Jump to content
Jambands.ca

You stupid Phish kids

Heady Epic

By Heady Epic
in Soundboard

 Share

Recommended Posts

Heady Epic Newbie

Heady Epic

Posted
Posted

This is PT I in a 2-part series

This past November 25, I ate turkey with a red headed daego that happened to play a bad guitar, you know face full of mud, stumblin, red toyota wont start, fruit cup the whole 9. I came to realize that the red headed guinea from Joisey had no idea how poorly his former merchandising company was run. As much as an ego as he has, he doesnt pay that much attention to the Phish product before it goes on the market. He would much rather jump up and down playing air-guitar in front of a mirror imitating Pedophile Pete. Have you seen IT. Looks pretty, dont IT? Well, you stupid stoner hippies need to come to a realization, and real quick. They are ripping you off. Always have, always will. Shoddy products, made by stoners like you, for stoners like you. Anyways, my five year-old nephew asked him to play PYITE, since he had gone to his car to procure his guitar. Elmo paused and started weeping. We all looked at each other, absorbing the awkward sound of a hippie demi-god sobbing in the midst of us. Finally, Clifford got it together enough to apologize for his lapse, saying that PYITE makes him think of the lost NHL season. Reminds me of this time at Red Rocks. Follow my friend Hugo and others into the Red Rocks parking lot. He drives a sky blue '68 Ford Mustang convertible. As I am stepping out of the car, a car pulls up and a guy leans out of the passenger side window to offer me Denver Bronco mushroom chocolates at $20 a pop. "Is one going to be enough? I am Heady Epic". He says yes, so I buy two. I continue to stumble and mumble around the lot for the prerequisite ammunition needed for the show. As I am buying a one-hitter from a dirty, bearded guy with a belly bigger than Santa and tshirt dirtier than a Coventry porta-potty, a dirty, hairy-legged girl with dreads as long as it takes approaches me about some "blueberry organics from Oregon". I give her a confused look before concluding she must be selling mushrooms and bring her back to our car. My friends buy an ounce for all of us. I buy a quarter for backup. She didnt smell quite right. After numerous Sammy Smith's, a dozen joints and a handful of caps, I've got a pretty good buzz going, especially for a Tuesday afternoon. My friend Hugo and I decide to eat our little chocolate treats which had been chilling in this flimsy styrofoam cooler we stole from 7-11. We head into the show early to get good seats. While waiting in line to get in, I notice that Hugo is starting to glance around nervously. He tells me that we have to get into the show NOW! He also tells me if it rains, it might have serious consequences for his mental health. He also informs me that the handrail he is clutching with both hands is a dear friend that he's known since childhood. Looks like the guy was right about the chocolates. We take our seats on row 30. Neurons are definitely doing a little dance in my head now, and things are becoming rather psychotic. No wonder they give this sh!t to schizo's. I perk up my ears when I overhear the guy behind us mention Denver Bronco chocolates. He advises his buddy to "only eat half or maybe even just a quarter" unless he wants to spend the entire show on Pluto. I turn to Hugo, who is a slobbering, incoherently retarded mess. I write him off as a mushroom casualty after it takes him at least half an hour to decide which restroom he should use. Anyone seen a wheelchair access sign? Still 2 hours until the band comes on. The grassy hill to the right of the stage erupts into a ball of green flames, with demons playing frisbee with peoples heads. I look away in horror and decide to concentrate on a harmless rock formation. Only problem is this rock formation is really a giant iguana that is trying to eat one of the speaker set-ups. Most of the people in the group I'm with have also procured some of these potent little mind-blasting chocolates. They inquire how they are treating me. As one guy's face contorts into something out of a bad '80s horror flick, I lie and tell everybody that I don't really feel anything. It's probably better that they take everything in the arsenal because these things are pretty weak. If I'm going to be sailing the high seas of hysteria, everyone's going to be on the same fu©king boat. One girl eyes me suspiciously and remarks that my eyeballs look like black marbles. I turn away to see if the iguana has crept any closer. After the green tarp we're sitting on sucks my beer down into its gullet, I turn to my friends and ask if everyone is ready to go. They remind me that the band hasn't even come on yet. Oh right! We're here to see a show and there's still at least an hour til showtime. An eternity of horrifying visuals and non-sensical speak later and the band (at this point I don't even know who it is we're here to see - Swish or something) is late. By this time my entire group of people is a complete train wreck. Total chaos incoherence and iguana's. One girl is crying. I laugh at her for being weak. "There is no 'I' in team and I'm so fu©king yours. Heady and April, sitting in a tree, f-u-c-k-i-n-g..." One of her friends tried to intervene, but all I could say was "Get the fu©k off her. That's my ex-girlfriend's monkey. Look, man. She doesn't want to go back to the lab. And for the record, I ain't gay." fu©k, fu©k, fu©k, / Mother, mother fu©k, / Mother, mother fu©k, fu©k / Mother fu©k, mother fu©k, / Noich noich noich, / 1, 2, 1, 2, 3, 4, / Noich, noich noich / Smokin' weed, smokin' wizz, / Doin' coke, drinkin' beers, / Drinkin' beers, beers, beers, / Rollin' fattys, smokin' blunts, / Who smokes the blunts? / We smoke the blunts. / Rollin' blunts and smokin'...I think about going to the rest room but decide the 15 minute journey would be about 14 minutes and 30 seconds longer than my jellied brain could handle. I decide to piss in a beer bottle. I notice a young lady staring at me, appalled. I tell her not to worry and that I'm from Texas, "where it's ok to piss outdoors." Anyways, the red M&M had put his guitar away, turned to me at the dinner table and asked "Hey brah, you know what I like? Mashed potatoes" I was like, dude, you gotta give me time to guess. If you are going to quizz me, you must put a pause in there. Trey is gonna be a major fat-ass in a couple months if he keeps up at this rate... it'll be '96 all over again. Trey is so trendy if he gets fat and grows a beard...everybody gets fat and grows a beard. Damn I miss fat bearded trippin trey.

Link to comment
Share on other sites

Create an account or sign in to comment

You need to be a member in order to leave a comment

Create an account

Sign up for a new account in our community. It's easy!

Register a new account

Sign in

Already have an account? Sign in here.

Sign In Now
 Share
Go to topic listing
×
×
  • Create New...