I’ve been a fan of Mike Patton my entire life, and I was ready to do absolutely anything to have the man be witness to the screaming love I feel for him in my heart. So a few months back when I got to attend my first ever Mr. Bungle show, I put on my “Californication” t-shirt to make it happen. “Californication” the Red Hot Chili Peppers album, not the TV show, just so we’re clear.
It was midway through “Vanity Fair” when our eyes met, and a sly smile crept across his face. I could tell he understood that I was just giving him a hard time for that old feud he had with Anthony Kiedis, and I think joking about it kind of made us friends. That’s what I thought, anyway, until he hit that shrieking C5 note on the word “CUT!” that sent a swarm of eagles down from the ether to rip into my weak, pasty body. But I knew better than to try and fight them off, because even I’m not dumb enough to go against the Bald and Golden Eagle Protection Act of 1940.
Since then, my life has been falling to pieces. My boss gave me permission to work from home, but these legally protected hellspawns destroyed my webcam and ate half of my keys. I can’t copy and paste anymore, and there’s already someone lined up to replace me—I supposedly train him next week.
I don’t even remember the last time I saw my wife. She obviously had no problem watching me get eaten alive on a regular basis, but it turns out that having raptors start a family in our apartment was simply too much for her. Something about “not being ready for motherhood.” The little guys haven’t hatched yet, but the worst part is I’ll have “Egg” off of Mr. Bungle’s self-titled album stuck in my head until they do.
I just want this to stop.
The U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service won’t disturb these birds from what they’re calling their “newfound habitat,” and my local Congressman doesn’t have the balls to introduce an amendment to this Act to help me out.
I’ve played for these flying assholes tracks from Mike Patton’s entire discography—including “Birdsong,” which I thought for sure would do the trick—but I’ve had no such luck, not even with live recordings. Maybe they’ll listen to vinyl.
Or maybe I’ll just have to try and recreate his proprietary brand of vocal magic myself if I can’t scrounge up enough cash to see him again someday and beg for him to lift this awful curse.
But until I figure that out, I’m afraid I’ll just have to cry myself to sleep each night, hoping my wails can help unlock some extra octaves.