GWAR, Me, and the On-Rushing Grip of Death: Part 39

Why has Oderus been notably absent from Red Eye on Fox News? What happens when you put a bunch of guns in a GWAR van and drive to New York? Find out the answer to these questions and more!

June 13, 2011; 9:51 AM • by Dave Brockie

A lot of people have been asking me, “Hey Oderus, when are you going to be on Red Eye again?” After a few months of waiting for an answer, I am pretty sure I have one now.

NEVER.

It shouldn’t surprise me or anybody else–the surprise part was me ever being on the show to begin with. As soon as I showed up on FOX I began getting assailed with alarmed inquiries as to why the fuck I was doing it. Wasn’t FOX a bastion of conservative crap, a fortress populated by mighty crusaders with names like Sir Beck and unassailable maidens like the fair Lady Palin? That may be true, I replied, but the King was named Homer! Surely there was a place for Oderus, even if it was at three in the morning and only semi-regularly.

So I settled in as the official Red Eye “Intergalactic Correspondent”…hell, I even had my own cool titles (I think they call them “kyrons”). And I think everybody would agree that I killed it! Over a year and a half I appeared fourteen times, and hilarity ensued. Who can forget such show-stoppers as “tank on the moon”, or “make-up”…and my tirade against Ann Coulter’s refusal to tip hotel wait staff was simply classic! Don’t believe me? Check out a few episodes here!

About once a month I would show up, delivering most of the episodes from studios in Richmond but occasionally from spots on the road and even, most magnificently, from the FOX home studio in New York City. Completely at our expense I might add. But I didn’t complain. MTV had taught me long ago that you had to pay to play in the big leagues. The conservative agenda of the network didn’t seem to matter so much. I was funny; comedy shows needed funny people, so the calls kept coming.

Until the day I realized I hadn’t gotten a call for a while. So I called, and e-mailed, and finally got a chance to sit down with the show’s host, Greg Gutfeld, while we were passing through New York on a GWAR tour. Several beers later, I got the truth.

Certain people at FOX were pissed at Greg for having me on the show because we had been killing Sara Palin for the entire fall tour…I mean shit, that’s what GWAR does! We have killed every president since Reagan, and even brought a few back from the dead to kill them again. But some people out there had gotten very upset at our mock-slaying of someone who was not even at the time an elected official. Even Greg seemed a little surprised that we had been decapitating Obama before he was even elected. Greg tried to be hopeful (and I love Greg, he is the guy that got me on there to begin with and did his best to keep me on), but I got the feeling the higher-ups at FOX had decided my little run of horror was over.

It wasn’t a boot to the ass kicked off, it was more of a let’s wait a couple of months and then a couple more and let’s just never call him again kind of kicked off. And really, I’m not mad, just a little disappointed. I was surprised as hell to ever be on the show and even more so that my run lasted as long as it did. But a GWAR character being a semi-regular character on a network TV show was a big thing and to just stop it without any explanation to the people that were digging it the most–GWAR fans–well, I had a problem with that. So there’s the explanation.

It wasn’t Sara Palin who got me kicked off Red Eye–it was her pandering pundits that kiss her ass in much the same way completely smart people embrace the gibberish of religion to facilitate whatever it is they are after: whether it’s controlling their kids, keeping their job, or explaining the meaningless horror that this life dishes out in industrial sized heaps every fucking chance it gets. But I guess it’s no surprise that boobs are running the boob tube. It just really makes me sick when intelligent people act dumb to make really dumb people happy.

We are in Europe right now and that just makes what is going on in America all the more…embarrassing. I mean, what could be more nauseating than the combination of Sarah Palin’s shamelessly self-serving tour of America’s lamest Tea-Party rallying points, our government’s ability to wage a worldwide war against bullshit but it’s complete inability to take care of its own people (especially the ones who had their lives destroyed fighting that war), and a recession that is threatening to make “triple-dip” the next phrase of looming doom? I’ll tell you what: catching up with our buddies in Europe and realizing (for like, the hundredth time) that they live like kings and we like dogs.

But you know what’s even more nauseating than Europe’s superior health care, schools, and infrastructure? Stuffing ten euros worth of “Bremer Knacker” into several of my organs in less than five mintues, because that’s exactly what I did! But Europe is so awesome I didn’t vomit. But always remember, any time anybody starts mouthing off about how great Europe is, remind them, England is here! And I am sick to death with hearing about the “special relationship” that exists between England and America. It sounds like a couple of retards getting together.

Enough Euro-drivel, let’s remember why we are here…

GWAR, Me, and the On-Rushing Grip of Death: Chapter 39

“Firearm Safety w/ GWAR”

The shows were piling up. We had passed beyond the level of a first-year freak and people were actually calling us back for gigs. With some of our hard-earned gig money, we bought what we considered essential ingredients to a successful Slave Pit—a jam box, a message machine, and a Tokemaster bong. A lot of people don’t know the reason why the Tokemaster is such an first line choice for any east coast stoner’s bong arsenal–and after careful reflection I have decided that this narrative will not do anything to change that.

Not that a few possessions meant any change in our economic level. We were still dirt poor and when money got really short we actually charged dues. And we were always looking for new ways to make cash, as actually “making” it in the Slave Pit using crayons and toilet paper simply wasn’t going to work. So we decided to sell guns to our friends in New York!

Guns were always hard to get in New York and the average NYC thug had to look elsewhere for his or her firearm requirements. One of the best ways was to make some friends in Virginia and have them make the purchases for you, drive them up to New York, and then go shoot people.

At the time New York was still struggling its way out of the debt crisis that had almost bankrupted the city a couple of years earlier. There was nothing Disney-fied about the place. Times Square was a complete shit hole, filled with soggy strip clubs and abandoned movie theaters whose marquees were crowded with outlaw statements waxing pathetic on the portents of the coming apocalypse. A garbage strike had crippled the collection process and as a result huge piles of uncollected feces and medical waste was a common sight. Ranks of gay men jacked off into leaky troughs where starving children were made to lap up gallons of hot man-goo. Ok maybe that last one was wishful thinking.

Spewy and Rocks, during their tenure in White Cross, had played the famous CBGB hardcore matinees many times, and had met and forged friendships with plenty of the original NYC punk rock elite including the illustrious Big Nose (yes, I am using code names here, and will/will not whenever I feel like it) and his girlfriend, Clint Eastwood in The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly (abbreviated for the rest of this story to C.E.I.T.G.T.B.A.T.U.).* Both of them were gun nuts, as was Spewy (we used to call him Steven Seagal due to his penchant for walking around with loaded guns), and they had stayed friends through Spewy’s musical journey from White Cross to Unseen Force to finally GWAR. Oh, how the mighty had fallen!

At some point Big Nose and his blonde, beautiful, incredibly famous lead singer girlfriend of a huge band that Big Nose played guitar for (and if you haven’t figured it out by now, you probably never will). It started pretty small, just the odd Glock or two. Pretty soon we were on our way to our latest gig in New York with a SKS (Chinese version of the AK-47), a Mossburg shotgun, and a .44 magnum (just like Dirty Harry’s) along for the ride. But did we have the sense to conceal our hugely illegal imports? If you have been reading this for very long, then you know what the answer to that is! Not only did we not hide them, we took them out of their boxes and played with them the whole ride up. That is until we got pulled over.

It had become a tradition for us to get pulled over every time we reached the New Jersey Turnpike but what made it even better was the fact that it was the same cop that did it every time. Officer Hopp, a state trooper sporting enormous jodhpurs had made it his personal mission in life to bust us for weed.

Every time the Golden Battle Barge, each time sporting more graffiti (and I think by this point a pair of steer horns had been bolted to the top) lurched into the first ticket-plaza it seemed like he was waiting for us. The first time was normal, the second a coincidence, and the third time we had tons of guns. We contemplated shooting him but realized we had no ammo. But we were never apprehended by the man, as Proto-Slave simply stuck the weed in his cholo-headband and wore it on his forehead. As we stood on the side of the road in the spitting dawn, we knew that Hopp would never find the weed, and apparently he was so obsessed with doing so that he missed the weapons entirely, even though the box for the Mossberg, clearly labeled, was sitting in plain sight. We actually became quite fond of his frequent harassment, and it wasn’t until much later we realized that if we painted the bus grey and discouraged our fans from writing stuff like “GWAR sucks huge cocks” on the side of it, we might have a better chance of not getting pulled over. I think we even had a little rhyme about our good buddy, Officer Hopp.

“Hopp cops stop to make the pot pop was a flop, it was hid up-top by a forehead mop!” Or something like that.

So we made it to NYC where we soon were pulling up in front of the brownstone of Big Nose and C.E.I.T.G.T.B.A.T.U. There Spewy and I collected the weapons and went inside to make the deal. Once in, I immediately set about the task of locating the bathroom and jacking off into the soapdish. When I got in there, I noticed an UZI was hanging from the shower spout. I put my dick away.

As I exited and rounded a corner I was suddenly confronted with the form of C.E.I.T.G.T.B.A.T.U., perched on a ladder in front of a huge shelf of books. She was illuminated from behind and was wearing only a night shirt. I had just enough to perfectly imagine every possible curve of her perfect body. It was all I could do to stammer out “Hey, here’s your machine gun,” handing her the SKS. I then came in my pants.

That’s more than enough. See you again in what I say will be two weeks, but we all know will be whenever the hell I can get to it. As they say in Deutschland, Tschuss!

* This is the most elaborate code name I have come up with yet and I really hope somebody gets this joke…not just who this person is but the significance of the anagram.

Related

• Dave Brockie on Fox yesterday
• The GWAR, Me, and the On-Rushing Grip of Death archive

June 13, 2011 9:51 AM 18