re: The Sharing Economy (Disco Biscuits content)

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Stein's Philly FTW

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Very disappointing sandwich.

Sam or Rachel for me.

Nope
I need to try the meatball too
Do the Rachel 90% of the time

South of Philly in BR was pretty damn good actually. Better than anything I've had in NO. I'd say the best I've had here is Half Moon, which I think Burt recommended actually.

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Philly Cheese wit = Onions and Whiz Peppers and Mushrooms=out of town tourist noob

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I'll admit I'm an out of town noob when it comes to cheesesteaks. I prefer the mushrooms and peppers with a small dab of mayo to onions and whiz. Please don't judge me guys.

Yea but you're scared of onions so your opinion on food is irrelevant.

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Really? My experience was the complete opposite. I thought I got food poisoning

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They probably did that on purpose for your Chad arse asking for white bbq sauce on it

Back to the topic at hand...
I don't want it to just "pay off"; I want to be your drumming god. I want to hit the kick at sound check and kill the sound guy. In fact, I want my snare drum to sound so good and so loud that by the time I get finished playing the intro to I-MAN, the beeswax will have melted out of your fake-arse blonde dreads and choked you. "Rub my hands with patchouli"?! How about I play the cymbals with my dick and it sound so heavenly that angels come down out of the sky and shotgun hits of opiated hash into my mouth and Jesus takes it upon himself to personally wipe the sweat from under my armpits with his tongue. I want you, and everyone else in the audience, and the world, to listen to me play the drums and want to turn the dance floor into an orgy of patchwork overalls and sundresses; I want you all to drown in a sticky mess of your own fluids and be happy that you went out that way.
That's what I want and that how it's gonna be.


What the hell do YOU care what I have to say? Every show, I sweat my nuts off behind the drums, staring at the back of Brownie's head, trying to make you get up from your tar-black, tree-sap, Vermont raspberry, slow-roasted, hemp-seed micro-brew and onto the dance floor, where YOU usually just bat your half-sealed, glassed-over, self-absorbed eyes at Jon, or Aron (Oh, isn't he just so cute when he plays the organ simulator with his elbows?!) And so I drop five or six pounds of hot, sweaty grease onto the heads of my drums, and then get up and try to talk to YOU. What the hell? I'm just this slick, panting, lubed-up, bearded mountain trying to tell you how fricking appreciative I am that you came to see us play and Oh yeah, I'm in the fricking band! And so YOU let us crash at your house (if you can call that coffin you cordoned off from your lesbian roommate's dorm room with an Urban Outfitter's tapestry a house) and you start massaging Brownie's slapping thumb with Patroulli oil while I'm sitting on your bathroom floor, trying to rehydrate my depleted electrolytes with TOILET WATER! Eat me! What's the point of this rant? Did YOU ever wonder why bands go through drummers like YOU go through edible panties? It's because YOU ignore them. I don't want to end up in the back of the van with a drumstick up my arse, a sick smile on my face, and some black Mexican heroin dripping from my nose. Please take notice of ME. YOU really don't know what your missing.

-Sam Altman

who the frick puts BBQ sauce in a Philly

that's an old copy/pasta from Sammy, the old drummer.