YSaC, Vol. 555: I put on my hat and wizard robe …
Make a offer
Comment regular Bianchi Sound sends in this ad, saying, “Four words, and only one used improperly, too. What kind of drums? How many drums? New? Old? Who cares. This ad is so pure and simple, I feel as if I am one with the internet.”
It is very zen. But, as the ad is voiced in the imperative, we MUST make a(n) offer … ideally one that maintains the spirit and wonder of the original.
Dungens and Dragons for Tamboreen
Hey any one to trade juice of gelfling for a drum. Or I can roll some seven headed dice for a dulcimer.
Or trade a sword for an axe. More news at eleven.
Why Am I doing this.
I wonder if the first poster will accept the trade of juice of gelfling. It seems like a good trade to me.
I can’t help but wonder what the tambourine is useful for in Dungeons and Dragons — the last I checked, there wasn’t a +1 Spell of the Talentless Girlfriend in that game.
Why Am I doing this, indeed? Don’t we all ask ourselves that rhetorical question — er, statement — on a regular basis? I know I do.
Update, 11:07 am: There’s another drum-related post that’s been making the rounds very recently — I thought I’d add it in here. It’s long, so it’s behind a cut:
Looking for someone special…
who would kill my drummer for $100.00. do not fear any negative consequences for this act. any self respecting law enforcement agency would gladly turn the other cheek once they hear this guy “play”. I am tired of hearing his 70’s style fills put in the wrong spot and ending one half beat early or late depending on how much he’s had to drink. I am tired of him standing up behind his drums between songs and ripping his shirt off and flexing his muscles at wedding receptions where we were hired to play Air Supply, carpenters , and ann murray songs because “chicks dig the pecs, dude”.I am tired of him showing up 20 minutes late for rehearsals then pouting until someone helps him load in his drums, then taking 30 minutes to set them up and needing a smoke break every 15 minutes, then wanting to leave early because”this chick is so fine, I can’t say no, and she knows record people dude, so it’s for the band” I am totally done with him calling me up at midnight to play me some damned jazz fusion album from 1981, crying and saying how we shouldn’t have sold out to “the man”and asking if I know anyone who can get him some weed knowing full well I smoked twice in 69 and never touched it after that.
I am sick of him farting on stage where the drum mics pick it up and thinking this shit is funny. I am tired of kicking off slow ballads at well under 80 bpm only to have them morph into the methamphetimine version of flight of the bumble bee, because that’s the tempo he “feels” it at. I am tired of having to carry jumper cables to the gig because “I must have left the dome light on again, dude”instead of admitting his 84 oldsmobile is a worn out piece of crap. I am tired of him asking when he’s gonna get a drum solo.
I am tired of paying his tab at restaurants because “that chick must have stole my wallet man, but it was worth it ’cause she was a phreak”. I will not move my amp again so he can put another new cymbal on the stage, because “when we learn some fusion i’ll need this sound”………please somebody kill this motherfucker. i can’t do it because he’s my brother and mom would be so pissed off even though she thinks the band would probably sound better too. besides, if you are good at killing drummers, you could probably make a lot of money in this town.