The World Of Hurt Story...

I remember a bowling alley, Nellies Bowlery. The stench of stale beer and sweaty men with flowing stomachs filled the joint. Fights would break out every night over whose turn it was to bowl, or who was looking at whose girl. But the most common fight was over which music to put on Nellies jukebox. Elvis... Hank Williams Jr.... The Who? Many nights this musical decision ended in blows being exchanged, and more often than not, Nellie would have to come out from behind the bar and throw the bums out.
In a tone reminiscent of an average Joe ordering breakfast at the local coffee shop, Steve Fowler said: "Hey thanks, I always wanted to play the bass while standing perfectly still." The man in a purple top-hat who, only moments prior to the time in which Steve proclaimed his blasé gratuitous commencement, had sprinkled crushed yams across Steve's shadow and declared,
"Henceforth you will be the most torrid bass player this side of the other side", tipped his vivid chapeau, said "Welcome Capn'" and faded into the loving embrace of a 2 a.m. Southern California alleyway.
"Hey Dale, let's go play baseball," "Nah, I'm gonna' go practice my guitar." "Yeah, you'd better, you need the practice."
It was really very sad. Dale would practice and practice though he still stank. He tried guitar manuals, watching other guitarists, and even praying to false gods, but to no avail. One afternoon Dale decided that it would be a splendid day to dig in the dumpsters behind Earl's Meatloaf Heaven. Dale frequently searched peoples' trash. Not out of necessity, but rather as he put it, "What the fuck, people throw out good stuff. It has a somewhat unpleasant stench, but what the fuck, you clean it up and it's yours. Dale a 'rummaged and a 'rummaged until he was satisfied he had gotten everything worth getting. On this particular day: a cracked coffee mug with a half rubbed-off Rotary Club logo, a citrus reamer, two packets of lemon-scented moist towelettes, and a T-shirt with a "You Are Here" logo on the front and an interesting crunchy stain on the back. As he proceeded to exit the dumpster, he slipped on a mound of Earl's Celebrated Hickory Style kidney beans and plummeted four feet to the ground at which point he was abducted by aliens.
Dale said "Hey neat aliens" and conversed ever so briefly with them. They told him to never sleep with a girl who has a tattoo of a dagger on her left shoulder, never to look directly into a bowl of cold lentil soup, and to pursue music. It was suggested by their head cheese the he present to them the citrus reamer in return for which they would give to him the gift to write music and to play the guitar like crazy. He accepted... but was sad to see the reamer go.
What the hell. John started playing drums when he was nine. No aliens, no demigods blowing their little holy gifts up his ass. Nope. He practiced until his hands were bleeding and his rump was dripping with sweat, then he wrung out his trousers and played some more. What's wrong with good ole' fashioned hard work when the result is a seemingly unlimited arsenal of talent? And plus, he makes one helluva noise.
Ah fate, that convenient little bastard who arranges everything. As fate would have it John was in Connecticut because if he wasn't this story would make little sense. Steve was visiting a rich aunt in Connecticut and Dale lived in Connecticut. They were destined to meet. Their unlikely rendezvous? A 7-11 at midnight. Dale went to the local liquor outlet for a slurpee and some jerky. Steve for some Hostess Snowballs and some jerky, and John simply for some jerky. Their tastes for jerky being similar, they all grabbed for the thai beef flavor at the same time and the rest is musical history.
Nellies Bowlery is now a peaceful place. The bowlers hurl their spheres at the pins in ceremonious glee. Arguments are a thing of the past since World Of Hurt arrived on their jukebox.

- Doopah Bongaloochie