Rubbed
Raw: 
An interview with High on Fire
Ruthless rockers bound for the unrelenting alleys and interstate stretches between each town. There's only one qualification required for rockers to tour, and that my darklings, is guts. Oh yeah, and their oldest pair of black, duct taped chucks. These men leave their ladies, their lives, their sanity behind to riddle and writhe their way on stage, to reprimand and punctuate music in only a meaning than can convey. Custom, needless to say! After High On Fire sharing the stage, drugs, and loose women from here to Tucson with Superjoint Ritual for several weeks, it was already natural that I'd be the oldest and only girl to gain access up on Superjoint's tour bus in a goddamn arcade club. Once on deck Hank III was spotted first pacing and perspiring, so again thankfully I wasn't the only one tweaked out on cocaine.
"Do you remember asking my ex to play bass in in your own band," I asked him. With eyes wired open, he shook his head yes, but I'd imagine he gets this line from all the groupies.
Next I bumped into Jimmy Bowers of Eyehategod and had yet another reasonable question, "May I use the bathroom?"
"Do you know the rules," he quizzed?
"Don't flush toilet paper. You do have toilet paper, " I confirmed.
"No flushing, and no number two," he reminded.
"Now, do I honestly look like I was born in a barn? Or am I the kind of girl who's going to take a shit in front of rock stars? C'mon! I'd at least have the courtesy to use a beer bottle or something."
I love flirting with men. Even if I have no intentions in screwing any of them, I'll catch myself slipping subliminal teases, constantly. Immediately following the examining of the port-a-pottie, I preceded to scope the rest of the tour bus out. Phil Anselmo and Fazzio were in the back watching football, and the last ones left to flirt with. But, before I honestly went through with it, I remembered jocks draw the limit. All the rockers were pretty much beaten, for this was the end of tour. Another chapter completed written in cum splattered pages of porn by masturbating rockers. If there is anything within my productive ability to help these sex deprived men out, then by god I'll give them a hand.
"Why are you clapping," a plain girl interrupted.
"Who are you," I sneered.
"I'm one of the tour managers," she announces.
"Oh yeah, how do you go about getting a job like that," I switched my tone.
"You make it sound like it's fun," she contradicted.
"What!? You're up here rocking and rolling every night. I'd imagine it sure the fuck even beats drug dealing!"
I didn't really have to go to the bathroom again, but I really wasn't going to waste anymore of my breath with this retarded cunt. Plus, it was time for me to change into my combat reporter outfit. With my ass cheeks prodding, mooning everybody during group photo was definitely the highlight of the night. It wasn't long before I peeled my eyes open the next morning in the Red Roof Inn with High On Fire. I couldn't figure out for the life of me as to why there was shit smeared on the top of an empty beer bottle. The site of it still makes me tremble. House keeping was knocking, but I sure wasn't touching the brown turban. Matt Pike pinched his nose and placed it gently in the wastebasket. I hate to point any of my oozing fingers, but the smeller is, however, the feller. We scrambled out of the room, as I helped Des carry down the cooler. The box truck they were driving I would imagine was a U haul they had stolen, and drove to a chop shop to be renovated into a camper. I suppose the least I could do for these hijackers was buy them breakfast. It's good thing The Waffle House was in the same parking facility, because the way that the box truck was coughing up loogies and lungs, we were not the only ones with severe hangovers. George was already there waiting for us, therefore leaving Matt Pike and I quality time walking through the parking lot.
"Are all the girls in KY as cool as you are, Smutstrutter," he asked?
"Highly doubtful. None that can be trusted. Maybe one, but, conceivably she's related," I answered.
"I know better not to trust any of my fellow brothers. Especially those at Relapse Records," he corresponds.
"I like to talk a little about you're previous band, Sleep, once inside here," I continued.
"Not so fast. The guys don't like it when I bring up Sleep in High On Fire interviews," he said opening the door.
The Waffle House and its waitresses were just as scary as ever. Fucking Twilight Zone! Anyways, George sat still sipping his coffee, peering out to the world of worries. As all the money mongering civilians zipped to and fro their ass flattening offices, every one of us still had matted hair, and had no intentions of brushing it. Everyone was pretty fucking ugly at this hour, but things we're about to get even uglier. "Look guys, this grease trap here hasn't adapted to the 21st century, and are now not accepting credit cards. Can we cross the street to Bob Evans?" It seemed like a reasonable exception to some less crackhead services. Des was ready, but George wasn't budging.
"I'll think I'll sit here with my coffee, and money that I know we'll spend instead of relying on your plastic."
"I got an idea. Why don't I get a cab and skip the diarrhea," I snapped.
"I'll give you a ride, babe. I'm not even hungry," Aaron jumped in. "George gets like this all the time, and you just so happen to be the target."
"No, it's probably me. I'm always thinking the world is after me," I accepted.
Once reunited with my car back at the arcade, I smoked him out and left on good terms finally. But, the fucking child molester look-a-like waiting in the parking lot followed me halfway down Preston Hwy. before I escaped luckily. Eventually I realized both George and this freak must have mistaken this journalist for a stripper. - Smutstrutter