Bet you're wondering what a "DGBT" is by now... Hell, of COURSE you are, after all, you wouldn't be reading this now if you knew, now would you? So I'll tell you what a "DGBT" is, and what they do, and why they're ummm... what they are.
First off, DGBT is an anacronym, standing for Drunken German Basement Troll, or One Who Drinks Heavily and Does Stupid Things, Such As Write Music or Wrestle. So basically, it's us, the Hellbent crew here at the Back Nine of Hell's Golf Course, living in our little house and consuming much alcohol and making much mayhem while under the influence of the blessed liquid. Normally this mayhem is quite low-key, however, the few more interesting and choice moments of the chaos that ensues that I have chosen to keep for posterity here are, well...
So why share all this with all of you is the question, right? The answer is simple - it's quite fucking frankly bloody hilarious, some of the things that transpire here. This part of the page is dedicated to preserving and spreading the Legacy of a handful of drunk idiots in a basement somewheres, and to the telling of thier liquor-soaked exploits to a world that may or may not really care, but will probably find it all just as amusing as I do.
So raise your glass in a salute to drunk idiots in basements the world around, throw Drunken Master in the VCR, put some Misfits on the stereo, and sit back as I spin a memory or two of our intoxicant-laden merriment out for your enjoyment.
The DGBT would like it the way.
We did something wrong.
Utterly wrong.
Totally wrong.
Something we'd go to Hell for if we weren't already garuanteed a one-way ticket at the time of final departure.
We made music.
Good music, well arranged and exquisitely mixed but for one thing... subject matter.
That's because the subject matter is me.
To be precise a single solitary part of me.
My ummm......
You know......
.....
We made a song about my dick.
I'll bet you want to know how that happened...
Well, sit down, I'll tell you anyway...
It was in the bleak as all hell winter month of February, on the day following Valentine's Day... We were all hungover, and I was still more than slightly drunk... We went to the local Hot Wok, a Chinese restaurant known to us mainly for it's cheap yet tasty Sunday Lunch Buffet. We had come from Casa del Diablo to partake of the all you can eat goodness of the economically sound and delectible buffet... Afterwards we came home, and sitting there, in that bleak stone basement, huddled around the computer like some primative trolls huddled around a campfire, I still severely drunk and rather hungover, we began to create...
Our infernal efforts were not to be unrewarded.
Fasttracker is a powerful tool in the hands of the skilled, and our production guy, Captain Spooky, was a pro and a force to be reckoned with... drunk or sober. He was deft in laying down the techno-industrial backbeat, and with a few vocal samples from the remainder of the soon-to-be damned there in the basement that day, we had produced a two minute twenty two second long ode to me.
Well, parts of me rather....
Scary huh?
Well, to date, we've made thirty or so people listen to the horrid beast, people ranging from friends and family members to people we've accosted in Denny's at three a.m. outside in the parking lot. We'll get them all someday... after all, when you make a song about someone's dick, you just HAVE to share it...
Anyway, the Drunken German Basement Trolls, our group, was born that day... We were at the time composed of Cap'n Spooky, his wife, Penny, Chuklephuck Andy-Roo, the World's Only Male Georgian Japanese Schoolgirl, and myself, Evil the Kat, with backup by the housecat, Nuku Nuku, felis domesticus extraordinaire.
We're all going to hell for the sins of that day alone.
Come watch us as we burn...
Oh, something scary came out of the dank cave wherein lies Cap'n Spooky's Magical Musical Chop-Shop last week....
And I'm gwine tell ya all about it.
I was just calmly sitting down for the evening with a bit of supper, the meal (if you want to call it that) in question being comprised of Smack Ramen, a dietary staple of the extremely poor, due to both it's extreme affordability (11 cents a pack at the Labyrinth of Bargains, Wal-Mart) and it's total lack of nutritious value. So I was sitting to eat when I'm accosted by our new roomie, one Shags, hailing from Pennsylvania and Build Guru on 10t. He's all like "come downstairs, man, you gotta hear this" so I think, what the hell? Cap'n Spooky usually does enough wicked cool solo shit in a month to choke a horse or feed a record label's head for a decade.
This was not one of those "wicked cool solo shit" nights.
This was scary.
This was wrong.
This was something forgotten, crawling putrid and black up from the pit of sheer horridness, a wicked, blasphemous thing, twisted, dark, and vile, utterly vile.
This was also funny as all hell.
This was ICP.
But not the ICP I was used to...
With about 20-odd Corona and an undisclosed amount of other alcohols running through them, Shags and the Captain decided to remix ICP's "Chicken Huntin'", an anthem of sorts for ICP listeners the world around. They decided to do it on a computer. They decided to do it with no instruments whatsoever. They decided to do it totally with sounds produced by the human speech organs. They decided to do it live.
The live part is perhaps where things break down.
You see, Cap'n Spooky, in his infinite wisdom and utter drunken madness, had looped the "instrumental" part (i.e. thier voices) to a length of oh.... 7 and a half minutes. "Chicken Huntin'", as it appears, ummm... anywhere, is only about 3 minutes and change in duration. Basically, they did they live lyrics of the song itself, spoke for a minute, did the third verse of the song AGAIN, did half of another ICP cut, spoke for a minute, and broke off into "Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves" at the very end, at which point in time the psuedo-instruental loop quit and Shags promptly announced that they had fucked up. Excited by the fruition of their alcohol-fueled endeavor, they came to the conclusion that they should SHARE this horrid child of their beer-laden labor of boredom.
So they came to get ME.
It's funny as hell.
But I'm glad we didn't get a chance to post the MP3 on the Web before the ICP show the following night.
I'm of the firm opinion that we would all have been promptly shot upon entering the building that night.
Some people just have no sense of humor.
Quick note: As of Halloween weekend, 1998 hunting season, our mad German master of the Horrid Pun and Final Dead Horse Joke Destruction Technique, He Who Dwelleth Beneath The Carpeting and Maketh The Mad Music, Cap'n Spooky, has burned some of his aforementioned "wicked cool solo shit" onto a disc. That's right, the man's experimentation has led him to THIS depth. But that's okay. Now, back to our regularly scheduled hellcast.
Yes fans, Shaggy is bald. Just a note to share this joyous occasion.
Back to the Nine - Home. Of course.
Drop the Kat a Line at: [email protected]
Feel free to share a story or two of your very own drunken mayhems.