Artist Profile: The Bear Riders, By Chucky Berry

Drunk Dan invited me to a recording studio this weekend down on Main Street where he and drummer Buttfro the Clown are mixing their debut album as the Bear Riders, titled "We Can't Get Enough of This $hit!"

I'm sitting by the console in the mixing room on a long couch, facing the back of a fella named Carl. Carl is the owner of the studio and its chief engineer. He sits at the mixing board under the blinking eyes of various electronic "outboard equipment" stacked around him. He has a ponytail and he's wearing sunglasses and he smells like maple syrup (but in a bad way).

A song comes on through the big speakers that hang from the ceiling. "This one's our ballad. Kind of a Sammy Davis Jr. thing" Drunk Dan says between gulps of Schaefer beer. He mouths along with the lyrics:

"Smoke 'em of you got em. And if ya hit rock bottom, don't be so cruel to your mistress, that you forget about Christmas..."

Buttfro the Clown sits in a swivel chair, head turned down nodding to the beat. He momentarily lifts his face with a grin each time one of his drum fills is relayed through the big system. He congratulates himself in whispers; "bingo." "right on the button." "nailed it." "king buttfro."

But the mood in the room is tense and austere like a courtroom trial. And in this court Carl reigns supreme.

Drunk Dan sheepishly tosses his requests to the back of Carl's head in the form of rhetorical questions. "Say Carl, what if we throw in just a little more reverb, or possibly echo, on that background vocal?"

"If it wants it." Carl says expressionlessly.

I ask Drunk Dan what that means. But he looks at me and shrugs his shoulders. "Uh...If who, wants what?" I ask out loud.

Carl swivels his chair around to face me and deadpans "Uh, the song? And uh, the time based digital delay effect?"

It was then that Drunk Dan, in true fashion, threw his can of Schaefer beer at Carl's head. The nearly full can bounced off Carl's noggin and catapulted a fresh stream of foamy brew above. The can bounced onto the mixing board, erupting like a volcano on the little city of knobs, switches, and blinking lights.

I could go on with the rest of the story but that's basically the highlight. Drunk Dan threw a beer can at the guy's head!

The Bear Riders are currently looking to mix "We Can't Get Enough of This $hit!" in Schenectady NY.

Chucky Berry is a part time contributing music journalist to Chuckyberryblog.blogspot.com

Columbo yanked my chain!

Columbo yanked my chain! Columbo yanked my chain!

kr8 tha past OR head first.

ronald reagan is thought to be the great arbiter, negotioator, and father of moderate hconservatism in modern american history. One might go so far as to say that he, being a personality of hollywood, embodied the mass media ass clown way back in '83 or whatever the hell fucked up year you were born.

Fact is, around 1979, any trace of a cherry tree from 177? was replaced by a Ronald Reagan Happy Potato meal Plastic Rubber fuck toy alla George Bush 1's CIA fagggot bitch Charles Crack 2 society menthol.

Who is the baddest bruva on the block? NIGZON! ThAt's WhO!

E.M.F.

"Is that an Irish brogue I detect, Mr. Sanchez?" "No. I'm Puerto Rican." "Of course. Right this way..."

Life is like a box of chocolates: Aww, nuts!

eat my filth

Who's in charge here? No one? Ok fine now I'm in charge. Everybody's fired! You, with the sweater, you're not fired. Get me a scotch on the rocks. Now I just gotta shuffle these papers...I NEED A VACATION!

- C.B.

Chicken Allah King

I invented white chedder popcorn

Meet Chauncey, my chauffeur/ghoul

"Punish the criminal with whip cream atop his head and sprinkles atop that!" - Charles the Warden

Meet Mr. Moffit, my personal assistant, and this is his personal assistant, Mini Mr. Moffit. And over here we have Mini Mr. Moffit's secretary, Little Miss Mini Mr. Moffit. And who do we have here? Ah yes, Little MissMini Mr. Muffin Jr. Okay now that we're all acquainted let's get started shall we?

Chicken Allah King

Where were we? Ah yes, you were saying something about the typical size of a Cheetah's dick, and I was saying that I thought all Cheetahs are female, and then you poured oatmeal on my head and stole my walkie talkie, so I threw your tape recorder out the window and it landed in the pool. Later that summer we listened back to the tape and it sounded quite strange.

Monkey see, monkey doo doo.

Chucky Berry

Promise Ring, by Clement Ein

When I was 13 years old I took a family oath to remain a virgin until marriage. I believed, and still do, that to be a good moral person you must be free from impurity. So for Christmas "Santa" ; ) gave me a 24K gold Promise Ring. The ring had a little engraving in it with my initial C in the middle of a pair of underwear surrounded by barbed wire.

When I turned 17 I decided to marry my junior high school sweetheart, Rosanne, rendering the Promise Ring pointless. So the day of the wedding I went downtown to the pawn shop and exchanged my ring for $600. Thing is, that night at the hotel Rosanne ran away with the vending machine attendant before we had a chance to officially "consumate" the marriage.

So THAT is why I'm still a virgin, and THAT is why I don't have my promise ring on me. Now, where were we? Oh yes... I was about to pour you some champaign... And care for a chocolate covered strawberry? We look tense. Let's give each other a massage...

Whoops. I dropped the chocolate covered strawberry down my shirt!

- Clement Ein

The Legend of O'bama, by Chucky Berry

O'bama is Black Irish. He was born in the Jewish ghetto of Belfast, Northern Ireland, and emigrated to Hells Kitchen USA when he was 16, along with his mother Angela and his three older siblings, Malcolm, Jamal, and Warner.

When O'bama was 17 he emancipated himself from mental slavery and attended Wesleyan University in ToWniEViLle Ohio. There he majored in Intro to Socialist Behavior, and did his senior thesis on Stalin, Lennon, and the Marx Brothers.

It was on a feild trip to Chicago where O'bama met his mentor and spiritual leader, The Honorable Elijah Mahoney. "The chickens are coming home to roost!" Cried Mr. Mahoney, who operated an organic free-range farm outside his home in Detroit. Indeed they did. Later that week: Omelets.

It was here in Detroit where O'bama started his political career as an ice cream social organizer. Driving around town, he learned the crucial skills that would kick start his political career such as driving, smiling while speaking, and ice cream making.

Somewhere around 2004? O'bama ran for El Presidente De United States aka Commando in Chief. But first he had to beat Hilary Clitman in the primaries! Well that was easy enough.

But in order to win the Whitehouse, O'bama had to first destroy his arch nemesis, Minotaur John McClain. The mischievous elder statesman enlisted non other than Cindy Palin, the Alaskan Goddess of Fertility. One night O'bama, with the help of his secretary Ari Gold (from HBO's Entourage) invited Miss Palin over for a "political debate". By all accounts they had sex on the kitchen table and O'bama "fucked her stupid" according to Mr. Gold.

In his first term as Top Chef of the Union, Mr. O'bama declared war on the South. In retaliation, Fox News, owned by conservative Australian actor Mel Gibson, contracted a privately owned army of mercenaries called Black Rock Entertainment. This fighting force, mostly consisting of outsourced personnel from India, hacked the Internet and systematically deleted all of O'bama's friends.

To complicate matters, a group of Caucasians formed a new political party called The Tea Party. It's objectives were never clearly stated but the writing was on the wall: No Irish need apply.

Will O'bama prevail? Will the Catholics and Protestants finally stop their sectarian shenanigans for the love of their country for Christ's sake?

"Top of the Mornin' to ya!" Brack O'bama says.

To be Continued indeed...

Chucky Berry is a professional part time political reporter for chuckyberryblog.blogspot.com

In the End

In the end there will be Twinkies, Keith Richards, and Cockroaches. Why? Because NOTHING kills them. Now go and tell that joke to somebody and see what happens.

; )

-CC

Life of the Party, by Chucky Berry

“Syrup Head taught me everything I know,” I heard myself exclaim. The others pretended not to hear over the soft jazz music. “Syrup Head taught me everything I know” I said again. Jeff Coltsburger, yes that Jeff Coltsburger (the it boy of non- fiction) looked at me with raised eyes, tilting his head into a glass of red wine. His blonde fiancé Marta stood beside him in a tight green dress looking like a fresh two dollar bill, and just as rare. Marta looked to Jeff, “Who is syrup head, sweetie?”

“DID SOMEONE SAY MY NAME?” exclaimed Syrup Head, magically appearing in the middle of the room. He wore a light brown tuxedo, Teva sandals, and fake vampire teeth. His ponytail was dyed blonde to match his goatee which was dyed blonde as well.

“Sweet goatee, Syrup Head!”

 This crowd has never seen such an oddity. Did this strange man really just appear out of thin air? Why is he dressed like that? 

Jeff Coltsburger felt the eyes of his helpless guests land on him. An explanation was in order. This is one of Jeff’s crazy jokes right? But Jeff Coltsburger doesn’t make crazy jokes. Jeff Coltsburger hosts polite parties and speaks with a genuine seriousness about all things academic. “Pardon me, Chuck. Who’s your friend?” He inquired on behalf of his audience. “Uh, this is Syrup Head. He’s an old buddy of mine from the farm.”

“Syrup Head, show everyone what you can do.” I pleaded.

“I’ll give them an offer I can’t refuse” said Syrup head, doing his best Marlon Brando impression. Never mind it wasn’t the exact line. Syrup’s celebrity impressions can’t be beat. He puffed out his jaw, leaned his head back and hollered through his nose, “STELLA!”

Some people started to laugh. Some, like Jeff, looked on in utter shock. Syrup Head sat down on the floor Indian style and beckoned me with his finger, “What’s with these people?” he whispered. “They’re just a little, uh, confused,” I said.

“Do they know I’m made of real maple syrup?”

“Attention ladies and gentlemen. Syrup Head has an announcement to make.” Syrup Head said.

As if by magic, a steady dance beat came blaring through the stereo. The party formed a circle around Syrup Head as he got up and danced in place, laughing. I had seen this once before.

“Now you may have heard of the Charleston, and you may have heard of the skippity doo, but I bet you haven’t heard of the Charleston Chew! The DANCE, that is. Well it goes a little somethin’ like this:

You stick your left foot out, you put your right thumb down, you sit your bun on the ground, and you pull your pants down. You shake it all about and you play with your Crang and that’s uh the Charleston Chew. Now to the left, to the left, to the right, to the right. Now lick a neck. Lick your neighbor’s neck. Put her in reverse and do that thing! Now STOP! 1, 2, 3, 4, get that doodie off the floor. 5, 6, 7, 8 don’t look now just masterbate! Yeah yeah YEAH yeah, yeah awe YEAH. Do a flying headstand and land in the spinach dip. FREEZE! Get down on your knees and kiss your crotch. Go ahead now kiss your crotch. Yeah yeah YEAH yeah, yeah awe YEAH! That’s the Charleston Chew!”

And with that the music stopped and Syrup Head farted. His fart produced a 3 foot flame out the back of his tuxedo pants. The flame burst yellow and orange and looked hot as hell. “Woah!” the crowd roared. Everyone started clapping, laughing, and hugging. One person cried. Jeff’s blonde fiancé threw her arms around his shoulders. “Splendid” Jeff proclaimed with a choked up smile.

It was then that I saw the clock and realized the gravity of the situation. At 12:00 midnight Syrup Head will turn into a chicken nugget unless he is completely immersed in vodka. “Syrup! Do you see what time it is!?” “I sure do buddy. Get me in my vodka bath, PRONTO!” It was 11:58. He ran to the bathroom. “Quick everybody! We need 4 to 5 gallons of vodka!” “What are you talking about?” asked Jeff, seemingly annoyed at my order.

“I don’t think you understand, Jeff. If Syrup Head’s entire body isn’t completely immersed in vodka by the stroke of midnight, then he will turn into a chicken nugget. Now hurry. We don’t have much time.”

I grabbed the two bottles of Stoli from the snack table. “Do as I do” I yelled to the crowd. I ran into the bathroom.

No sign of Syrup Head.

“Down here, amigo!” I little voice squeaked. I looked down at the gray and white tiles below."I'm a fuckin' chicken nugget thanks to you."

"Sorry man"

"Eh, could be worse."

I suppose it could.

And THAT is how Syrup Head became a chicken nugget.

The Shitty End.

- C.C. Bunson

Who Do You Think You Are?

Who do you think you are? Ronald Reagan? You are no Ronald Reagan, my friend. No, but seriously who the hell do you think you are? Arnold Schwarzenegger? Forget it, pal. You got a lot of nerve. I mean who do you think you are anyway, Tom Arnold? It's just ridiculous. We must not be speaking the same language or something, man. The way you're acting, it's like, who in the world do you think you are? CJ from "Rosanne"? Incredible. Who do you think you are, Sheldon from Garfield & Friends? WhoDoYouThinkYouAre, a Roy Rogers Cheeseburger? WDUTUR, huh? I mean really...

Who do you think you are?

Because I KNOW who I am.

- Chucky P. Bunson Berry