Does this mean we get to cancel Dave Grohl?
- Thread starter Peen Simmons
- Start date
Bones McHorror
bones
I didn't even know about this until yesterday.
smurfco
Meatus McPrepuce
^^ I remember finding out about that a long long time ago. If I recall correctly they / Dave recanted afterwards and have kind of disavowed those beliefs. Still pretty stupid and definitely turned me off on them (I was a huge fan of the first two records).
I guess I could always read the linked article to learn more but who has time for that? I have nonsense threads to create
I guess I could always read the linked article to learn more but who has time for that? I have nonsense threads to create
jrockbridge
Stealing Your Riffs
Men are fallible when it cums to matters of boner.
smorgdonkey
Kick Henry Jackassowski
Or pull out like the phone stars do
MonkeyZero
Mexican Mayonnaise Weiner Sandwich
If you really looked into everything, you wouldn't patronize any businesses, listen to any music, watch any movies, etc, etc.
Who fucking cares.
Who fucking cares.
Andrew Sak
Even Andy Deserves Good BEans
While Dave seems like a super nice guy aside from the cheating, I would consult my doctor for medical advice.
Chicken Man
Kick Henry Jackassowski
Remember when a bunch of you thought the Foos would ride off into the sunset after their drummer died?
smurfco
Meatus McPrepuce
The Bogota Dunce
Dave Grohl was very tired. His band Foo Fighters had been on tour for a long time, and he knew that he had a lot of shows left to play before he could go home. To make matters worse, the band’s drummer Taylor Hawkins was driving Dave up the wall with his constant nonsense. It seemed that every day, Taylor would say or do something stupid that would make Dave and the rest of the band shake their heads in frustration and annoyance. Though the public knew Taylor Hawkins as the band’s fun-loving musicologist drummer who was always up for a good time, his bandmates knew better. The Taylor Hawkins they knew - the real Taylor Hawkins - was an obnoxious, clumsy oaf who left a trail of disaster everywhere he went.
Worst of all, Taylor had recently become a strict vegetarian. Though no one else in the band had any issues with their bandmates’ personal choices, Taylor insisted that the entire band follow his new dietary restrictions at all times. This meant that Dave could no longer enjoy a nice steak dinner after every concert like he wanted to. How irksome, thought Dave. If he couldn’t sit down after a long, grueling performance and enjoy a nice steak dinner, what was the point of being in a touring rock band at all? It was infuriating. Everyone’s patience with Taylor was wearing thin.
Dave rubbed his eyes and sighed. He was sitting at a table in the lobby of their hotel in Bogota with his bandmates Chris Shiflett and Nate Mendel, finishing up an unsatisfying breakfast. It was about 11:30 AM, and the band was due at the concert venue in less than an hour to begin setting up and soundchecking for that evening’s performance. “Where is the drummer clown?”, asked Nate. “Isn’t he usually up by now?” Dave realized that Nate was right. Most days, Taylor was up at the crack of dawn, clomping around loudly, chewing with his mouth open, and thinking of fresh ways to ruin everybody else’s day.
But not today. It was almost noon and nobody had seen him yet. Normally this would have been a welcome change, but there had been issues with Taylor assembling his drum kit incorrectly at the last few shows. Dave wanted to make sure they gave themselves plenty of time to correct Taylor’s inevitable setup blunders before soundcheck began. Now it looked like they would have to rush to flip all of Taylor’s drums back to their correct orientations so they could be properly mic'd up in time for the sound engineers to do their job. This was not ideal.
“I’d better go check on that jackanapes,” Dave muttered, and he got up from the table and headed towards the elevator bank that led up to Taylor’s floor. Taylor always stayed at least one floor below the rest of the band members. Partly this was because that ensured he would never get a nice suite like the others. Mostly this was because none of the other band members wanted to be stuck in a room below him, forced to listen to him galloping around and hollering like an idiot all night. As the elevator climbed, Dave thought about all of the accommodations the band had needed to make on a near-daily basis just to deal with Taylor’s intellectual limitations and personality defects. It was a familiar thought, and he found himself growing angry as he exited the elevator and walked down the hallway, stopping in front of Taylor’s room.
Dave reared back and kicked the door handle as hard as he could. The handle exploded as the door slammed open, sending splintered shards of wood flying and nearly tearing the door off of its hinges. Dave stuck his head into the room. “LEARNIN’ TO WALK AGAIN!”, he screamed, hoping to catch Taylor unawares and scare him a little bit. After all, turnabout was fair play, and Dave felt that it was time that Taylor was on the receiving end of some monkey business for a change. But Dave’s entrance was greeted only with silence. Dave realized that the room’s lights were on, and so was the television set. He noticed that Taylor was lying face down on the floor in the middle of the room.
Don’t tell me you’re so damned stupid that you can’t even tell the difference between a bed and the floor, thought Dave as he entered the hotel room and moved towards Taylor. Dave got down on his hands and knees, putting his mouth right up to Taylor’s left ear. “LEARNIN’ TO TALK AGAIN!”, he screamed, even louder this time. But Taylor still didn’t move a muscle. He didn’t make a sound. He just kept on lying there, inanimate, his face pushed into the hotel room carpeting. His refusal to react was really starting to get on Dave’s nerves.
Dave looked up to see Nate and Chris standing in the doorway. “What’s Taylor doing?”, asked Chris. “Trying to push my buttons, that’s what,” said Dave, “but it’s not going to work this time.” With some effort, Dave rolled Taylor over onto his back. Taylor’s mouth hung slack. His tongue lolled out. His eyes were rolled so far back into his head that they appeared to be entirely white. His arms flopped and thudded to the floor. He was still completely ignoring Dave. This made Dave start to boil with rage. He could feel beads of perspiration breaking out on his forehead.
Dave straddled Taylor’s chest and bent forward, pulling his face so close to Taylor’s that their noses were almost touching. At the top of his lungs, Dave screamed “I GOT ANOTHER CONFESSION TO MAKE!”, shaking Taylor’s shoulders as he yelled. Chris and Nate looked at each other, uncomfortable. They both knew how obnoxious Taylor could be, but this newest charade was a bit much even for him. Dave drew back his hand and slapped Taylor across the face, hard. Taylor’s head snapped to the side but otherwise he remained motionless. Dave was dumbfounded. What is going on?
After an awkward silence, Nate spoke up. “Uh, Dave?”, said Nate. “I think he might be dead.” “What? No way,” replied Dave. “He’s just trying to grind my gears. Isn’t that right, you filthy flamingo?” Dave shook Taylor again, and again Taylor did not react. “I said you’re a filthy flamingo,” Dave repeated, louder this time, invoking one of Taylor’s least favorite nicknames in an effort to get some kind of response. It wasn’t working. Dave sat back on his haunches. “Huh. You really think he’s dead?”, he asked his bandmates. “I think he might be, yeah,” said Chris. Dave looked back at Taylor’s slack-jawed face and suddenly it all made perfect sense. Of course Taylor wasn’t reacting to anything Dave was doing. He was dead.
Dave looked up at his bandmates, a smile beginning to spread across his face. “Do you guys know what this means?”, he asked. Chris and Nate looked at each other, shook their heads. “It means two things. First of all…” Dave disappeared into the bedroom and came back a moment later carrying an elongated road case. He unlatched the case and pulled out a three-foot-long dunce cap. “...it means that the money I spent to have this dunce cap printed up wasn't wasted.” He bent down and placed the dunce cap on Taylor’s head. He rotated it so that the word DUNCE was centered above Taylor’s glazed, expressionless eyes. “There,” said Dave, satisfied. “Now King Moron has his proper crown.” Dave said this last part in a British accent, causing all three of them to burst into raucous laughter. They all thought that was pretty funny.
“The second thing this means is that the tour is over,” said Dave once they all stopped laughing. “To be honest with you, I’m kind of glad. I like playing rock shows and everything, and the fans are great and all, but I don’t think I could have taken any more of this imbecile.” He kicked Taylor in the ribs as if to emphasize his point. “Now we can go back home and eat as many steak dinners as we want. In fact, what’s the closest thing they got to a Sizzler here in Bogota? I know it’s only noon, but I could really go for a steak dinner right now.” Dave looked at Nate and Chris. “You guys in?”
“You bet we are,” Chris and Nate said in unison, and at that the three of them started laughing again. Dave stood up and put his arms around Nate and Chris, and the trio walked out of Taylor’s room and started down the hall. “What do you think they’re going to do with the ol’ Bogota Dunce back there when they find him?”, asked Nate. “Who cares?”, replied Dave sunnily as he pressed the button to call the elevator. Back in the hotel room, the dunce cap slid off Taylor’s head, and his lifeless eyes stared up at the ceiling as a fly landed lightly on his forehead.
Dave Grohl was very tired. His band Foo Fighters had been on tour for a long time, and he knew that he had a lot of shows left to play before he could go home. To make matters worse, the band’s drummer Taylor Hawkins was driving Dave up the wall with his constant nonsense. It seemed that every day, Taylor would say or do something stupid that would make Dave and the rest of the band shake their heads in frustration and annoyance. Though the public knew Taylor Hawkins as the band’s fun-loving musicologist drummer who was always up for a good time, his bandmates knew better. The Taylor Hawkins they knew - the real Taylor Hawkins - was an obnoxious, clumsy oaf who left a trail of disaster everywhere he went.
Worst of all, Taylor had recently become a strict vegetarian. Though no one else in the band had any issues with their bandmates’ personal choices, Taylor insisted that the entire band follow his new dietary restrictions at all times. This meant that Dave could no longer enjoy a nice steak dinner after every concert like he wanted to. How irksome, thought Dave. If he couldn’t sit down after a long, grueling performance and enjoy a nice steak dinner, what was the point of being in a touring rock band at all? It was infuriating. Everyone’s patience with Taylor was wearing thin.
Dave rubbed his eyes and sighed. He was sitting at a table in the lobby of their hotel in Bogota with his bandmates Chris Shiflett and Nate Mendel, finishing up an unsatisfying breakfast. It was about 11:30 AM, and the band was due at the concert venue in less than an hour to begin setting up and soundchecking for that evening’s performance. “Where is the drummer clown?”, asked Nate. “Isn’t he usually up by now?” Dave realized that Nate was right. Most days, Taylor was up at the crack of dawn, clomping around loudly, chewing with his mouth open, and thinking of fresh ways to ruin everybody else’s day.
But not today. It was almost noon and nobody had seen him yet. Normally this would have been a welcome change, but there had been issues with Taylor assembling his drum kit incorrectly at the last few shows. Dave wanted to make sure they gave themselves plenty of time to correct Taylor’s inevitable setup blunders before soundcheck began. Now it looked like they would have to rush to flip all of Taylor’s drums back to their correct orientations so they could be properly mic'd up in time for the sound engineers to do their job. This was not ideal.
“I’d better go check on that jackanapes,” Dave muttered, and he got up from the table and headed towards the elevator bank that led up to Taylor’s floor. Taylor always stayed at least one floor below the rest of the band members. Partly this was because that ensured he would never get a nice suite like the others. Mostly this was because none of the other band members wanted to be stuck in a room below him, forced to listen to him galloping around and hollering like an idiot all night. As the elevator climbed, Dave thought about all of the accommodations the band had needed to make on a near-daily basis just to deal with Taylor’s intellectual limitations and personality defects. It was a familiar thought, and he found himself growing angry as he exited the elevator and walked down the hallway, stopping in front of Taylor’s room.
Dave reared back and kicked the door handle as hard as he could. The handle exploded as the door slammed open, sending splintered shards of wood flying and nearly tearing the door off of its hinges. Dave stuck his head into the room. “LEARNIN’ TO WALK AGAIN!”, he screamed, hoping to catch Taylor unawares and scare him a little bit. After all, turnabout was fair play, and Dave felt that it was time that Taylor was on the receiving end of some monkey business for a change. But Dave’s entrance was greeted only with silence. Dave realized that the room’s lights were on, and so was the television set. He noticed that Taylor was lying face down on the floor in the middle of the room.
Don’t tell me you’re so damned stupid that you can’t even tell the difference between a bed and the floor, thought Dave as he entered the hotel room and moved towards Taylor. Dave got down on his hands and knees, putting his mouth right up to Taylor’s left ear. “LEARNIN’ TO TALK AGAIN!”, he screamed, even louder this time. But Taylor still didn’t move a muscle. He didn’t make a sound. He just kept on lying there, inanimate, his face pushed into the hotel room carpeting. His refusal to react was really starting to get on Dave’s nerves.
Dave looked up to see Nate and Chris standing in the doorway. “What’s Taylor doing?”, asked Chris. “Trying to push my buttons, that’s what,” said Dave, “but it’s not going to work this time.” With some effort, Dave rolled Taylor over onto his back. Taylor’s mouth hung slack. His tongue lolled out. His eyes were rolled so far back into his head that they appeared to be entirely white. His arms flopped and thudded to the floor. He was still completely ignoring Dave. This made Dave start to boil with rage. He could feel beads of perspiration breaking out on his forehead.
Dave straddled Taylor’s chest and bent forward, pulling his face so close to Taylor’s that their noses were almost touching. At the top of his lungs, Dave screamed “I GOT ANOTHER CONFESSION TO MAKE!”, shaking Taylor’s shoulders as he yelled. Chris and Nate looked at each other, uncomfortable. They both knew how obnoxious Taylor could be, but this newest charade was a bit much even for him. Dave drew back his hand and slapped Taylor across the face, hard. Taylor’s head snapped to the side but otherwise he remained motionless. Dave was dumbfounded. What is going on?
After an awkward silence, Nate spoke up. “Uh, Dave?”, said Nate. “I think he might be dead.” “What? No way,” replied Dave. “He’s just trying to grind my gears. Isn’t that right, you filthy flamingo?” Dave shook Taylor again, and again Taylor did not react. “I said you’re a filthy flamingo,” Dave repeated, louder this time, invoking one of Taylor’s least favorite nicknames in an effort to get some kind of response. It wasn’t working. Dave sat back on his haunches. “Huh. You really think he’s dead?”, he asked his bandmates. “I think he might be, yeah,” said Chris. Dave looked back at Taylor’s slack-jawed face and suddenly it all made perfect sense. Of course Taylor wasn’t reacting to anything Dave was doing. He was dead.
Dave looked up at his bandmates, a smile beginning to spread across his face. “Do you guys know what this means?”, he asked. Chris and Nate looked at each other, shook their heads. “It means two things. First of all…” Dave disappeared into the bedroom and came back a moment later carrying an elongated road case. He unlatched the case and pulled out a three-foot-long dunce cap. “...it means that the money I spent to have this dunce cap printed up wasn't wasted.” He bent down and placed the dunce cap on Taylor’s head. He rotated it so that the word DUNCE was centered above Taylor’s glazed, expressionless eyes. “There,” said Dave, satisfied. “Now King Moron has his proper crown.” Dave said this last part in a British accent, causing all three of them to burst into raucous laughter. They all thought that was pretty funny.
“The second thing this means is that the tour is over,” said Dave once they all stopped laughing. “To be honest with you, I’m kind of glad. I like playing rock shows and everything, and the fans are great and all, but I don’t think I could have taken any more of this imbecile.” He kicked Taylor in the ribs as if to emphasize his point. “Now we can go back home and eat as many steak dinners as we want. In fact, what’s the closest thing they got to a Sizzler here in Bogota? I know it’s only noon, but I could really go for a steak dinner right now.” Dave looked at Nate and Chris. “You guys in?”
“You bet we are,” Chris and Nate said in unison, and at that the three of them started laughing again. Dave stood up and put his arms around Nate and Chris, and the trio walked out of Taylor’s room and started down the hall. “What do you think they’re going to do with the ol’ Bogota Dunce back there when they find him?”, asked Nate. “Who cares?”, replied Dave sunnily as he pressed the button to call the elevator. Back in the hotel room, the dunce cap slid off Taylor’s head, and his lifeless eyes stared up at the ceiling as a fly landed lightly on his forehead.
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