Post by Tomas Luger on Dec 30, 2008 1:33:05 GMT -5
The following set was played on December 27 at the Heart of Oklahoma Exhibition Center. It was part of the “Metal for Chaos” tour.
A band is seen on stage just finishing up a song. The lead singer steps to the microphone to address the crowd.
Singer: As you know, a couple of years ago this band had a pretty awful bass player. He sucked so bad that he decided to try his luck at pro wrestling and, surprise, surprise, he sucks at that too.
The crowd begins a “Luger” chant in the back that catches some momentum before being sent down by the lead singer speaking again.
Singer: Well, it just so happens that he’s wrestling here in just under a week and we decided to let him show you just how fucking shitty he is. Ladies and gentlemen, Tomas Fucking Luger!!!!!
The crowd screams to life as Luger walks out on stage clutching an acoustic guitar. A roadie sets Luger up a mic for the guitar and a stool. Luger shakes the hand of the singer and grabs the microphone.
Luger: How bout Ethan and the rest of Paranoia 4 Beginners? Give it the fuck up!
The crowd lets forth another howl.
Luger: That’s right, and yes, I had the privilege of playing bass with these assholes a few years back, but when we didn’t sell any records I told Ethan, “Go fuck yourself. I’ll bet you ten bucks I win a World Title before you go platinum.”
Luger grabs a ten from his pocket.
Luger: Congratulations man.
The crowd chants “Luger” again as Ethan and Tomas exchange nods and waves of acknowledgment.
Luger: But I haven’t come back here today to perform in front of all you Lugernauts with shit talking about my dear friends, oh no! I’ve come before you today to talk shit about a few people I happen to know from my other profession, The Wrestling Domain. Showdown is going to be taped here on Saturday, January third. They sell beer, chicks attend, security is pretty loose so you can do coke and fuck in the restrooms-
The crowd hoots and hollers
Luger: Anyway, this song is called “The Honesty Song”. Here goes-
I work for a company, ran by Patrick
My job would be great, if the boss wasn’t a dick
It’s owned by a dude named Kersh
Or, so I’ve heard
I’d think he was a douche
If he wasn’t Mr. Martin’s beard
So fuck you, Patrick Martin
You’re gonna die from cancer, I promise
Fuck you, Patrick martin
If you can’t deal, I’m just being honest
There once was a little girl people called, “Adam Young”
He talked a lot of shit
But never got the job done
Just ask him, he’ll tell you
Bout all them matches he’s won
But that bitch hasn’t done shit
Since June of two thousand and one
So Fuck you, Adam Young
You think about little boys in the darkness
Fuck you, Adam Young
If you can’t deal, I’m just being honest
So it turns out
Our champion is a scumbag and a Jew
I remember warning everyone
Now I can say, “I told you”
Eno back with the Ent
Shows how far he’s had to go
Just goes to show
He’s nothing on his own
So fuck you, Eno Redrum
Everything you touch ends up in death
Fuck you, Eno Redrum
If you can’t deal, I’m just being honest
If this song hurts your feelings
Probably means you’re a bitch
And did you know that Rob Blondie
Knows all the rules to Quidditch
And I’d love to bone Hermoine
And beat the shit out of Ralph Fiennes
I don’t know why on Earth that Rowling kook
needed seven books
So fuck you, Harry Potter
I wanna dump man love on Emma Watson’s chest
Fuck you, Harry Potter
Eat a dick, I’m just being honest
Being honest
Fuck you, I’m just being honest.
****
Luger sits in a high back, velvet upholstered chair. He has a decanter, with single malt whiskey aged at least twenty years and a fine cigar. He is, of course, wearing jeans and a Paranoia 4 Beginners t-shirt.
And now, a moment alone with Tomas Luger.
Luger: Ladies and gentlemen, I thought we’d take this opportunity to talk candidly. Get some things off our chests. I’ve got something I’d like to talk to you all about-
Luger puts down the glass of whiskey neet and motions you to come on in, sit on uncle Tom’s lap.
Luger: You see, I’ve got to put my TWD Tag Team Title on the line against Adam, Andrew, Allen, Arlene, Amos, Arby’s Young. That’s right, all of them. Collectively know as the Big Time Vaginas.
Tomas holds up a hand, his smile cool and confident.
Luger: Rest assured, it’s not a matter of thinking it unfair. Egos and Icons is the far superior team. We prove it time and again. York and I are on the same page. I mean, we’re not related like the BTV’s are. And we don’t swap Alexis back and forth like a community wash cloth like Adam does with Sissy, but we have our own chemistry.
Luger smells the whisky and grimaces. He puts it back down.
Luger: You see, Justin and I have this thing known as “naturally ability” or “talent” that the Big Titted Vaginas lack. I think it’s cute as a cucumber that Adam drags his retarded, incestuous, family along for the ride in the TWD, but that doesn’t mean you get a shot at the Tag Titles.
Luger rolls the cigar in his fingers, cuts the tip, smells it, grimaces, and tosses it over his shoulder.
Luger: You see, that’s what has me vexed. It’s not that we’re defending the titles, it’s the quality of comepetition. There are currently like a hundred tag teams that are more qualified to be facing me and York for our straps. Hell, I’d rather face a couple of fans. At least that might make for good television.
The camera pans close and Luger’s eyes shift, making sure no one is spying on this private message for a special someone.
Luger: Adam, you put on your big girl panties. You know the ones that the Wiz made you wear. You hike em up and put a tampon in all that shit that dribbles out of your washed up spew hole and listen real close. You can talk all the shit you want to, on Showdown, you have to back it up if you want to be Tag Team champion with your retarded brother-son or whatever he is to you. It’s put up or shut up time, and we all know little Adam’s va-jay-jay isn’t good in the clutch.
This has been a moment alone with Tomas Luger.
****
Bonus Track
Wild Accusations.
Prologue
I have been told, by several credible sources, that I am a fucking clown shoes. I’m not sure exactly what this means, but if I had to hazard a guess I’d say it’s worse than a clutz and not as bad as a human calamity. It’s not the name that bothers me, or the fact that almost every person I’ve ever met has told me at some point in my life, “Tom, you know, I love you, but you’re a fucking clown shoes”. It’s not any of those things that pisses me off. It’s not even the fact that it happens in every aspect of my life. I spill drinks all over the place in public, I’m not good with names or faces, I have no sense of direction or time, I have no inner flame or great aspirations. None of these bothers me. It’s that I can’t pull my shit together long enough to make the important shit in my life work. I always find a way to fuck it up when it’s on the line.
For example, I was once a main event, Headliner, in the Tennessee Wrestling Federation. I was TWF Tag Champ, working my way toward the coveted prize. I’d made several friends in the locker room, but it was the connection I’d made outside of the ring that mattered the most. I’d met a woman. Hunter was everything that I could’ve asked for in another human being, but I managed to fritter that away too. As soon as the TWF folded up shop I hit rock bottom. I didn’t want to be like my old man, humping in some kitchen or driving truck. I’m not qualified to do much except entertain, and that was not looking likely. I ran through my savings gambling at casinos and drinking at bars. Of course, at either location resided several women that recognized me. You’d have no idea how many female wrestling fans there are. I fucked a lot, a lot, a lot of women. Ugly, tall, fat, black, three nipples, old, hot, models, porn stars. I’ve been cock deep in them all.
But there’s a price to pay at the end. Hunter, of course, found out. I can’t do anything right, remember? I always wondered where my cell phone went until a seventy five year old woman named Darlene McBriar called mine and Hunter’s loft one night. Hunter answered and the verbal cat fight ensued. After she hung up the phone, that was it. I thought she was in some sort of luggage packing olympics. She took what she needed and told me to burn the rest.
As she closed the door, the last thing she said to me was, “Fucking clown shoes...”
A band is seen on stage just finishing up a song. The lead singer steps to the microphone to address the crowd.
Singer: As you know, a couple of years ago this band had a pretty awful bass player. He sucked so bad that he decided to try his luck at pro wrestling and, surprise, surprise, he sucks at that too.
The crowd begins a “Luger” chant in the back that catches some momentum before being sent down by the lead singer speaking again.
Singer: Well, it just so happens that he’s wrestling here in just under a week and we decided to let him show you just how fucking shitty he is. Ladies and gentlemen, Tomas Fucking Luger!!!!!
The crowd screams to life as Luger walks out on stage clutching an acoustic guitar. A roadie sets Luger up a mic for the guitar and a stool. Luger shakes the hand of the singer and grabs the microphone.
Luger: How bout Ethan and the rest of Paranoia 4 Beginners? Give it the fuck up!
The crowd lets forth another howl.
Luger: That’s right, and yes, I had the privilege of playing bass with these assholes a few years back, but when we didn’t sell any records I told Ethan, “Go fuck yourself. I’ll bet you ten bucks I win a World Title before you go platinum.”
Luger grabs a ten from his pocket.
Luger: Congratulations man.
The crowd chants “Luger” again as Ethan and Tomas exchange nods and waves of acknowledgment.
Luger: But I haven’t come back here today to perform in front of all you Lugernauts with shit talking about my dear friends, oh no! I’ve come before you today to talk shit about a few people I happen to know from my other profession, The Wrestling Domain. Showdown is going to be taped here on Saturday, January third. They sell beer, chicks attend, security is pretty loose so you can do coke and fuck in the restrooms-
The crowd hoots and hollers
Luger: Anyway, this song is called “The Honesty Song”. Here goes-
I work for a company, ran by Patrick
My job would be great, if the boss wasn’t a dick
It’s owned by a dude named Kersh
Or, so I’ve heard
I’d think he was a douche
If he wasn’t Mr. Martin’s beard
So fuck you, Patrick Martin
You’re gonna die from cancer, I promise
Fuck you, Patrick martin
If you can’t deal, I’m just being honest
There once was a little girl people called, “Adam Young”
He talked a lot of shit
But never got the job done
Just ask him, he’ll tell you
Bout all them matches he’s won
But that bitch hasn’t done shit
Since June of two thousand and one
So Fuck you, Adam Young
You think about little boys in the darkness
Fuck you, Adam Young
If you can’t deal, I’m just being honest
So it turns out
Our champion is a scumbag and a Jew
I remember warning everyone
Now I can say, “I told you”
Eno back with the Ent
Shows how far he’s had to go
Just goes to show
He’s nothing on his own
So fuck you, Eno Redrum
Everything you touch ends up in death
Fuck you, Eno Redrum
If you can’t deal, I’m just being honest
If this song hurts your feelings
Probably means you’re a bitch
And did you know that Rob Blondie
Knows all the rules to Quidditch
And I’d love to bone Hermoine
And beat the shit out of Ralph Fiennes
I don’t know why on Earth that Rowling kook
needed seven books
So fuck you, Harry Potter
I wanna dump man love on Emma Watson’s chest
Fuck you, Harry Potter
Eat a dick, I’m just being honest
Being honest
Fuck you, I’m just being honest.
****
Luger sits in a high back, velvet upholstered chair. He has a decanter, with single malt whiskey aged at least twenty years and a fine cigar. He is, of course, wearing jeans and a Paranoia 4 Beginners t-shirt.
And now, a moment alone with Tomas Luger.
Luger: Ladies and gentlemen, I thought we’d take this opportunity to talk candidly. Get some things off our chests. I’ve got something I’d like to talk to you all about-
Luger puts down the glass of whiskey neet and motions you to come on in, sit on uncle Tom’s lap.
Luger: You see, I’ve got to put my TWD Tag Team Title on the line against Adam, Andrew, Allen, Arlene, Amos, Arby’s Young. That’s right, all of them. Collectively know as the Big Time Vaginas.
Tomas holds up a hand, his smile cool and confident.
Luger: Rest assured, it’s not a matter of thinking it unfair. Egos and Icons is the far superior team. We prove it time and again. York and I are on the same page. I mean, we’re not related like the BTV’s are. And we don’t swap Alexis back and forth like a community wash cloth like Adam does with Sissy, but we have our own chemistry.
Luger smells the whisky and grimaces. He puts it back down.
Luger: You see, Justin and I have this thing known as “naturally ability” or “talent” that the Big Titted Vaginas lack. I think it’s cute as a cucumber that Adam drags his retarded, incestuous, family along for the ride in the TWD, but that doesn’t mean you get a shot at the Tag Titles.
Luger rolls the cigar in his fingers, cuts the tip, smells it, grimaces, and tosses it over his shoulder.
Luger: You see, that’s what has me vexed. It’s not that we’re defending the titles, it’s the quality of comepetition. There are currently like a hundred tag teams that are more qualified to be facing me and York for our straps. Hell, I’d rather face a couple of fans. At least that might make for good television.
The camera pans close and Luger’s eyes shift, making sure no one is spying on this private message for a special someone.
Luger: Adam, you put on your big girl panties. You know the ones that the Wiz made you wear. You hike em up and put a tampon in all that shit that dribbles out of your washed up spew hole and listen real close. You can talk all the shit you want to, on Showdown, you have to back it up if you want to be Tag Team champion with your retarded brother-son or whatever he is to you. It’s put up or shut up time, and we all know little Adam’s va-jay-jay isn’t good in the clutch.
This has been a moment alone with Tomas Luger.
****
Bonus Track
Wild Accusations.
Prologue
I have been told, by several credible sources, that I am a fucking clown shoes. I’m not sure exactly what this means, but if I had to hazard a guess I’d say it’s worse than a clutz and not as bad as a human calamity. It’s not the name that bothers me, or the fact that almost every person I’ve ever met has told me at some point in my life, “Tom, you know, I love you, but you’re a fucking clown shoes”. It’s not any of those things that pisses me off. It’s not even the fact that it happens in every aspect of my life. I spill drinks all over the place in public, I’m not good with names or faces, I have no sense of direction or time, I have no inner flame or great aspirations. None of these bothers me. It’s that I can’t pull my shit together long enough to make the important shit in my life work. I always find a way to fuck it up when it’s on the line.
For example, I was once a main event, Headliner, in the Tennessee Wrestling Federation. I was TWF Tag Champ, working my way toward the coveted prize. I’d made several friends in the locker room, but it was the connection I’d made outside of the ring that mattered the most. I’d met a woman. Hunter was everything that I could’ve asked for in another human being, but I managed to fritter that away too. As soon as the TWF folded up shop I hit rock bottom. I didn’t want to be like my old man, humping in some kitchen or driving truck. I’m not qualified to do much except entertain, and that was not looking likely. I ran through my savings gambling at casinos and drinking at bars. Of course, at either location resided several women that recognized me. You’d have no idea how many female wrestling fans there are. I fucked a lot, a lot, a lot of women. Ugly, tall, fat, black, three nipples, old, hot, models, porn stars. I’ve been cock deep in them all.
But there’s a price to pay at the end. Hunter, of course, found out. I can’t do anything right, remember? I always wondered where my cell phone went until a seventy five year old woman named Darlene McBriar called mine and Hunter’s loft one night. Hunter answered and the verbal cat fight ensued. After she hung up the phone, that was it. I thought she was in some sort of luggage packing olympics. She took what she needed and told me to burn the rest.
As she closed the door, the last thing she said to me was, “Fucking clown shoes...”