First of all, this is the second time I am writing this blog. It should have been up yesterday, but the program we use to write these blogs is a giant piece of s**t, and I lost everything before I could post it. Whoever designed this monstrosity from the sulfuric depths of hell should be tarred and feathered in the town square while the people who are forced to use it throw large chunks of ice at his head (that way the evidence melts). Anyway, I'm giving it another try so here we go.
I thought I would treat you to a tour of the little slice of Heaven we call the Bob Rocks studio.This is the place we Bobs spend much of our time, so one would think it would be a delightful paradise free from annoyances and distractions that may make us less than at the pennicle of our game. Sadly, this is not always the case. I invite you, the reader, to now take a deep breath and enter the world of Bob Rocks.
Upon entering this wonderland of filth you will first notice the pink carpeted walls. Yes, I know right now you are green with envy saying to yourself "damnit, I wish I had pink carpeted walls"! Well, too damn skippy bad, only we are speial enough for these atrocities. Adorning these fuzzy pink fortifications is an astonishing array of Iron Maiden posters, foam fingers to remind us that we are indeed #1, a photograph of Crazy Bob dressed as a Leprechaun, and every single newspaper article that ever got our name wrong (which they all do). Upon the shelves, dust mites build cities that will go undisturbed for centuries as Sexual Harrasment Panda watches over this festering garden of scum with a cheshire grin. The waste receptacle flows over with a bounty of pistachio shells, soda cans, old scripts, and Crazy Bob's used tissues, daring a Bob to try and place one more item on the precariously tetering pile of trashy goodness as if to say "come on b**ch, you aint got the balls to try". The chairs are not antique per se, but one guest chair looks like someone was very angry at it at some point in it's chair life and certainly didn't love it enough. If stains were money, this chair would be makin' it rain on some b**ches. Well, hopefully now you have a mental picture of our little home sweet home, now on to a couple of things that have been bothering me lately.
First there is Mr. Fly. Mr. Fly comes straight from the sulfuric depths of hell it's self. Someone once told me that the average lifespan of the common housefly was a few days. Well, that someone was straight up full of high octane bull s**t! Mr. Fly has been torturing us in the studio and trying to steal our lunch for over a month now, and shows no signs of slowing down anytime soon. It is obvious that this fly has made a pact with satan himself in exchange for eternal life. This f***ing fly is going to show up in the new Twilight movie playing himself. This a**hole fly must want his own show, it's the only thing I can figure. Nothing else makes any sense. Before you even insult me by asking the stupid question, yes, I have killed him six times! Every time I kill him, he just comes back and smiles at me like a litttle kid that just saw his first Hustler. This flying prick won't die, PERIOD! I HATE THIS FLY.
The second thing that has been annoying lately is the que button. I know what you are thinking, what the balls is a cue button? This is a little button that allows us to hear you when you call the studio. Sometimes we don't want to be able to hear the phone. We might be editing audio or have a guest in the studio, or we may just be hung over and not want to talk to you (that's the most common one). It's just a little innocent button. But come on, Lindsay Lohan was little and innocent not too long ago too, and ya know how that played out. Well, this button is our Lindsay Lohan. It decided to quit working, sink down really low, and just suck. You have to beat the damn thing with a rubber mallet to get it to work just like Lindsay Lohan. Seems like a small problem, but if you had to do battle with this little yellow nightmare every day, you would smoke paint chips too.
The last thing that I wish to discuss, (and then I promise I will let you get back to whatever the hell it is you do) is smell of the bathroom across the hall. Our studio is located directly across from the company outhouse. We like to leave our door open because they bolted our window shut (true story) so we can no longer get any fresh air. The fine folks here at work (and I must say I really do work with good people) love to go empty the contents of their stomaches into the potty, leave the bathroom, and swing the door wide open so we can enjoy the wonderous odor that is their fecal matter. Oh joy!!! How I love the smell of poo. It''s like getting flowers only better! Wait, no, it's like poo. Do you not see the poor lowly DJ sitting over there choking on the fumes of your delicious lunch. Have a heart The Blake! I hate manual labor just as much as the next guy, but shutting a door just isn't that hard. Spare a Bob the smell of your spinach queseda! For the love of all that's holy, have a heart people...light a damn match or something. You know what's funny about all of this though? With all of that stinky poo smell, Mr. Fly still never leaves the studio......
Rock On
Biggie
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Overnight Bob is not real
