I had originally written this great post script to our tour with NOFX, and labeled it 'Summer Vacation', or some shit like that. It was funny, and had these fan-fucking-tastic punk rock heroes in stupid pictures with this dork like me. Well… jack-off in charge must have felt it wasn't something enough, and now I have to rewrite the whole fucking thing, like a year later. If you've never met him, Mikey Snot can be a real pain in the ass.

So I thought, as a thinking man does, what really is the end result of such a three readers a year endeavor, and I realized, WARNING. I see, in retrospect, that I sacrificed an immortal punk rock life for one thing, and one thing only, THE PANTIES OF DOOM.

My bitch has these awesome skull and cross bone panties that obliterate any rational thought that comes to my 'thinking man' mind. I have met, and been drunk with, a very broad spectrum of the human race. That is no mediocre feat. It takes years of cerebra-tonic development, as well as an innate ability to identify an armed assailant. Yet, I had managed to drink with my heroes and survive my enemies, until…

One day I met this foxy chick. You know the type, short skirt, big eyes, rockin ass, and I said, "hey, how you doin." Next thing you know, I'm staring into the face of the PANTIES OF DOOM. They're perfect, as is everything in them. You know you should run, but you don't, and you're fucked. That's the end, and you may not see it coming, but it's there, and in the deep recesses of your mind you know you've cashed in.

It happened to Mikey Snot. Kelly gave him a peak and that was it. And he was a 'rock star' for fuck's sake! Like fifteen years ago! No more road pussy, dipshit Snot checked out years before the rest of us. Now I'd been with a furlong of babes, but when I was struck by the PANTIES OF DOOM, that was it. Towel in, I'm out. It comes, and it's good, but not without consequences.

Now's when you get to see these kick ass pictures of my drunk ass, JUST LAST YEAR, hanging out with guys like Sammy Town, Joey Shithead and some guy from the Misfits. Drunk? Punk rock? Fuck yes! But then, THE PANTIES OF DOOM needed a ' house, with a yard, and a garage.' I'm not pussy whipped, but after a while, THE PANTIES OF DOOM start to make sense. A lot of sense. And you start to go ' yeah, a garage would be great. I could, at punk rock middle age, learn to play bass out there.' WRONG.

This is nesting, and as sassy as the wench you bedded with may be, breeding is eminent. I've, in my long thirty plus years, enjoyed a tremendous amount of punk rock… from singing 'No Fun' with Iggy, spitting in Johnny Rotten's face, an endless string of Ramones (et al) shows, watching Henry Rollins (Home Phone # available by request) try to stalk Mikey Snot, or the twenty years of insanity in Chicago develop and deteriorate, had a good time. Somewhere, however, I got roped into everything I thought was wrong, without ever doing any thing WRONG.

So beware you little fuckers, THE PANTIES OF DOOM will come looking for you one day, and we'll see how fucking bad-ass you really are.

Friend of the Amputee