Josh knows this "50th Anniversary" celebration will probably mark the last time they ever perform before an audience that isn't made up mostly of Nazis and porcine livestock. The show is being touted as not just a very lousy cover band and a geezer, but an evening "with a full orchestra." They are one of the lone purveyors of that pretentious category, "classical progrock." It's a genre that is perfect for people who want an excuse for not being funky, and don't have enough talent to actually play intricate or complicated chords and melodies.
Other band members are in training, too.
"I may be full of shit," says Dung the drummer, "but I'm taking elephant poop suppositories to make sure I'm so full of it, I can sit and do shitty monotonous thumping for two hours."
As for Whitewhore, he admits, "You get low on protein when you live mostly on beer. I'll be licking Winnie's twat after every guy she fucks. It should add protein AND probably improve my breath!"
As for Wooden Pegg, he prefers to save energy: "I go into hibernation. Gooker stashes me in a closet, along with brooms and mops."
As for "The Commander" himself, the Earl of Squint, the Duke of Drooling, the Lord of Giving the Boot to Anyone Talented, he will begin rigorous throat conditioning. "It's not easy to bray like an elephant for two solid hours," he admits. "I'm going in for surgery to get my lungs re-lined with rubber from my favorite enema bag. I'll have my bald spot shined and polished. I'll have my chin freshly implanted with goat pubes. And I'll drink enough rum every day so that my blood will be 90 proof."
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