Aloo Mutter

Let me explain what it's like to be invincible. For one thing, you have to be in a band. Mine was an all-bassist funk ensemble called Dogs Aren't Nihilists. We were touring in support of We Are Made of Meat, which was certified diamond at the time.

It was in Nagoya, at a legendary but now defunct club called No Page to Display. That was where I assumed the sexual striking distance of Shiva and the immolating, destructive potency of Kali. At the time I was prone to mounting the stage wearing $1,000 Versace loafers and little else. (In some of the less permissive socities, I would also wear black socks to cover my ankles.) We had arranged for a team of courtesan whores to kickbox in a vat of overcooked tamati rice while we played our set. Many bags of premium short grain were sacrificied until we achived the optimum frothiness for semi-nude kickboxing. We also brought on stage a chorus line of lager-swilling Buddhist monks, whose drunken chanting proved the ideal counterweight to our patented Meat Funk style.

Anyway. There I am, resplendent in my loafers, and we launch into the penultimate song of the night. Out of nowhere, the bassists begin to engage in some tactical small-arms fire (a feud between the two predominant bassist tribes on the tour had erupted in Jakarta a few weeks earlier), and the staccatto reports from their light carbines are melding perfectly, amazingly, orgasmically with the wall of noise assaulting the enraptured audience. The slap-funk, the monastic chanting, the wet whack of flesh-on-flesh contact from the rice pit, the zing of hollow-point bullets ripping the smoke-infused air...

The nasal whiz whipping past my ears adds a degree of attack and treble that is simply incredible. It's like... the aural equivalent of sipping a virgin's juices. At this point, I think to myself: we have achieved optimum sound. A maniacal grin is spreading across my face. And, casting a shadow on my premium-grain loafers, a hard-on that makes Edwin, our gay finacier, blush.