hey this is dave fourberie. due to g moneys unfortunate passing he's not updating this anymore obviously. i'm the one still updating it with things he wrote before he died, so please don't go away if your curious at all about this guy who was a really talented writer, funny and a good friend. he left instructions for this front page and the original bio to not be changed. istill think its pretty funny and shows how creative he was, take a look and then take a look elsewhere if your interested. thanks for stopping by
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"Tell me about Matt Andrysiak," said Hollis N. Canal, the light and absent-minded tone of his voice clashing with the grunt he made as he set himself on his barstool.
The bartender stopped wiping the shot glass he was holding and stared at Hollis, wide-eyed. His black bow tie suddenly seemed the only color on him. Or absence of color, Hollis corrected, remembering his high school physics lessons.
"What?" Hollis said, more incredulous than alarmed. "It's just a question." It was then that he noticed the bar had fallen silent. Someone had even unplugged the jukebox. How cinematic. Hollis turned around to face an audience of dozens. "You didn't want to ask that question, mister," muttered the bartender behind him.
"Mack N. Dresiac?" inquired Dooley Q. Wiggenwotham in his stereotypically stuffy English accent. "Don't you, rahther, mean G Money Jones III, that gangsta of gangstas?"
"Dawg, G Money Jones and Max Embreeziax ain't even da same person, you crumpet-eating muhfucka," exclaimed T Bone O-Town, throwing down the plug from the jukebox. "My man GMJ is a PEAMP! G be listenin' to all the old-school shit, and I ain't jus talkin' bout no Run DMC shit, no Sugarhill Gang shit. I'm talkin' bout Marvin Gaye, bout some Motown shit. MID-WEST SIIIDE! And why dis jukebox got no Master P?"
"Wasn't G Money Jones an actor from the age of seven onwards, participating in numerous stage productions and winning many awards?" asked I.P. Nightly, ignoring T Bone's ruminations.
"I heard he was very involved in the theatre, but couldn't stand most musicals," giggled Rusty Bedsprings, I.P.'s ambiguously gay tablemate. "Pretty ironic that he ended up dropping the theatre and getting so involved in music, isn't it?"
"Because he wanted to ROCK, dude!" argued Brandon Spliff. "He wanted to crank up Zep, Floyd, Purple, the Who, all the shit that really MATTERS, man! And the dude made it through the 80's with his taste intact! He knows what's rock n' roll. And he doesn't listen to none of that fag shit."
"For your information," sighed sexy goth chick Veronica Absentia as she rolled her black-lined eyes for the thousandth time at her frat boy brother's premature verbal ejaculations, "he gave up on that old stuff a long time ago. He's been listening to industrial, goth, and synthpop steadily for over a decade now. Not to mention punk, glam, Britpop, 60's garage, and anything labeled "alternative" that REALLY matters. And he's a die-hard Nine Inch Nails fan. It isn't 'fag shit'. Asshole."
"Calling each other names won't solve anything," admonished Mrs. Harriet Lull, her retired schoolteacher sass rearing up again and humbling the pair. "Besides, G Money Jones wouldn't have anything to do with that gloomy-Gus music. He's an optimistic boy; a nice, dyed-in-the-wool Lutheran boy. He's been a devoted Christian his whole life! What a nice boy."
Jenny Wheatgerm dropped her organic milkshake. "But, how is that possible? He's crazy about sex. He screws for hours." The wholesome hippie girl turned bright red as everyone looked at her. "Not that...I would know that...personally..."
"Uh, I heard," Tom Tailspin quickly interjected, "that he has a really immense record collection, something like three THOUSAND CDs?"
"Yes," Irwin Frothy sneered, adjusting his pince-nez and whipping out his adding machine and IRS forms. "And he has an even bigger DEBT collection. Much MORE than three thousand--"
"Aw, shoot, who let that calcalater jockey in here?" grumbled Big Bill Brunswick, Shining Scion Of The Lone Star State. "Y'all are gitten too caught up on the details. Why, the simple truth is, that Hoosier boy would give you his own horse if it'd make ya feel better. He's a funny feller, too--always brings a smile to my face. To everyone's face!"
"He iss neva hoomerous!" hissed Klaus Achtung, exhaling clove cigarette smoke. "He ist und vuck-up who alienates all hiss friends, disappoints all hiss employers, und digs himself ditches he can never get out ov! He iss, in fact, depressed! All zee time! He vohnce shlept for eighteen hours at ein time, und zere vahs zat little ztay in und MENTAL HAUS!!!" The predicted gasps did not occur. Although more than a few people averted their gazes in sorrow.
"Dry up, weinerschnitzel!" yelled Doris Ulcer in her Fran Drescher nightmare voice. "That old rumah ain't true, and you know it. But I know which rumah is truuuue..." Everyone huddled closer. "You know that thing about him making Stah Trek history by asking Patrick Stewaht to marry his muthah in front of all those Vulcan-eahed freaks in that convention hawl? True."
"Lie!" announced Gary Owens, standing up. "But it is true that he shook renowned actor David Suchet's hand and spoke with him!"
"You Laugh-In washout!" Kareem-Abdul Smith cried. "It was Joseph Fiennes that happened with!"
"SILENCE, MORTALS," intoned The Crimson Wrath From Dimension X. "IT WAS MOBY."
"Piss off!" whined Jealousy. "It was Elvis Costello. I'm so jealous."
"That ain't quite right, you hep cats and kittens," purred Frankie Farnsquat, Swing Bandleader Extraordinaire. "It was Bruce Foxton, formerly of the Jam, j-jam, doop-de-doodee--"
"Enough with the outdated scat, gramps!" an irritated Beauregard Pickles spat, interrupting the lanky crooner. "It was Jake Burns from Stiff Little Fingers. And he got Jake's guitar pick."
"Ferget it," wheezed Jethro Tungsten. "The point is, the boy's a rock critic."
"No he isn't!" sputtered Scott Towel. "He's an actor!"
"No he isn't!" fumed Fanny Fidopass. "He's currently between assignments, after working for the government in some secret capacity!"
"No he isn't!" exclaimed Emil Fährfrümfünnÿ, picked fresh from the Ikea catalog. "He ships some of the highest quality dental implants to people all around the world!"
"Ho he doesn't!" proclaimed Santa Claus. "He spends his time trying to be a better friend to his friends and family member to his family!"
"No he doesn't!" said Blankety Blank. "He plays computer games all the time!"
Wow, what a great cast for a film, thought Robert Altman, sitting in the back with a beer.
"No he doesn't!" barked an Academy Award, shunning Altman. "He's a full-time dreamer!"
"No he isn't!" growled the dwarf Farquar Mingus, swinging his battle axe at an invading horde of orcs. "He's an aspiring musician who likes to mess around with Sound Forge and create wacky compositions!"
"No 'e idn't!" slurred The Rotting Corpse Of Keith Moon. "'E's a bloody writer, 's all! Guffaw guffaw guffaw!"
"STOP!!!" shouted a voice from the doorway.
Hollis, whose head was ready to explode from all the conflicting voices around him, turned and rose to meet the new visitor. The bar patrons ceased their quibbling for a minute to look at the stranger who had wandered into their midst.
With the barest hint of a nod at Hollis, the stranger drifted to a halt in front of the engrossed crowd. He took a momentary swig of the freshly proffered Corona from the bartender, stifled a smile, and removed his sunglasses.