Hard Digest August 31: Early Access Guitar Center, Insane Clown Posse, Truck Repair, Band Name, and More

Man Unsure If He’s Listening to Grateful Dead Live Recording or Just In a Guitar Center on a Saturday Afternoon

By John Danek

BURLINGTON, Vt. — Local extremely confused man Kirk Unger struggled to determine if he was hearing a live recording of The Grateful Dead or just standing in the main room at Guitar Center on a busy Saturday afternoon, concerned onlookers reported.

“Look man, I’m not saying I’m on drugs right now, but I’m not NOT saying I’m on drugs either. And I cannot tell if this fantastic groove is the Dead–maybe Washington D.C., 1986?” stated Unger, seemingly unbothered by the multiple Fender Telecasters he knocked over earlier in the day. “I’m hearing multiple musicians harmonize in really avant garde ways, but I’m also hearing subtle homages to ‘Master of Puppets’ and ‘Seven Nation Army.’ Am I in a Guitar Center? Or is the main room of Guitar Center within each and every one of us? Is Jerry still alive?”

Longtime employees of the Burlington location Guitar Center seemed vexed by their own perceptions of reality.

“I cannot do this anymore. I cannot. I’m done. What even is sound? A little kid was butchering the first four notes of Stairway this morning when the Grateful Dead came on the in-store radio. Why does God hate me so much?” asked an exasperated Lisa McCollins, longtime employee in Guitar Center’s drum department. “Later, seven dads all came in to test out the most expensive Les Pauls through Marshall half-stacks. I think maybe one bought some picks. I don’t deserve this punishment. Maybe I’ve inherited sin from my family ancestors. Please, someone, bash my skull in with a Big Muff Pi pedal.”

Musicologists attempt to offer a logical, researched explanation of the appeal of the Grateful Dead’s music.

“Jerry Garcia and his bandmates perfected a form of disconnected noodling played by musicians who don’t care at all what their fellow performers are doing,” offered Dr. Thomas Yardley, professor of music composition & theory at The University of Vermont. “The Grateful Dead, and jam bands in general, create a particular form of benign chaos. Largely unlistenable to the sober ear, the music gets infinitely more pleasurable the more fucked up you get. I’m happy to draw you a graph, if you’d like a visual representation.”

As of press time, Unger was reportedly debating whether or not he was listening to Merzbow or in fact standing next to a cement mixer.

Taking the High Road: It’s Been 30 Years Since Insane Clown Posse Released “Santa’s a Fat Bitch” and I’ve Yet to Hear a Response Diss Track

By Steve Packosky 

These days, it seems like division is ingrained into the very fabric of our society. Whether it’s politics, religion, or even sports fandom, the possibility for otherwise civil discourse to become heated is higher than ever. Even music isn’t immune to this ever-present tension, and as a huge hip-hop fan, I find myself disheartened at the constant back-and-forth between my favorite artists. Drake and Kendrick Lamar. Eminem and Machine Gun Kelly. Gucci Mane and Young Jeezy. Some days I feel like I can’t turn my head without learning of a new beef, and the insults are enough for me to give up hope that we’ll ever find a collective higher ground.

There is, however, one example to the contrary that has continuously lifted my spirits for the past several decades. 30 years ago, Insane Clown Posse released the song “Santa’s a Fat Bitch,” and I have yet to hear a response diss track. Is it because Santa has been too busy spreading joy to millions of children year after year, or because he sees no need to stoop to the, quite frankly, churlish and juvenile levels reached in that unwarranted musical polemic? To me, it makes no difference. The precedent Santa is setting can be viewed as a shining beacon to which we all should aspire.

And don’t get me wrong, I haven’t always been confident that Santa would refrain from clapping back. After all, with lyrics like “I guess you couldn’t fit down my chimney shaft; you need to lose some of that fat ass,” could we possibly blame him had he done so? Yet, Christmas comes and goes every year with Santa thanklessly performing his duties; presumably uninterested in contributing to the ceaseless maelstrom of negativity to which we’ve become woefully accustomed. Bravo, Santa. Bravo!

I certainly hope both Violent J and Shaggy 2 Dope regret their harsh and unnecessary words so many years ago, and are seeing Santa’s response (or lack thereof) as an opportunity to better themselves going forward. I suppose an honest apology from the two rhyming harlequins would be too much to hope for, but can you blame a guy for dreaming? For now, Santa is saying more with his silence than they ever have.

So let’s all take a page from Santa’s book and strive to converse with one another, instead of at one another. I promise you that such a simple pivot in our behavior will pay dividends for generations to come. Thanks, Santa!

Solution to All of Man’s Problems Can Be Solved With Non-Running 1985 Ford F150 Long Bed He Found on Facebook Marketplace for $800

By Dan Kozuh

PITTSBURGH — Local man Greg Walters reportedly found the answer to all of life’s problems and challenges in the form of a non-running 1985 Ford F150 Long Bed he impulsively purchased on Facebook Marketplace for $800, bewildered friends confirm.

“This truck is going to change everything. It’s not just a truck; it’s a lifestyle, a project that will give my life purpose,” Walters declared while standing in his driveway next to the rusted-out shell of what used to be a vehicle. “I have always felt this existential emptiness in my chest and this baby here is exactly what I need to fill it. This baby boasts an impressive 80,000 miles on the odometer—but that’s probably rolled over once or twice. Sure, a few of the engine pistons are locked up, there is no fuel going to the carburetor, and when I try to turn on the lights they spark and almost start a fire—but that’s why I got it, to put my whole self into something that needs saving.”

Friends report that Walters asked them to help him spend the afternoon carefully inspecting the truck’s body and listing everything that needs work.

“For a guy that knows nothing about cars [Walters] is in way over his head. The passenger side door barely hangs on its hinges, and the rear bumper is held on by what appears to be zip ties. The brakes are completely seized, and the floor of the cab is completely rusted through,” Walters’ friend and mechanic Amy Zariah said. “I have a feeling this is just going to end up as one of [Walters] long abandoned projects. Like when he decided to become a sneakerhead and spent $1,200 on a single pair of shoes.”

Dr. Angela Marino, an expert in consumer psychology at the University of Pittsburgh, weighed in on the situation.

“There’s a phenomenon where, as people age and can’t find fulfillment in their social life or career, they sink their time and money into, shall we say, lost causes. It’s a classic example of trying to reclaim a sense of purpose through a task that’s almost guaranteed to be more frustrating than rewarding,” Dr. Marino explained. “In Walters’ case, he appears to be seeking fulfillment in a project that will likely require extensive talent and resources, neither of which he has in abundance.”

As of the latest reports, Walters has yet to work on the truck whatsoever, but has instead gotten into woodworking after seeing a TikTok about refurbishing mid-century modern furniture.

Opinion: I Don’t Care What We Name the Band, Just as Long as It Takes 6 Months of Arguing

By Dan Rice 

Iwant you all to ignore any association you have and just focus on these names in and of themselves: Is Weezer a cool name? How about The Replacements? If you had no idea who The Mountain Goats were and saw they were coming to town would you think “Well I have to check that band out because they’re called “The Mountain Goats!” No, of course not. My point is a band’s name is only as good as a band’s music. It doesn’t matter what we call ourselves, just as long as whatever we land on takes months of arguing, truly alienating frustration, and the genuine dissolution of friendships.

Let’s fucking go, let’s spitball! Come on people, there are no bad ideas. The Horsecats? Dumb. Blood Party? Too metal. Slowball? Sounds vaguely similar to an obscure 1800’s racial slur, pass. This is great though, keep em coming everybody, just 6-8 more months to go and I think we’ll really have something that works.

Let me be clear, this is it for me. I’m in it for the sheer unadulterated frustration of arguing over something that is ultimately trivial for as long as possible. You think I LIKE playing drums? Fuck no. I spent a decade mastering this stupid instrument as a means to get me HERE. For me, playing music is just the cost of doing business. Let’s talk NAMES baby, and as far as I’m concerned, let’s never stop.

Oh, you wanna go with something simple that incorporates all of our last names? Think you’ve found a quick, democratic way out of all this eh? Well, lemme ask ya this: Whose name comes first? Who’s last? Come to think of it, which is better, first or last? And does that make the middle the worst? How about we argue about THAT endlessly, then abandon the last names idea, then circle BACK to it when other name debates get too heated and start the whole thing over again? This isn’t my first rodeo kid. Ain’t gonna be no shortcuts.

Oh, a whiteboard! To write all of our ideas down, great idea! Yeah that will really speed things along. I’ll start us off, Mannequin Pussy. Yeah I know it’s already a band, it’s a great band, that’s why I think we should also use that name. Well, we can spell it different. I don’t care if you disagree, it’s a brainstorm, write it down. There we go, “Mannequin Pussy,” nice handwriting by the way. We’re off to a great start. Now, who wants to order takeout and get drunk?

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High School Friend Group Found Dead After Man Abandons Questline To Attend College

BY Nik Theorin 

PHILADELPHIA – A tight-knit group of high school friends was found dead last week after a young man abandoned their questline to attend college out of state, sources report.

“No matter how many times you see it, it never gets any easier,” said Florence Hughes, the detective assigned to the case. “Four young people—kids, really—cut down on the eve of adulthood, all because someone couldn’t be bothered to advance their questline before progressing too far into Sarah Lawrence College. It makes me sick.”

“Unfortunately, tragedies like these are extremely common among recent graduates, especially ones who don’t check in with their old buddies or fail to exhaust all their dialogue before unlocking Spring Semester,” continued Hughes. “People tend to take a fatalistic view of death after the fact, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. For some of these kids, staying in touch would have been as simple as a phone call every now and then. A text. An email. Leaving and then reloading the area to trigger Jackson’s new dialogue about breaking up with his high school girlfriend. With a little effort, all this could’ve been avoided. But I guess a little effort is too much for some people.”

News of the friend group’s unexpected death, whose members had known each other since middle school and reportedly survived the Covid pandemic as well as several doomed inter-group relationships, landed hardest amongst the teens’ parents.

“I’m not sure how to talk about it,” said Wendy Stalh, mother to Jackson Stalh, the friend group’s resident extrovert and chronic flake. “One day, you’re doing chores and going about your life, and the next, your only son is found ambiguously slumped against a tree twelve feet from the front door. At first, I thought he was taking a nap, he looked so peaceful. That’s when I noticed he was lootable. My world changed forever.”

“Jackson was a bright, kind young man,” continued Stalh. “Most days, he could be located just outside the Shaded Pizzeria, or at the entrance to Emily’s House if you’d already spoken to Emily and given her the Letter From Jackson. If Jackson’s so-called friend had been there to help fight off the roaming Gentleman Callers, he could’ve opened up a new dialogue that might’ve saved Jackson’s life, and earned him a summonable wingman for future romances. But it’s like my mother used to say, you can’t fix a broken heart with could-bes. I just hope those who knew him remember my Jackson as he was. A sweetheart. A goofball with big dreams. An optional encounter who drops Wadded Gum as well as the Mother’s Lament gesture when killed.”

The young man responsible for abandoning his friend group expressed regret for the way things turned out, but firmly denied any accusation of wrongdoing.

“Jesus, I was gone for, what, a month?” said Chris Lawton, a first-year at Sarah Lawrence College in New York— an unforgivable several hours’ drive from the group’s hometown of Philly. “How was I supposed to know they’d all die? I tried to keep up with them, I really did, but there’s only so many Jackbox nights I can take, and those guys were die-hard Joke Boaters anyway. I thought I’d try slowly disengaging, just for a little while, you know? But they kept sending me cryptic texts like ‘We miss you’ and ‘Meet me in the Old Ruins’, and it’s like, what old ruins? That’s nowhere on my map. I’m just supposed to intuit where you’ll be next and what gesture I need to perform for you to drop the Ring of Emily’s Favor? If I had that much time to waste, I’d be 100-percenting all my relationships.”

“It’s horrible, of course I regret leaving, and not just because now I’m locked out of the Best Man questline and some lore-important dialogue from Jackson,” continued Lawton, who states his college friends are more easygoing and prefer Quiplash. “I loved those guys. Jackson. Emily. The blonde one. I’m so sad they’re gone. I’m gonna miss you all so much. You said the bodies were lootable though?”

At press time, the young man had been convicted on four counts of manslaughter, with a judge expected to rule in the coming week as to whether his crimes are serious enough to warrant the state-sanctioned Age of Incarceration Ending.