And I swear something inside me tilted so violently from secondhand cringe that I might develop long-term MTSD. Musical Trauma Stress Disaster.
Yeah, Jackie?
What’s that, you little devil?
A letter… from Flint “Rushmaster” himself?
Fantastic.
Just what I needed— fan mail from the lead singer of a band that sounds like its own dermatological condition.
Wait—
of COURSE.
Of fucking course.
Turns out Jackie reached out to them personally, and Flint agreed to let us use their entire shit-track…
…but only under one condition.
We must tell the story of their brand.
A contract is a contract.
And where I come from, respecting a contract is holier than religion, holier than a wedding night, holier than basic human decency.
So… fine.
I’ll read it.
But if this origin story gives me brain leakage, I’m suing everybody.”
"OPEN LETTER FROM THE BAND 'BUTT PIMPLE™'For DICK MELODY™ PERSONALLY"
“YoOoOo, Diiickkk!!!
It’s ya boyyy Flint “RushMaster“— 2nd vocalist, bassist, masochist, whatever-ist, ‘Baby I’m all yours come get me’-ist, basically the MAIN dude you should NEVER let near sharp objects, bro.
WE LOVE YOU, MAN! You fuckin’ SLAAAAY!
Ok ok sooo… back then we were like total LOOSERS, like baby-level, diaper-level FAIL, BUT the dream—OHHH the DREAM was huuuge, like Deep Throat-level huge, like “suck the whole galaxy in” huge.
Story time: our drummer Jo’Bo the Destroyer pissed off some BIG dude. Like BIG-big. Like “his shadow has a shadow” big.
Next thing—we all woke up IN THE TRUNK OF A SMUGGLER COSMO-VAN.
These assholes were like:
‘Yeah we gonna sell u for organs lol, these boys got fresh vocal cords.’
And we were like:
‘OH SHIIIT WE’RE DEAD! ROCK IS DEAD! THANK YOU GOODBYE THE END OF SEASON!’
AND THEN—BRO—THEN—
BAAM! KA-BOOOOM FSSHHHHHHHHHH
The trunk door EXPLODES THE F OFF, light blasts our Big-Eyes to soup, smoke everywhere, AND IN THE DOORWAY—HE STOOD.
AN—FUKIN’—DROID.
Cold. Hot. Deadly. Sexless. Beautiful. Heartless. Basically the GOD OF ROCK.
We were trembling AND smiling. It was the first time in a week we felt ALIVE.
We’re dirty, broken, fucked-up— but SOOOOO HAPPY cuz someone, someone REAL, came to SAVE OUR VIRGIN ASSES.
I step up, shaking like a vibrator on max, ready to say:
‘D–DAD?? ADOPT ME???‘
But instead I squeak:
‘Uh… sir… thx fo’ saving us BZZZT-TSHHHH we… we ur fans! We musicians… but no name yet. I mean we HAD a name—’Grandma’s Babies’… Yeah… garbage… SHAME… TRAUMA… The kindergarten MADE us do it…”
And I go:
‘SIR NAME US!!! WE R UR PADAWANS! GIVE US THE HOLY ROCK NAME PLZ!‘
And the android, NOT EVEN LOOKING UP, goes:
‘Back up you piece of shit. Call yourselves a pimple in the ass or something. Don’t give a fuck.’
…AND LEAVES.
We just stand there. Minds blown. Physics cancelled. Reality crashed.
Then the dirty dude next to him—that blind-ish moron—goes:
‘Yo metal dickhead you rude fuck!! Guys, want me to give u a real cool name—‘
BUT WE WERE ALREADY GONE, BRO.
Our main singer / guitar sex-machine Rust’n Heart raises his flaming rusty guitar and SCREAMS:
‘BUUUUUUUTT PIIIIIMPPLLLEEEEE!‘
I LAUGH like a possessed llama and instantly start riffing cuz BRO I FELT IT. THE NAME WAS BORN.
Our green sax-beast maestro, Sax-O-Morph 3K— blowin sax… and probably breakin a few laws while doin it. You gotta SEE that shit or you won’t believe it.
Our keyboard dude Brr-rRat-TeaBangin’, ex-android-hacker, looks like Death in sunglasses. When he heard the name, he just bowed… like he heard the GALACTIC PROPHECY.
Then Jo’Bo the Destroyer SCREAMS:
‘DUDE THAT’S KIICKS!!!‘
We look at each other— and boom. DESTINY.
All five of us, radioactive psycho teens on bad life choices, scream:
Rust’n Heart‘s hair caught fire—not metaphorically. Sax-O-Morph bit his trumpet. Brr-rRat-TeaBangin’ shed a single oil tear. Jo’Bo kicked a hole in the universe. I screamed so hard my soul detached.
Dirty dude beside us literally drops his jaw like:
‘Wh—what?? You can’t be serious— I can give you like 20 better—‘
BUT TOO LATE.
Sax-O-Morph yells:
‘IT’S PERF, BRO!!! IT’S REAL-DEAL—ORGY-ANAL!‘
Brr-rRat-TeaBangin’ monotones:
‘…perfectly memorable.‘
Jo’Bo slams a cymbal in half:
‘No turning back. This is our STYLE.‘
And I raise my hand to the fucking STARS and yell:
‘GALAXY, GET READY! BUTT PIMPLE IS COMIN’!‘
Dick… dude… thx 4 playin’ our track. We love u, old man. Ur the TOP. No homo. (Ok maybe a lil homo)
PS: Photo from‘BUTT PIMPLE—LIVE AT THE DUMPSTER RIOT FEST‘
YOYOYO—CHECK IT OUT, DIIICKKK!!!
You SEE that stage??? Yeah??? THAT’S US, BABY!!!
Front n center—
RUST’N HEART!!!
Our main screamin, string-murderin legend!!!
Dude got space-leather hangin on him like sadness on a broke-ass brainiac at 3AM, and that fire-guitar???
BRO—
that shit ain’t playin music—
IT’S TRYNA SET THE STAGE ON FIRE BEFORE THE CROWD EVEN BLINKS!!!
RIGHT SIDE—
SAX-O-MORPH 3K!!!
OUR GREEN FUNGAL SAX DEMON!!!
Man wearin shades like a blind DJ FROM HELL, blowin sax— trumpet— vape— weed— SYNTH— probably someone’s grandma backstage—
ALL AT THE SAME DAMN TIME!!!
Jumpin like somebody shoved a BPM ROCKET STRAIGHT UP HIS ASS— AND HE LOVES THAT SHIT!!!
LEFT SIDE—
BRR-RRAT-TEA-BANGIN!!!
OUR KEYBOARD TERMINATOR!!!
Face???
STEEL. DEATH. MASK.
Hands???
FACTORY HAMMERS FROM HELL.
Sound???
LIKE DARKNESS DOIN PUSH-UPS ON YOUR SPINE, BRO.
BACK ROW—
JO’BO THE DESTROYER!!!
DRUM DEMON. NAH—DRUM WAR CRIME!!!
This man’s sticks got FOUR NUCLEAR REACTORS INSIDE, he hits so hard—
CYMBALS DON’T RING—
THEY FUCKIN EXPLODE!!!
Crowd ain’t clappin—
THEY PRAYIN he don’t accidentally TRIGGER A SUPERNOVA MID-SOLO!!!
AND THEN—
ME.
FLINT “RUSHMASTER”!!!
Grinnin like a dude who died THREE TIMES and said—
‘nah fam.’
Holdin my bass like I’m boutta BEAT THE SHIT OUTTA THE UNIVERSE—
AND GUESS WHAT???
THE UNIVERSE???
IT KNOWS.
IT RESPECTS.
IT STAYS IN LINE.
THIS—
IS—
BUTT.
FUCKIN.
PIMPLE.
AND THE GALAXY???
AIN’T NEVER FORGETTIN US!!!”
[A long, ashamed inhale and Dick says]
“Yeah… I want to DIE from embarrassment.
Not for them—for myself. Because I’m over fifty. And when I was their age? I was WORSE.
Still… goddamn. That was pure, concentrated humiliation.
…What? No. Nope. Not saying that. You say it yourself, sweetie. I’ve got a reputation to pretend I still have.”
[Jackie sighs—so slowly that half our acne-ridden teenage audience felt their hormones spike and their eyes water. Several instantly made the sigh their ringtone]
“Dick… they’re sweet boys. I like them. A lot. And your taste is so outdated half your peers already went extinct.”
[Dick chokes on his own age]
“Alright, alright— let’s get back to the damn story before I drown in the shame pool. Jackie, baby… remind me where we were?”
[Jackie's voice always sounded…like warm honey poured straight into your ear.Soft, muted, a little rough, that velvet tone that could make even a black hole feel emotionally seen]
“Dick… maybe you should actually take a break…”
[She whispers—quiet, but sharp, like a cat staring straight into your soul]
“There’s a couch over there. Go lie down. You should take care of your old heart. You’re… well… too old for the night shift. I’ll cover for you if you want.”
[Dick exhaled like someone tried to shut him off but couldn't find his power switch]
“Sweetie… don’t you dare retire me that easily. That’s insulting. Painful, even. Almost. Just hand me the note… and get your beautiful ass back to engineering.”
[Jackie giggles—soft, sweet, like a knife slicing a watermelon while everyone assumes it's a teaspoon]
“Fine, old man. But if you die on air?”
[Dick snorts]
“Not my fault. Baby, if I die live on-air, the ratings will SKYROCKET, And Todd will still say I was an expensive mistake.”
[He taps the mic]
“Alright, you PIMPLE-FACED gremlins… let’s get back to the story. Even though you’re listening to this crap because you have no friends, no plans, no goals, and possibly no taste.
But I love you all. The way a surgeon loves anesthesia— only when it works.”
[Pages shuffle violently]
“Where were we? Ah, right.
Our favorite metal ‘GOD OF ROCK‘ jumped off a crane, gravity shit itself, the neighbors shit themselves, the listeners resurrected, and now…
