I recently paid a visit to my rock star friend, Spit Blitzkrieg. His butler answered the door, and told me Spit would be right down. As I waited, I could hear laughter and shouting and screams of ecstasy emanating from somewhere in his 96-room mansion. I wondered if maybe I wasn't interrupting something, then I realised there was always laughter and shouting and screams of ecstasy emanating from his mansion, summer cottage, hotel room, limo, tour bus, even his tent on that one camping trip to Yellowstone park. So that made me feel more at ease. At least it did until I saw Spit stagger down a long flight of stairs. I was shocked at his appearance. He looked tired, worn, pale, undernourished, and disheveled. That's not what shocked me. In fact, all that was usually to the good. Especially when immediately preceded by laughter and shouting and screams of ecstasy. No, what shocked me was his expression. He looked sad, heartbroken even.
"Uh, hey, Spit," I said. "Long time no see."
"Hey, Kirk." He replied, glumly.
"I'm sad, heartbroken even."
"My girl dumped me"
"You know. The love of my life."
"Oh," I replied, trying to remember who exactly that was again.
Spit then let out a long sigh.
"Spit," I said, hoping to make him feel better. "Maybe you could channel your heartbreak into your art."
"Oh, I have. In fact, I've written a song. Want to hear it?"
Spit plugged in his Fender Stratocaster, and proceeded to perform his lyrical lament of a love lost.
She was everything to me
She was all that I could see
She was in my every thought
In my every dream
We were such a duo
We were such a team
But when another came along
She decided I'm all wrong
And she cast me right aside
Like a shell left from the tide
Now, I sit in front of my TV
Thinking, woe, woe is me
And guzzle down my booze
As I watch the evening news
Brian William's warning
About the spread of nukes
This country's got 'em
That country's got 'em
And so soon will the Third World kooks
And it was then I had my epiphany
This could be Earth's final symphony
Prayin' for a nuclear war
One with lots of blood and gore
Hopin' for the end of the world
To take my mind off of you, girl
I know it'll mean the deaths
Of a billion innocent souls
But what do I give a damn
When my aching heart is filled with holes?
And with that, Spit Blitzkrieg wiped a tear from his eye, put down his Fender Stratocaster, excused himself, and disappeared to somewhere in his 96-room mansion, where there still could be heard laughter and shouting and screams of ecstasy.
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