking, either, just our regular short beers for breakfast and however many bottles of Rioja were reasonably needed to wash down some typical Spanish lunch - say, four. Or maybe five, if it was paella day. And then maybe one, but only one, of those kooky coffee-and-brandy concoctions. But that was it until sound check. Unless we were holding some coke, and then perhaps a small line. But only as a digestif. After all, we weren't animals. We made no promises that we'd stay sober, but agreed that we'd try at least to wait until the sun went down before we started to get seriously weird.

I awoke to find a familiar anus was hovering only inches over my head

epub with thanks to the original sharer

"There was violence, blood, overzealous security knocking people unconscious, and a woman getting a face full of GG's fresh feces. With those things out of the way, it began to get interesting. After the two song set, GG made his way outside the club completely naked to the delight of the several hundred rowdy fans crowding the intersection of Second Street and Avenue B. The scene was amazing. Bottles were raining down in all directions as people overturned garbage cans and kicked in parked car doors. GG got himself dressed quickly and quietly left the scene with a few friends as the police arrived; though a throng of about sixty people followed him down the street. After several unsuccessful attempts, he and his compadres finally caught a cab that took him away."

I don't feel like I learned anything, and it's hard to give this book any stars 'cause of all the misogyny and beating up women, but I've gotta say, this scratched a certain trashy itch. And I guess I did learn something about GG Allin, about whom I've always only had vague conceptions. But yeah...it's poorly written, extremely short, pretty much totally stupid, and narratively flat, but totally trashy and fun. If you're not grossed out by GG eating his own shit and throwing it on people. - Imogen