If I had a band...

If I had a band, we'd find our origins in a shady laundromat. I'd be out of quarters, but let my damp whites stay in the dryer a bit longer anyway. Because I've got my keytar, it goes with me everywhere. The drummer, Sven, would be an immigrant from Laos who learned percussion from the local temple as a boy. He's stuck with two sticks and a washing machine lid. It sounds magical, like a tiger mauling in a Vegas show. We're solid.

We'd graduate to bigger venues, of course. Next door to the laundromat, the Italian deli. That's where we'd meet the guitarist/glockenspiel player, Benito. He's not bad, but we don't want a showboat to steal the show. The early songs would be based on our common disdain for Kathy Griffith and fruit-flavored beer...two of the worst things in the world. The angst wreaks like Old Spice, and you would dig it.

While my keytar gently weeps, Sven keeps the beat and Benito fills the spaces. The buzz builds and we'd be signed by a shady guy who claims to make records out of the trunk of his Buick. Likely the same place he kept his second wife before she disappeared. We don't care. It gives us some cred.

Our name would be "Butt Pie" or "Midget Armpit". Benito would leave the band over the decision. We hated that asshole anyway. We're a two-man show and that's how it stays. Sven is the Don Juan of the group. He lands at least one groupie per show. It's the same chick every time, but he's still "the man". I remain the creative-type without any time for a lady or life.

Things grow nicely. We're selling at least one or two hundred records per year when we finally make it to the radio. Dr. Demento puts us at #8 on his countdown. We are now legit and demanding more money. Our manager threatens to beat us senseless. He wins. We can't sell out anyway. Good call, Charlie.

Benito begins bugging us since he now knows he missed a big fucking boat to stardom. We tell him to eat it. We tour the seedy part of town. On tour, Sven catches an STD from a toilet seat. He loses his right arm in the ordeal. He's never quite the same after that. One armed drummers can't be trusted so I fire him and go solo. I'm a legend at this point, anyway.

I write my swan song about the entire history of our band. It's called "Dirty Laundry in a Midget's Armpit." You will have heard of it and love it. It's remixed by DangerMouse many years later. I put out a Greatest Hits EP to fund my LSD habit. Next step, Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

It's a sure fire plan, I just need to find a keytar and kill my washing machine here at home.