We Jerk Your Meat

Don’t tell me an idea, when you’re at the Mews, cause I’ll put it on my blaaaag. I need material.

I wish, when people get an idea, it’s like a lightning bolt, a gift, just…don’t talk about it, keep it to yourself, and then you’re filthy rich someday, and you have me to thank. Partially.

I was chatting with the soundguy and the door person, and this young man working the door, tells me, I have a great idea. I say, ok, tell me what you got, son. Well, I want to start a business called We Jerk Your Meat. You go hunting, kill some kind of animal, a deer whatever, you bring it into me, we’ll jerk it for you. Well…sounds like a brilliant idea, my man. You should do it. He says, yeah…I’ll need to find some backing.

It’s dead here at the Mews. Sunday. Shit, man, not one audience member. The opener didn’t even show!!!  Damn, going to be a long night.

The headliner does a soundcheck, and the keyboardist starts playing all these hits, like Jump by Van Halen. Oh my God, I’m thinking. This shit is brilliant. This guy is amazing, I’m telling you. It sounds like the real thing.

I approach him after his soundcheck. I tell him, ok, bud, this is what you gotta do. You gotta start a cover band, and play all that music. Come up with a cool, funny name. Play songs like the ones on the Miami Vice soundtrack. Listen to me, bro. I know what I’m talking about. I’ve been working here 10 years. Shit’s gold. You’ll make a ton of money. He says, yeah, yeah, sounds like a good idea. In one ear and out the other.

Nobody listens to anybody anymore. There’s no trust, that’s why. When was the last time you ACTUALLY listened to what someone had to say, and taken their advice. I know the answer. Like…never.

Just listen to somebody for once in your life. ME!!!  I tell you to do something, JUST DO IT. Open up the damn Jerk Store. Start the awesome cool cover band. THIS IS WHAT YOU NEED TO DO.

And then another guy walks out the door with a pair of drumsticks, and two dollars and fifty cents, shoved in the right pocket of his tight, black jeans.

From my heart to yours,

Clint Curtis. Bartender.

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