This blog is dedicated to the anomalies of the Central Coast. Everything from bands to homosexual possums will have their voice heard here. This is my sole mission. There will be no freak discriminated against. There will be no judgement held against these deranged heroes. So, be warned: these articles, interviews, reviews, will make you, the reader, want to rub your own feces on your own eyes while sucking on bleach and peeling off your own skin. Enjoy and share and point your fingers at the villains. We eternally long for your resentment.

Monday, December 17, 2012

Mother F Bomb Treats

The last place on Earth anyone should ever be is at work. I know I'd rather be dropping acid, smoking myself senseless, and watching extremely gory horror films, than frying 100s of chicken cocks and listening to their tiny souls screaming in agony, boiling in an oily hell, while the boss lady tells me, I'm going in there next if I don't hurry up. Fuck that! Fuck you, you evil dyke monster. Fry this shit yourself and go wash the dishes, gather the shopping carts, stock the shelves, and suck on these shit Popsicles I just made for you.
We all wish we could say this to our bosses. I know I do, but we can't. We're trapped in their customer service prison. They've been creating this form of slavery since the beginning of civilization. They've perfected it. But the tides are turning. They've gotten away with this for too long. We should no longer stand for this. We must fight back. We must break free from this tyranny and we will. Soon... For now, we must search for minor victories. Any sort of means of escape to prepare for the great uprising. I suggest we do as much drugs as possible, drink oceans of beer, and start making anarchistic forms of music, preferably punk rock. That's what Jesse Baker, Jake Duarte, Robert Belling Hausen, and the "real" Glen Allen Shannon, have done. They even did it on 4/20 of all days. They have their heads in the right place for the last year of humanity. We should all follow suit.
Mother F Bomb is what they call themselves. Together, they're saying Fuck You to authority and they're doing it in their own personal way. They're not the raw, aggressive punks, who slam heroin and kick everyone's teeth in. They're the feel good punks. Catching one of their live shows proves this. They blend rock, funk, and whatever else they feel is right for the moment and mix it up for a damn good time. When I saw them at Club Soda, in Atascadero, they set my soul on fire. I had to take my clothes off.
They are an absolute trip to see perform. They remind me sort of a blase Iggy Pop and the Stooges. They had their shit together. They were tight. I could tell as soon as they were done shoveling shit for the dyke man, they went straight to the bar, then the smoke shop, then to the practice studio, where they played their dicks off till they had to head back to work again. Listen to Jesse Baker fucking shred and tell me, they don't have something going for them, even as a newer band. Jesse let's loose and makes his guitar, his bitch and the mother f bomb can sing too. Robert the III plucks his bass right along side him like a laid back Flea. His easy going style syncs up perfectly with drummer's, Jake Duarte, flawless timing. He keeps everyone in the band focused. Not an easy task and he never loses the beat. That's always easier said than done. I've seen tons of bands, whose drummers just blow it. They're awful and clumsy and it ruins the whole experience of going to a concert. The "real" Glen Allen Shannon, on the other hand, is a fucking beast. No exaggeration. He's a true showman. He owns the stage and your woman's ass, if he catches you sleeping during their show. The dude was downing beers in one gulp and running around all over the fucking shitty stripper stage/bar. He was talking a gang of shit too. He's one funny, vehement mother f bomb. He was also throwing buttons or whatever else he could get his hands on, at the people that were playing pool during their set. You old shit faced freaks! Drop the pool stick now or take the risk of having it shoved at your balls as opposed to the balls on the table. A game of half assed pool is never that important. Never.
Neither is work, but we do what we gotta do. Sometimes, we also have to stand up for ourselves and call that monstrous bitch of a boss of ours, a punk ass dyke. Deep fry your own titties wench, instead of always telling us what to do. We know what we need to do! We are going to rebel. We are going to be free. We are going to drink our minds into another dimension, if we feel like it. We are going to lose our shit to the punk rock sounds of Mother F Bomb. We are going to enjoy our lives and break free from your oily hell. There won't be a damn thing any boss can do about it. We will uprise. For now, here's a shit Popsicle you and your greedy friends can suck on. Bon appetit.

Release yourself here:
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