4 17 2002


When I was 15, I met Sean. He was roughly 20 years older than me, and had just been discharged from the Army. He was handsome, polite and worldly. Well, at least to a 15-year-old kid he was. We began dating and he introduced me to certain 'rules' that I was required to follow if I wanted to stay with him. One, I was never allowed to discuss our relationship with anyone else, and two, we were under no circumstances to have sexual contact beyond kissing.

Our relationship progressed, and I came to realize that he was an absolutely miserable person. Our 'dates' consisted of the Shoney's buffet and watching Heavy Metal over and over again. As I got older, I decided that this was not a relationship that I wanted to continue. About 3 weeks before I finally broke up with him, he asked me over to his apartment. We were watching some sort of soft porn and I excused myself to use the restroom. I don't remember what I ate that day, but I know it caused a very unpleasant rumble in my stomach, and I hurried off to the bathroom.

While I was in the bathroom, Sean knocked on the door, 'Angel, the pipes are messed up again, don't flush the toilet.' Well, shit, I didn't know what else to do, so I rather shyly answered, 'Uh, Sean? Well, I already, went.' I heard him chuckle outside the door and he answered 'don't worry, I'll take care of it'. I finished my business, didn't flush, and when I came out of the bathroom. Sean went into the bathroom with a toolbox, and shut the door behind him, explaining that he didn't want any water to get on the carpet, in case the toilet overflowed. I went back to the living room, flipped the channel and watched Jerry Springer for about 20 minutes before I decided to check up on him and see if he needed any help.

I headed down the hallway, and opened the bathroom door. The first thing that hit me was the smell; it stunk like, well, shit. I looked over at Sean and saw that he had brown smeared all over the lower part of his face, and was holding in his fist the deposit that I had just made to the porcelain bank. I gagged and turned to run, but before I could get out of the door, Sean managed to open his shit covered mouth and spew out, 'Angel, I know this looks bad, I was just so curious, don't be grossed out, its natural'. I shut the door, ran out and rode the bus home.

I eventually had to go back to his house to pick up my wallet. I stood in the kitchen, frantically searching so I could get out of his apartment as soon as possible, when he approached me and leaned forward, I tried to turn my head, but apparently my reaction time isn't all that great and his lips brushed mine. That night I washed my face for a little longer than I normally do, and spent more time brushing my teeth, paying special attention to my tainted lips.


FILED BY: JAMIE 6 26 2002

I was thirteen when I saw the biggest dildo in the world. The funny thing is I didn't know that large rubber dicks existed before that. And it's not like I went out that day searching for cock. My geeky teenage innocence was lost because all my friends enjoyed going into the woods and smacking the shit out of each other with sticks.

My friends and I grew bored of the slow action and detailed scenarios of Dungeon and Dragons so someone had the brilliant idea to go to the local nature center and act it out in real life. Frustrated by the social elite and girls who wouldn't talk to us we'd take it out on each other every weekend by fashioning swords out of broomsticks with bicycle grips on them. We weren't that bright and found that getting hit with a broomstick really hurts so after the first time we came back with cardboard under our clothes to act as armor. We soon learned that cardboard doesn't make very good armor but every time we went, we got better at venting our teenage rage while getting hurt less. It was our adolescent nerd fight club. The first rule of this club was inflicting more pain than you got. The second rule was try not to cry, which I always had a problem with.

So one weekend our group set out to the nature center on our bikes. We were all decked out in battle gear. Some had batting helmets and goalie pads: others had trash can lids and spiked cleats. We were serious about beating the shit out of each other. We rode down the flood control trench to the back of the fenced nature center and parked where we'd cut the chain link months ago. Everyone stashed their bikes and locks them to whatever they can find sturdy enough. And then life changed forever.

Jay Chubb was locking his bike up away from all of us because we'd been chased out of there before and he got caught. The whole crew was waiting for fat Jay to hide his bike and get back to start the bloodshed. And Jay didn't disappoint when he came out of the bushes with a ten-foot pole. I'm thinking, "How I'm going to defend against a halberd?" when the laughter started. On the end of Jay's halberd was an eighteen-inch dildo bouncing madly as he proudly marched out with his new weapon.

Jay had gone back into the bushes and stumbled on a hobo camp. He explained that amongst the sardine tins and empty bottles of Night Train he saw this rubber cock. He immediately grabbed it, found a pole to stick it on and thought he had a great new weapon to fight with. Who wants to get hit in the face with a plastic penis? Jay had won. He was the new King of the game.

This amazing discovery killed the game right away. This thing was at least a foot and a half-long and serrated, so it may have been double headed at one time. It was thick as a half gallon of booze. And it had a hollow center slightly larger than a broomstick. Our weapon of choice - and it fit perfectly.

Not once did we think where it came from. We never considered where it had been. We tossed it at each other and took putting it in our fly so it looked like we were hung like an elephant. And we named it Willie.

And that started our adventures with our one-eyed rubber friend.

I look back and wonder whom Willie belonged to? Why someone would need something that big? What kind of diseases the rest of them got from it? And where did he go? I guess we lost him later after many adventures. After Willie was found we discovered that we had the same thing but smaller and wanted to put our tiny thing into something that looked like a girl. We stopped hurting each other and started shitting on people's porches. And Willie was always there, left behind with a steamy load of poo. Willie the Thermos Dildo was the first member of the Shit List Raiders.



It came down to this; we had something like four months' worth of gigs booked, averaging four shows a week, and they wanted me to play them out. Mike and I were the two people who were critical to the band's identity and ability to perform, and there would be pissed-off club managers and patrons if they tried to do it without both of us together. They had spoken to Mike about it, and he was unwilling to call me himself (wise move), but had instead suggested that they talk to me about it.

Besides the fact that I didn't want to let them down, it was extremely tempting to not have to get a job for another three months or so. Also, I had personally booked most of those gigs, and I wanted to maintain my relationship with the club-owners for my next band, which had already been started. So I 'allowed' myself to be persuaded, we smoked a lot of pot, and everybody was happy.

The next three months were kind of strange, but they went fast. We all had our little projects that we started in the ashes of the band; I had my original act (which was what I wanted all along) and had taken Obi-Wan with me, Mike had his cover act, and Rob and Darrel (who were best friends) put something together of their own. Meanwhile we all played out the old gigs, and we pretended to be friendly with Mike more than usual, and vice-versa. After a while, it became less and less pretense and more genuine, as we rediscovered that Mike was actually alright, as long as he wasn't our problem and didn't have to be taken seriously.

Although I was friends with Rob and Darrel, and looked out for their interests whenever possible, there were several reasons why I did not ask them to be in my new band. Not only was I worried about Darrel's drinking, but Rob was also unable to get most of the rhythms and dynamic changes that were integral to my music. Left in his hands, almost every song would come out in 4/4-time, at the same volume and tempo. He was, God help him, pretty damned unhip, and Obi-Wan complained about him incessantly. Rob and Darrel came as a package, anyway, so that was that.

Also, I had been playing for some time now with Obi-Wan, a fantastic bass player named Kenny Play (no, I'm not kidding), and this simply incredible guitarist named Beth, none of whom drank at all, let alone in life-threatening amounts.

Rob and Darrel, as I mentioned previously, began their own thing as a partnership, with Rob as the titular leader. Darrel was not a leader in any sense of the word, but he REALLY should have bestirred himself to take the reins of this runaway mule-cart. A lot of bad things could have been prevented that way.

But hindsight is perfect, or so it is said.

In addition to Rob and Darrel, the lineup included a lackluster singer named Billy who couldn't even hit all the notes of most of the songs he sang (although he was good-looking, enthusiastic, and affable, which probably motivated their decision), and a drummer named Gary who was, quite simply, an almost intolerable idiot as well as a third-rate drummer (Blind Pilot had hired him previously for the space of two gigs after Mike had obnoxiously and memorably pissed Obi-Wan off to the point of quitting for a while. He had been amazingly bad, so I made Mike kiss LaHoda's ass until he agreed to come back. Gary would get drunk and delusional at every gig, and threaten monosyllabically to start fights with everyone while gesticulating wildly, until the night that Darrel kicked his ass. Since any band is only as good as its drummer, they were fucked). Not a promising crew, to say the least.

Rob asked for suggestions from his people (and, surprisingly enough, from me; mine were all dismissed as 'too obscure' or, 'too controversial') for a name for the band. A lot of really bad ones were tossed around; he ran the list by me at one point, and I responded noncommittally while a voice in my head screamed in uncontrollable horror. Finally Darrel said that he didn't care what the name of the band was, as long as the word "Mojo" was in it.

Mistake, Darrel, mistake.

He opted out of the subsequent voting process wherein the name Mojo Legend was chosen. My reaction when I heard that name for the first time was one of sheer revulsion, followed by hysterical amusement. I have no idea how I kept a straight face, but I did. Maybe I should have said something; I mean, friends don't let friends make asses of themselves, right? But I didn't want to hurt anybody's feelings, and it was clear from the lineup alone (with the exception of Darrel, and to a slightly lesser extent, Rob, of course) that this was going to be a third-rate band anyway, so I kept my silence.