B004FEF6RO EBOK

by Wylde, Zakk

  JD explained, “I’m sorry, I’m gay.” See, kids, claiming homosexuality can get you out of a bind here and there.

  The next day at sound check I walked into the venue and JD, who has a baritone voice and does an amazing Jim Morrison, was up on the stage with the band playing “Riders on the Storm,” only he had changed the lyrics to “Fuck me, sound man Dave, your throbbing cock I crave.”

  Thick-Stick Nick

  WE ALL USED TO LIVE VICARIOUSLY THROUGH THICK-STICK NICK CATANESE and his stories, because he was single during the bulk of his time out with the band. He’s settled down now, but he was a road dog for quite some time, and good for him. That’s one of the reasons I called him my evil twin.

  One particular summer we were on the road for Ozzfest, and all of us were on the same tour bus. I had my wife and the kids, Hayley Rae and Jesse John Michael, out with us; they were six and seven years old. This definitely put a cramp in the guys’ style. The back lounge, which was usually used for many other things besides video games and listening to tunes, was now being occupied by the little ones.

  One day, while in Pennsylvania, we were getting ready for a show at a club and this one girl was all hot on Nick. I think the guys had gone out to a strip club the night before and she was someone he had put on the guest list or whatever. She was hanging around all day and they were definitely looking for their moment to hook up, but Hayley Rae and my niece, who had come to the show, were absolutely obsessed with Nick. These two little girls just loved him. They used to fight over who was gonna marry him, who loved him more, and so on. These two girls were up his ass all day and the poor guy couldn’t get five minutes alone with his new friend.

  Hayley Rae was really jealous and whenever this stripper got close to Nick, she threw things, like pretzels, at her and told her, “He’s mine.” Barb and I just died laughing as this whole thing developed. Not long before, Nick had given Hayley this little promise ring, so he really dug his own grave on that one. From the time she was like six years old, she thought Nick was her boyfriend and God help any girl who got close to him. And this particular time, he really needed to get away from her to catch some groupie time. As it turned out, he didn’t catch his break until during the show!

  Everything ended up going down during my guitar solo. Nick took his stripper off the side of the stage and she took a knee and blew him right there. The whole time I was playing my guitar solo, Nick was praying that this was one of those nights when I’d decide to play a long one; I guess he was almost there. I think we both had our peaks during that solo. He wrapped it up, got back onstage, and we finished the show like a well-oiled machine.

  The next afternoon, Barbaranne, Nick, and I were at catering when my son Jesse John Michael came up to Nick and straight up said, “Nick, I need to ask you a question. Everybody keeps saying that you had sex last night while Daddy was onstage, and I don’t understand how you can take all your clothes off before Daddy is done with his guitar solo.” I fuckin’ spit my food out laughing while Nick turned sixty-five shades of red.

  Back then, little Jesse John Michael thought sex was kissing naked. So Nick answered, “No, bud, I don’t know where you would hear such a thing; how could I do all that while your dad is playing his guitar solo?” Satisfied, Jesse said, “That’s what I thought. How could you get all your clothes off and kiss her and then put all your clothes back on before my dad is done? Everybody is telling lies.” Then I explained to Jesse John Michael, “Son, you oughtta see what I do to your mother. Those aren’t lies.”

  World Tour Survival Technique: To the Victors Go the Spoils!

  WHEN YOU’RE STARTING OUT, DON’T COUNT ON GETTING A TOUR RIDER. In fact, count your blessings if you can squeak a few free drinks out of the bar and have a fun night. But it is good to dream that one day you will reach the Berzerker band level where you will be able to draw up contracts that cover all the lighting, staging, and sound requirements that a venue is to provide you when you show up to perform. The tour rider also covers all of the artists’ wish-list items, like dressing room accommodations, transportation, and meals. As an artist you can ask for whatever you want. And how badly the promoter wants to have you play at their venue dictates how much they’re willing to provide. Van Halen used their rider to get tubes of K-Y Jelly, booze, and cigarettes, and the legendary bowl of M&M’s with “absolutely no brown ones.” Marilyn Manson used his to get bottles of absinthe—that fuckin’ shit Vincent van Gogh used to drink before he cut his own ear off and brought it to a prostitute. And aside from the obvious massive quantities of alcohol and smokes, Guns N’ Roses abused their tour rider for guacamole and porn.

  There aren’t too many bands out there that would have the fucking set of steel balls to hand a promoter something like this, but it would be cool if they did…

  Rock ’n’ Roll Deity Tour Rider

  UPON ARRIVAL: HOTEL REQUIREMENTS

  UPON ARRIVAL TO EACH CITY, PROMOTER TO ORGANIZE A TICKER-TAPE parade to welcome artists. There must be a minimum of five thousand (5,000) people in attendance with banners, shirts, and face and body painting in the colors and décor of the band. Police escorts are to be called upon to bring artists through the parade, followed by a marching band and minimum ten (10) floral decorated floats.

  Promoter will ensure that the Venue will provide for one (1) penthouse suite for each member of the band, with cinnamon candles burning and the Jacuzzi heated to 104 degrees. Ice buckets filled with bottles of Dom Pérignon champagne are to be placed within arm’s reach of the Jacuzzi. (NOTE: If the artist has to get out of the Jacuzzi to reach the champagne, punishment will be a payment in the form of one rare 1937 three-legged-buffalo nickel.)

  In advance of show, Promoter to submit minimum of twelve (12) photos with statistics of local stripper escorts to the attention of each member of the band. The artists will select three (3) or four (4) top choices, which are to be in the room upon arrival. These girls are not to wear more than a kimono and should bring with them a basket of scented oils and a copy of the Kama Sutra written in Sanskrit.

  Married artists in the band are to be provided with around-the-clock security guards stationed outside of their doors. Guards are to be given photographs of the artists’ wives and will be instructed to eradicate them should they show up unannounced.

  Promoter to provide limousine service from the hotel to the venue. Each artist is to receive his own private limousine and have the option to bring the stripper escorts with him to the venue.

  Large walk-in closets are to include sex swings, various toys for foreplay, and several male and female costume pairs, including cave people, Mexican banditos, and a Mr. and Mrs. Easter Bunny. All costumes should be dry-cleaned immediately upon departure and at the promoter’s expense.

  DRESSING ROOM REQUIREMENTS (SET UP AND READY BY 10:00 A.M.)

  Purchaser will ensure that the Venue will provide one (1) private dressing room for each member of the band, equipped with king-sized bed, minimum sixty-inch flat-screen television, PlayStation, and small petting zoo. Animals are to include a pair of barely legal panda bears, baby white tigers, komodo dragons, and one (1) small dehorned mountain goat. Animal handlers to be provided and available at all times in case one of the animals bites a guest or takes a shit.

  One entire wall of each dressing room is to be outfitted with a shark tank. Sharks should be in good health, have amazing patterns and markings, and be from exotic places around the world like Tavarua (no shitty Pacific blue sharks!)

  Each room is to have a complete kitchen installed and have a private chef on standby to cook for up to twenty-five (25) people at once. Menus to be provided in advance, as well as one (1) special menu for a lactose-intolerant vegan, with allergies to all green vegetables and hyper-allergies to any fruits that remotely resemble sexual organs.

  Each room to be equipped with a portable pool, at least five (5) feet deep, and equipped with a seventeen (17)–foot high dive and a fully stocked swim-up bar. All bartenders are to be fe
male and should remain topless until after the artists leave the venue.

  DEPARTURE

  Band should be given the key to the city prior to departure, with emotional and impactful speeches made by at least two (2) recognized leaders of the community.

  A large monument is to be erected and unveiled at the band’s departure celebration, representing the community’s appreciation of the artists’ visit. Monument to remain for ten (10) years minimum, and is to be made of valuable material such as brass or iron (ABSOLUTELY NO CEMENT OR ADOBE BRICKS!).

  Within a week of the group’s departure, local schoolchildren are to be instructed to write thank-you letters to the artists, describing how their lives have improved from listening to their music and simply knowing that they were in the same town. Letters should be proofread and, if need be, rewritten so that the artists don’t have to spend too much time looking through them. Poorly handwritten letters and letters that do not show outstanding merit are to be discarded as they are an insult to the eyes of the artist.

  Note from Zakk: Now, mind you, this is Father Eric’s little fantasy tour rider. As for me, I really couldn’t give a shit what’s in the rider. I would always prefer to be self-sufficient and buy my own shit, whether it’s food, booze, water, or whatever the Black Label necessities might be. On tour, we usually just pull the submarine into a supermarket or liquor store and grab whatever we need. This way we always get exactly what we want. You rarely get exactly what you want when you’re renting equipment or relying on others to go get things. This brings me to a great rider story.

  I remember Oz telling me about the early Sabbath days when they were getting all the weed, cocaine, chicks, and booze provided to them in Titanic-sized boatloads. What they didn’t realize was that they were the idiots who were paying for all that shit! Oz was saying, “Yeah, the whole time we thought it was because the promoters really liked us.”

  When they saw the rider bill at the end of the tour and realized that they actually lost money on that tour, they shit their pants. Word to the wise—nothing in life is free, my friends. You pay for everything. If you don’t need it, get rid of it.

  Of Mayonnaise and Manliness

  THE BAND AND I HAVE ADAPTED THE NATIONAL PASTIME TO A CONDENSED format that we can take out with us and that utilizes items found in most of the roadside diners and various eateries we encounter along the way, as well as from our backstage catering services—condiment baseball. This is one of our favorite games to play on tour.

  It came about while hanging with Father Mike Inez on Ozzfest. Out of sheer Black Label mischief and comedy we decided to sneak off and grab all the condiments from the backstage buffet—you know, those massive jars of mustard, ketchup, mayonnaise, relish, and half-and-half—and anything else we could get our mitts on. We set up a small baseball diamond out back and slow-pitched the ginormous jugs of shit to the batter, who would hack away with wild swings, but when they connected, holy shit, what an explosion! Mustard and ketchup and all sorts of crap flying through the air and splattering all over the fucking place! Of course we’d run the bases, but that was more out of respect for the integrity of the game; it was really all about being able to smash stuff and justify making a huge mess. There are only two things in life that legally allow you to have this much fun and toss this much goo—condiment baseball, and when your wife allows you to go anal while choking the life out of her until she reaches orgasm. Okay, not the choking part, but definitely the ass-gaping.

  But remember, these reindeer games are reserved for the battle-tested warriors of the horde; if you’re a rookie on the road, expect nothing and consider yourself content if you score a meal and some drinks here and there. If you slap a promoter with a rider that looks like the one Guns N’ Roses handed out, he’ll probably just slap you right back and find someone else to play the gig. Be reasonable and when you grow up into a big rock star you can start asking for all the cocaine and dildos you can imagine. Always remember what Ozzy said about the Black Sabbath rider—if you’re getting paid a hundred dollars to play somewhere, and all the bullshit on your rider costs ninety dollars, you’re only gonna get paid ten. Don’t forget, you pay for everything.

  That’s right, children; it all comes full circle, back to being a fuckin’ man! Just because a guy is grown doesn’t mean that he’s necessarily a man. And if you want to enjoy the spoils of war, you’ve got to step to the task with a big, man-sized set of swingin’ balls! And while we’re on one of my favorite subjects—manliness—I decided to bring in a current expert on the subject. Who knows about manliness more than the self-proclaimed manliness expert Forrest Griffin?

  Allow me to tell you a little bit about his expertise. This is a guy who was raised in the South by his mom. Now, on the surface, this may sound like a fertile breeding ground for a mama’s boy, but that’s not the case here. Forrest’s mom gave birth to him while shopping at the grocery store and didn’t miss an item on her list that day. She’s beaten the piss out of Rottweilers to save his ass, wore the pants in the Griffin household, and instilled in Forrest the mental toughness necessary to become one of the greatest UFC fighters to enter the cage.

  Now, I’ve seen Forrest fight in the cage several times. Did he show the stylistic boxing skills of the great Muhammad Ali? Not at all. Did he bring with him generations of traditional grappling reminiscent of the Gracie family? Nope. Did he even show that he could formulate a complete sentence in his post-fight interview? Negative. In fact, the only thing that comes to mind when I reflect on his fighting style is a chick fight I witnessed back in high school. Tons of wild swings, shrieks and scratching, and hopes that somebody’s luscious tits would come flopping out, and whoever pulled on the other’s hair the most came out the winner. But what Forrest lacked in skill, talent, and familiarity with the English language, he more than made up in heart—the heart of a fuckin’ lion. When Forrest gets into the ring, yes he fights like a woman, but he handles himself like a true Berzerker, ready to die for his cause. Well, maybe not die, but at least have his nose moved to another location on his face.

  Without further ado, I’d like to introduce the former UFC light heavyweight champion of the world—Forressssst Grrrrriffiiiiiiiiiin! (I’ve always wanted to hear my name announced like they do before a big boxing or MMA match. I actually have my wife announce me like that before I invade her womb with my man-plow. You know, as in “Here CUMS ZZZZZaaaakkkkkk WWWyyyyyyyllllddee! Vagina Stretcher, Nine-time Champion of the Labia Octagon!!!” In case you aren’t familiar with a man-plow, it’s a penis. Although in some medical books it’s known as a womb polluter.

  Note from Zakk: Forrest, seriously … put that thing down. You’re freaking people out at the PTA meetings. It’s bad enough that they watch you beat the shit out of people for a living. Just be nice—say hello to people, make friendly conversation, and don’t punch anyone. Thanks, buddy.

  Forrest Griffin’s Testament of Manliness

  HEY THERE, I’M FORREST GRIFFIN. YOU’VE PROBABLY HEARD OF ME—well, of course you have heard of me. I’m not only a superstar athlete and a man of the world, but I’m also a self-appointed expert on manliness. Believe it or not, I hold a bachelor’s degree in the study of manliness. And when I look at Zakk Wylde, the first thing that comes to mind is that he is some sort of Viking who was spit out of Valhalla due to his excessive amount of manliness. Even when I look back at photos of Zakk during his early years with Ozzy, where he looks like a cross between Farrah Fawcett and Lita Ford, I still see pure manliness—it takes a set of Godzilla balls to walk around looking that much like a chick. And the fact that he took that look and transformed it into the current Viking thing he’s got going on now just reeks of machismo. Every time I see the guy, I want to ask, “Dude, where is your funny-shaped ship? You know, the one decorated with the heads of your enemies?” At the very least, the guy should carry a large broadsword wherever he goes, like into Starbucks or the Coffee Bean. But Zakk probably doesn’t visit coffee shops like the rest of u
s squirrels, he just rips the coffee tree straight out of the side of a mountain and gnaws on its trunk and branches for his daily caffeine fix. He’s just that much of a man.

  Due to the massive sac of manliness he hauls around, I thought Zakk would be the perfect guy to contribute to my new New York Times bestseller, Be Ready When the Sh*t Goes Down (hopefully you bought fifty copies). He did a phenomenal job designing the Deathcore Warmachine—a vehicle designed for postapocalyptic survival based on his F-350 Super Duty truck—and, in all fairness, I thought I would reciprocate (in case you don’t know what reciprocate means, it’s kinda like when you promise your girlfriend you will go down on her if she gives you a blowee—except it’s where you actually follow through with your promise). So, let me tell you why Zakk Wylde is a purebred Rottweiler of manliness:

  He has a wife who is way too hot for him. Considering that his beard looks like something a plumber would pull out of a clogged drain in a whorehouse and the fact that he smells like something a plumber would pull out of a clogged drain in a whorehouse, that is a massive accomplishment of manliness.

  He drinks like a thirsty fish. Well, he doesn’t drink anymore, but it is important to remember that Zakk didn’t quit drinking, his body did. And when he kicked the sauce, did he do what all Hollywood types do and go join an AA group or try to get on some schmuck-ass celebrity rehab show? Fuck no, he just quit. You could say he just got it fucking done. I like his acronym GIFD. Personally, I would have made it Get It Fucking Done, Motherfucker, but eventually you gotta stop with the letters. Get It Fucking Done, You Goddamn Motherfucking Douchebag-Riddled Cock-Cuddling Goat Fucker would also be neat, but in the end I guess GIFDYGMDRCCGF is probably less effective and memorable than GIFD.