(Phro remembers a few metal greats who left this world in 2011. He assures me that he in no way means disrespect to the departed or their bereaved families — this is just his Phro-like way of saying “Thanks for the rocking!”)
Last night, after forcing a pony to snort enough coke to kill an elephant and then drinking the O.D.ed pony’s blood, I passed out in a pond of vomited up pony blood and enchiladas. (Nothing helps pony blood go down like Mexican food!) And, like Paul fallen off his horse on the road to Damascus, I was visited by a savior: Seth Putnam.
“What the Virgin Mary’s bloody tampon?? Seth Putnam?? I though you were fucking dead! Are you here to rape my dirty nose?”
He laughed like an angel (an angel who’d just woken up after doing a speedball out of a hooker’s torn anus, but an angel none the less.)
“Well, my child, that is true…I am dead.”
“Son of a…I knew that last pint was too fucking much. Motherfucker. So, I’m dead too and you’re here to take me to hell?”
He laughed again. This time it was more like the mirth of a child watching his or her first Tijuana donkey show.
“No, not at all! I’m here to reveal my gospel to you to share with all the world!”
I punched myself in the dick to see if I was dreaming. (A little pinch is nothing when you’re on pony blood—you need to inflict real pain.) I screamed like a little kid seeing Sandusky’s face on TV. At least I knew I wasn’t dreaming. After panting in agony for a while, I regained composure and wheezed out a question.