How We Tricked Kid Rock Into Saying Bawitdaba-da Bang-da-Dang-diggy-Diggy-diggy Backward To Banish Him to His Home Dimension

Posted on by Nathan Kamal

We have had a whole lot of wild adventures here at The Hard Times, from the time we were forced to fight against the entire Polyphonic Spree in a gladiatorial contest by a mysterious otherworld power in a kind of secret war to the time we had a Keurig machine for a while until everyone felt too guilty. However, one of our greatest adventures is undoubtedly the time we tricked the trickster imp of the St. Claire shores, Kid Rock, into saying “Bawitdaba-Da Bang-Da-Dang-Diggy-Diggy-Diggy” backward to banish him to his home dimension of Michigan.

Unfortunately, it only lasts for 90 days or the average length of one of his marriages, but we always find a way to get Mister Robert Ritchie to say “Yggidyggidyggidgnadgnabadabadtiwab” by hook or by crook.

The first thing to understand when you’re dealing with an interdimensional pest of nearly unlimited rhymes (as long as they are all about pretending to be from the South) is that his main purpose in visiting Earth is to cause mischief. Kid Rock may gain power from each and every copy of Rock n Roll Jesus sold at Walmart, but that doesn’t make him invincible. In fact, to use the parlance of the Devil without a cause himself, it makes him Cocky.

Whether Kid Rock has come to Earth to stir up trouble by unleashing an unholy combination of hip-hop and country music on the Summer Sanitarium Tour or using a mere fraction of his power to imbue angry white teenagers with unrealistic senses of freestyle ability, he can always be tricked into saying the words backward by writing them on the bottom of a Confederate and implying he does not know how to read or by claiming the words are the name of a new chain of car dealerships competing with his wealthy family’s Honda outlets.

Technically, one can also make Kid Rock say the name by sufficiently embarrassing him so he voluntarily goes back to the mysterious fifth-dimensional realm of Michigan, but good fucking luck making that guy feel embarrassed about anything.

And remember, if you ever do encounter Kid Rock in his malevolent, evolved form as a being of colossal power, just threaten to transport him to the Phantom Zone!

By which we mean the Democratic National Convention. The asshole hates that.

Drug Dealer Saved In Phone As “Ben Cocaine”

Posted on by James Knapp

DURHAM, N.C. — Local drug hookup Benjamin Wertner is reportedly only known to clients by his first name and one of the assortments of narcotics he peddles, sources who can’t be bothered to ask how to spell a last name confirmed.

“It’s just easier this way. I know a few Bens and if I had to go around deciphering last names like some kind of name nerd I’d never have the time to snort all this fucking cocaine,” explained Ricky Glassman, a customer of Wertner for nearly five months. “And it’s not like he’s the only one I did this for. My caseworker is saved as ‘William Court on Monday,’ my landlord is ‘Gary Sink Broken,’ and even my girlfriend I have as ‘Jill Vodka Medium Boobs.’ I’m not playing favorites – it’s just my way.”

Wertner expressed displeasure at being reduced to such a superficial aspect of his life.

“I’m more than just the, ahem, products I offer. I think of the people I sell to less as customers and more as friends, so it’s so degrading that they don’t feel the same,” said Wertner while grinding up another bottle of baby aspirin. “I guess I just wish people would appreciate me for me, not because I can give them a deal with $4 off on an eight-ball. I guess I should expect this, not a single one of my customers came to my improv graduation show.”

Herbert Slanchsky, a surveillance specialist for the NSA, gave his professional perspective on personal contact methodology.

“Thank god for this idiot-proof tech industry! Those Silicon Valley eggheads have made gathering intelligence on people almost too easy. Back in the rotary phone days you basically had to listen to every second of a hundred phone calls, but now you can just quickly scroll through someone’s contacts to learn everything you need to know,” revealed Slanchsky. “It’s actually kind of sad now that I think about it. Invading people’s privacy used to be so intimate, but now it feels completely impersonal. Maybe I’ll call this Ben and buy a little ‘pick-me-up’ from him.”

At press time, Wertner had received fifteen missed calls from a number listed as ‘UNKNOWN, BUT DEFINITELY NOT THE FEDS.’

Well, It’s Been 25 Years, but I’ve Finally Decided Which Reel Big Fish Tattoo I Should Get

Posted on by James Knapp

I bet you thought I’d never do it. In fact, I’m pretty sure we did bet on it. Well, two and a half decades of diligent research and measured consideration and guess what, assholes? I finally decided what to ink on my own skin as a tribute to the greatest band that ever was or will be: Reel Big Fish.

Ever since I first heard “Sellout” on the radio in my nearly brand new 1996 Toyota Camry, I knew I was going to have to dedicate some amount of flesh to this band. But what tattoo could I possibly get that would truly show my admiration for the ska-punk heroes?

Allow me to paint you a picture. Let’s start with the checkered flag that acts as the backdrop for all the details. In the center, we have a portrait of Aaron Barrett with big sunglasses on but also he’s winking cheekily and you can somehow see it. I still have to talk to my artist about that part.

Underneath that, there are two trumpets crossed so it looks like a skull and crossbones but with trumpets. Also, there are a few trumpets up top as well for good measure. Oh and also Barrett’s face is playing yet another trumpet regardless of the fact that he doesn’t play trumpet.

Then we have the actual fish. There will be three fish: a perch, a walleye, and a dwarf lanternshark. They will be hidden throughout the tattoo that people will have to look for and it will make them really study the intricacies of it. I expect a lot of people to scrutinize this temple to these top tier ska gods.

Under all that we have a bright green banner reading, “All I Know Is That I Don’t Know Nothing.” Now, I know that’s technically an Operation Ivy lyric but, like, it’s just so cool.

That’s the plan! So, does anybody know a tattoo artist that will work for cheap? Or maybe in exchange for a 1996 Toyota Camry because that’s all I got.

Metal Guitarist Warned He Will Go Blind Playing So Many Solos

Posted on by Zachary Wolf

SHREVEPORT, La. — Local metal band Sinister Dissonance warned their guitarist Henry Derrickson that he’ll go blind if he doesn’t stop playing so many solos, uncomfortable sources reported.

“That’s an old wives’ tale, like swimming after you eat or the KISS disco record,” said Derrickson. “It’s meant to scare you. I can solo as much as I want, it really isn’t a big deal. I spent the entire pandemic by myself watching YouTube videos and really getting to know myself, guitar-wise, and I’m just fine. Sure it takes me a little longer to get in the mindset than it did before, but I always get there in the end. I just have to squeeze the neck and concentrate as hard as I can to hit all my notes.”

The rest of the band was quick to point out that their warnings have fallen on deaf ears, as Derrickson continued to take his guitar into the bathroom during practice.

“It’s not that he’s shitting between songs, it’s that we can hear him noodling and finger tapping in there,” said the band’s drummer Sherry Beauregard. “This isn’t the first time it’s happened either. Our last guitar player played so many solos he went blind and lost his license. The woman before him was fired because her hairy palms kept getting caught in the strings. And our original lead guitarist was so into soloing that his wife left him, and honestly, I don’t blame her. Hopefully, it isn’t too late for Henry, but he’s already having a hard time connecting with us when we play. Sometimes he gets so into himself that it’s like we’re not even there.”

Experts say that over-soloing remains a hidden endemic.

“Transgressive attitudes towards playing solos run deep in this country,” said rock historian Ron LaFayette as he idly plucked a few strings. “Solo shaming is a very real problem, unfortunately. Guitarists are afraid to talk about soloing, and it’s hurting them. Just because a guitar player wants to play alone on occasion doesn’t mean that something is wrong. It’s perfectly natural, and some people even say that soloing from time to time makes it that much better when you finally play with the rest of the band.”

At press time Derrickson was seen entering his bedroom with a jar of Vaseline and this month’s Guitar World centerfold.

Oh, You’re a Libertarian? Name 3 Places You Like To Hang Out So I Can Avoid Them

Posted on by Tony Morse

Oh, you’re a libertarian? Yeah bro, I guess that copy of “The Fountainhead” with the pages stuck together you’ve got there should’ve been a clue. But if you’re an actual rugged individualist, could you do me a solid and tell me 3 places you like to chill so I can steer clear of them?

If you could share where you and the other sworn enemies of food safety regulations meet up to exchange unpleasantries, I’d be much obliged. I’m sorry if this seems a little forward, but my friends and I just want to know where we can go with a reasonable chance of not wanting to leave as soon as we arrive.

Hey, let’s try this. I’ll name 3 places and you tell me if you’ve ever been. Cool? When’s the last time you saw a band with any female members? Okay, that doesn’t surprise me. What about therapy? Yeah, that tracks. Now tell me about your most recent second date. No bro, I haven’t been following you around and spying on you. Well, I did talk to a barista who told me how you always go out of your way to explain to her why you don’t tip. What’s that? You’re never getting coffee at that place again? Oh, sweet, I can start reading my new book there.

Oh, you’re into books, too? Well, I probably don’t have to worry about bumping into you at the library, but can you tell me about your favorite sections at the bookstore? Ah, Ben Shapiro and Jordan Peterson? Yeah, I like fiction, too. But I generally prefer some element of realism in what I read. And I bet you like a very limited part of the history section, too, huh?

Now, where’s your favorite place to go shopping? Wait, can I guess? Is it the duty-free, where the soul-sucking government can’t take the joy out of buying bulk booze and boxed chocolates with taxes that get wasted on hot lunch programs for freeloading public school children? Wow, I should buy a lottery ticket!

So basically just don’t go to your bedroom or the internet and I’m good? Cool.

Show Ends With All Bands Lining up to High Five and Say “Good Gig”

Posted on by Joe Rumrill

TUCSON, Ariz. — Every musician who played the Rat’s Nest Thursday night showed an unprecedented display of scene camaraderie by forming two lines, high fiving, and repeating “good gig” to close the show, stunned sources confirmed.

“It just felt like the right thing to do. Everyone was sounding so fantastic that night, just incredible sets all around,” said Grime Grubber guitarist Lynda Ng. “Even the guys who are typically big showboaters all shared the spotlight and exhibited a deep understanding of the importance of the fundamentals. If we’re gonna say ‘good gig’ fifty times, we’re gonna mean it. We all ended up sharing some orange slices that my mom had given me before the show and drinking some warm beer that was sitting in a cooler behind the bar. It reminded me why I started playing music to begin with.”

Unfortunately, not everyone in attendance held such positive reactions to the showing of good sportsmanship, like the irate response it elicited in certain parents in the crowd.

“Some of the applause the other bands were getting was total bullshit. My son Donny was clearly MVP of the show, he plays bass like a little angel. The sound guy was fucking him over all night, it’s like he was turning him all the way down in the mix on purpose,” said Gregg Suskin, father of Donny Suskin who plays in Bunkle Uck. “Yeah sure, I got a little tipsy and started yelling as much to some of the other parents in the bleachers, but that’s what the damn Rat’s Nest gets for installing bleachers into a punk club. They can say it’s ironic all they want, but if a brawl breaks out ‘cause I spill a beer on another dad, don’t blame me if I put up my fists.”

Venue popcorn vendor Honus Rebhorn said it was one of the finest shows he’d seen in his over thirty-year career.

“I’ve seen a lot a lot of bands take the stage in my time here at the Nest, and I’m man enough to admit that I teared up when I saw those kids line up to high five,” said Rebhorn. “I consider myself a lucky man, being able to hold a multi-decade career in selling popcorn at rock shows in this economy and all, but that night, I felt even luckier. The best part was the one band that had a dog playing in it, though. That was really something cute. Nobody had any qualms about it, because they knew there was no rule against it. Music’s for everybody, man or beast. Heck, I’d high five to that, too.”

When reached for comment on whether or not the bands deserved to get taken out for ice cream afterward, Rat’s Nest owner Gil Vernon said simply “we’ll see…” which everyone seemed to know always means yes.

Review: Poison the Well “Tear From the Red”

Posted on by Colleen Nerney

Each week, The Hard Times takes a trip to the past to review a classic album. This time around we take a look at Poison the Well’s “Tear From the Red” the album that landed the band a deal with a major record label.

Metalcore icons Poison the Well are known for their early-2000s efforts like “Tear from the Red” as much as they are for their numerous, seemingly relentless lineup changes. Since the process of writing and recording an album is often as important—if not more—than the finished product, I thought I’d take a look back at the legendary story of “Tear from the Red,” an album so cursed with bad luck, it may as well have been influenced by spirits from beyond the grave.

And by “may as well have been,” I mean “literally was.” Did you know that the making of this album began when frontman Omar Rodríguez-López purchased a Ouija board from a curiosities shop in Jerusalem? Yep, that’s right. This shit had creepy potential from the start, but it started out innocuously enough. On their tour with Red Hot Chili Peppers (yeah, I know), the band apparently spent most nights using the board on the bus after a show. The spirits contacted by the band, known collectively as “Goliath,” began communing with them on a regular basis.

Granted, talking to the dead is a pretty hype concept for an album, but it definitely came with risks. And man, these guys had it rough after unleashing a flurry of angry spirits on themselves. The recording process was marred with bad luck, from flooding to injuries to lineup changes caused by mental breakdowns. Even the sound tech quit after realizing this album was touched by something evil.

Apparently, it got so bad that Rodríguez-López had to fucking bury the Ouija board in an undisclosed location in order to stop the parade of madness that followed him at every turn. Honestly, I think this would make a dope horror flick, with a banger soundtrack to boot. Someone jump on the rights to that, and if it works out, bring a soothsayer and sage or some shit to protect yourself!

And there you have it, folks, the story of the most cursed album of all time, “The Bedlam in Goliath” by The Mars Volta.

Wait, fuck—

SCORE: 0/1 correct albums I researched for this

/**/

GWAR Still Haunted by Fact Dave Matthews Dumped More Feces on Chicago Than They Ever Will

Posted on by Patrick Coyne

RICHMOND, Va. — Shock rockers GWAR admitted recently that despite decades of dousing their fans in bodily fluids, none of it compares to Dave Matthews Band dumping liquid feces on a Chicago tour boat.

“Over the past forty years, GWAR has committed acts so vile that mere mortal musicians couldn’t even imagine. From showering willing and eager audience members in guts and sinew, to murdering Ethan Embry, and even feeding various heads of state to a crack-addicted T-rex. But we’ve never quite reached the same level as that sick fuck Dave Matthews,” said GWAR guitarist Balsac the Jaws of Death. “Dropping a literal butt ton of poop on unsuspecting tourists admiring Chicago’s breathtaking architecture has been a dream of mine for years. And knowing that a freaking jam band out-GWARed GWAR hurts my soul.”

GWAR fan and DMB victim Tanya Blaese provided unique insight into the experience.

“It was pretty obvious from everyone else’s reaction that I was the only GWAR fan on that tour boat. Apparently these people had never been drenched in a scumdoggian monster’s semen, because they all sued the band. If anything, I felt like I needed to pay Dave for the experience. I only regret that I wasn’t wearing a white shirt that I could have kept as a souvenir,” said Blaese. “As much as I love GWAR, I don’t see how they could ever top what Dave did that day. And to answer the question everyone asks me, yes, being virtually waterboarded with DMB shit is preferable to going to one of their concerts and getting my ears filled with DMB shit.”

Despite GWAR’s jealousy, Dave Matthews insisted the incident does not represent his band.

“With all due respect to the fine creatures that make up GWAR, Dave Matthews Band is not proud of the unfortunate and disgusting incident that occurred on the Chicago River. The last thing we want is for our band to be remembered as the guys that blasted ass juice all over a major metropolitan waterway,” said Matthews. “If anything, we should be remembered as the guys who wrote the song that many elder Millennials regrettably lost their virginity to. Then after that people can remember the bridge shit spray incident.”

At press time, GWAR’s lawyers, whom the band affectionately refer to as “GWARyers,” are investigating ways in which they could legally drop an entire audience into an open septic tank.

Basement Punk Show Constantly Being Interrupted by Annoying Carbon Monoxide Detectors

Posted on by Chris Bowen

LIVERPOOL, N.Y. — Individuals attending a punk show located at 532 Rey St. complained of an annoying carbon monoxide detector sounding its alarms inside of the basement venue, irritated and unconcerned sources confirmed.

“When you go to a punk show you expect a lot of noise, but that alarm was pissing everyone off,” attendee Maggie Wentz said in a slightly dazed manner. “I was trying to enjoy Smutshock’s set and all I could hear were those loud-ass beeping sounds in the background. On top of that, the singer’s crucial between-song banter was all incoherent and slurred, then the drummer kept passing out. Needless to say, ‘the iconic’ basement show of the entire summer was a major letdown.”

Jason Ruiz, the owner of the decrepit home and show organizer, had a cavalier approach to the pesky alarms interrupting his fun.

“Yeah, those detectors are a pain in my ass,” a visibly frustrated Ruiz said. “Time and time again whenever I have shows in my basement, I get people coming up to me and telling me I need to figure out why they’re going off and then puking all over the floor. I usually just turn a fan on and take out the batteries then everyone is happy again. I mean, what the hell is ‘carbon monoxide’ anyway? I’d rather be dead than have that noise keep me from seeing Smutshock right here in my own basement!”

DIY scene veteran James “Spew” Price talks about some of the common dangers of basement shows past and present.

“In my 35-plus years in the scene, I’ve certainly come across situations some would consider ‘hazardous’ to a person’s health,” Price said while drinking straight from a Jim Beam bottle. “Garage shows with burn barrels directly in the middle so half the pit was set ablaze. Basement gigs where the radon was so prevalent, half the crowd was sterilized when they left for some reason. Stuff like that. So a little carbon monoxide is child’s play. After all, this is punk. Punk is supposed to be dangerous and ruin your life.”

At press time, several witnesses saw an ambulance driving towards the Ruiz home, where Smutshock was still performing.

Let’s Just Say Sometimes I Need to Pee When There’s No Public Restroom Available, and I’m Smarter Than the Police

Posted on by Dan Rice

Salutations and tip of my cap, officers of the Sunnybay Police Department. You don’t know me, not yet, but you are familiar with my work.

I understand you’ve had quite a morning. By now you are no doubt aware of the dirty mess some neer do well, under cover of night, left for you to clean on the west-facing wall of the public library. I’ll save your forensics team some leg work and confirm what I’m quite certain you already suspect — it was piss.

How do I know the details of the library pissing even though you have yet to share them with the media? I think you will find that I’m one step ahead of you on a great many things.

I also know about pissing behind Starbucks last fall, the Spring Street piss wave, and most recently the incident at Summerfest that left attendees saying “Hey, what’s that smell? Is it piss?” They are all courtesy of your humble author, John Q. Me.

What can I say? I’ll just be going about my day, minding my own business when all of the sudden I’ll just get the urge. And once that urge takes hold, I know by now it’s just not going to go away. Not until I take a pisssss.

Perhaps you find my crimes to be sick, or mad. You wanna know what I think is mad? The total lack of public restroom availability in downtown Sunnybay. What do I think is sick? A town that rents 4 portajohns for a Summerfest attended by nearly 3000 people in the course of one weekend. A society that allows Starbucks to remodel their bathroom during pumpkin latte season. I was driven to these crimes as the neglected beggar is driven to theft, as the waters of the flood are driven to low ground.

It was your world that made me what I am. But now that I’ve had a taste of it, the sheer thrill of taking a human piss somewhere you’re not supposed to be pissing, I want more. So much more.

Perhaps you’re wondering why I would take the risk of publishing this letter. Perhaps it’s hubris. Perhaps like many madmen before me, I wish to be caught. Or maybe I’ve just come to enjoy our little game of cat and mouse. It doesn’t matter. Soon this town will be ripe with the stains of my glorious becoming.

Your public buildings are not safe. Your sidewalks are not safe. You are not safe in your homes. Well, okay, you are safe in your homes, but the sides of your homes themselves? I’m pissin ‘on em.

I’d love to stay and chat, but I just finished my coffee. My third cup. It seems the cafe’s sole restroom is occupied. Maybe I’ll take a little walk to the mayor’s office. Tah tah.

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