Right at the end of spring semester last year, I found myself holed up in the library quite a bit. It was the worst exam period I’ve ever faced in college, and between the reams of British Modernism revisions and about 10 bags of Redman Golden Blend (“bro, I heard that chew is actually more dangerous than dip… plus you spit more, which is sick”), I do believe I went a little bit insane.
You know those grainy memories you have from the last round of exams. It’s like 2:30AM, and you’re trying to grind through another couple of hours in the bowels of your library. You haven’t spoken a word to anyone since dinner, but for some reason you feel an unreasonable camaraderie with the kids sitting at your table. The stupid srathead next to you has just cracked her second Starbucks DoubleShot of the night, and is eyeing your spitter as though it were a knife-wielding crackhead. Things have gotten out of hand.
That’s where I was when I was struck with the inspiration you’re about to read. I drafted the piece below from just such an impaired state of consciousness in the bowels of Clemons Library last semester and sent it out to the handle I maintained amongst some of the chiller heads. It was met equally with critical acclaim and bafflement, and still manages to glean a smile from even the most somber of douchers.
Upon browsing what’s to follow, some of you may shake your head at the depravity of my mental interior. Some of you might feel uncomfortable with my wanton abuse of gender norms. Some of you might even say, “This is fucking gross.” If you are one of said heads, come forward and be crossed off the list of free tickets to future Poopsex Bagels concerts. Suck it. For the rest of you, enjoy this tasty teaser to the best rock band that never was, and keep an eye out for tour dates to be posted at my easiest convenience.
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“Poopsex Bagels.” That’s the name of my band, if I ever start one. We won’t play any B-list, beginning-levels-of-Guitar-Hero, backwater-hick venues, either. Influenced by punk rock legends The Ramones and Sum41, Poopsex Bagels will drop a face-melting single entitled “We Fuck Dudes,” a tasty thrasher of a jam that will immediately go platinum in every nation-state on this earth.
“We Fuck Dudes” will be blamed for global warming, the war in Iraq, and crib death, and will (ironically) deflower any/all virgins that harken a listen to its delicious mastery. After the song sweeps the globe, Poopsex Bagels will subsequently declare itself the master of all life and death. We will refuse to produce another bar of music, and instead will tour the globe crushing tits of all ethnicities with reckless abandon.
Why is it named “We Fuck Dudes,” you wonder? Well, dear heads, just as Ozzie Osbourne ate a bat and Iggy Pop crucified himself on stage, Poopsex Bagels has its own stage gimmick. Envision: a hard rock environment, replete with head-banging and smoke from dry ice. Poopsex Bagels is cranking away while one of our members is center stage, playing rhythm guitar while fucking a chick in the butt with a bagel around his dick. At the culmination of the song – the climax, if you must – said member pulls the wig off of the sodomite and reveals that it is, indeed, a male.
This is concurrent with the triumphant lyric of the moment, and the one for which the song is titled. Our fans will wail in brutal agony as their brains explode in the face of our lyrical genius; right before the audience ruptures into a bloody sea of gray matter and Pantera t-shirts, they will belt out the title along with the leader singer. “WE FUCK DUDES.”
