The Culture Bunker
If The Benefits, Wear It
by William Ham
Illustration by Dave Coscia
I would like to take this opportunity to personally thank all of you who attended the benefit concert at the Culture Bunker Compound last month, and also to express my heartfelt appreciation to the peace officers who kindly provided the post-show transportation, lodging, and complimentary strip-search. I am happy to say that the show raised over two thousand dollars, sixty-three cans of puréed imitation-banana skin cream and pheromone substitute, and innumerable welts on the heads of those unfortunate enough to stand too close to Prosthetic Handjob frontman Chthulu Rhys-Jones when his ego spun out of control, taking several hostages and the last of the coldcuts. All of the proceeds will be used to fund all future benefit shows, which will in turn be used to pay off the debts incurred by all previous benefit shows. Again, your support is much appreciated as far as any of you know.
All of the good feeling drummed up by this event has really brought out my philanthropic side (which can usually only be seen under certain high-intensity soft white light bulbs), giving me the impetus not only to scope out some of the more promising benefit events planned for the recent future, but also to use words like “philanthropic” and “impetus” in one of my trademark overlong (and filled with meaningless parenthetical interjections) sentences. Unfortunately, there are none. That’s right, the well of benevolence that is as much a part of the local scene as the engorged pores of most of the bass players in this city has, unlike the latter trait, dried up. No benefit shows of any kind are planned for the near future, with the exception of the Elton Tatertotto and the Occidents (formerly the Occidents, Elton Tatertotto and the Swollen Malocclusions, the E. Tater Five, and Band To Be Announced) show this Wednesday, but that takes a different kind of charity to want to go to that (to clarify: that’s for hunger, not from hunger). In fact, word has it that Boston will soon qualify for Federal Bleeding Heart Assistance – I’m not at all sure what that entails, but if, as I suspect, it means that Don Henley and Sting are going to be hanging out here a lot more, then I say put a stop to it.
Happily, I don’t believe it will have to plunge to such a sorry state. As a part of this magazine’s recent leap into the realm of hyperinteractivity (personally, I thought the “dial the number after the review to get stomped by the band’s security” links were a bit much, but to each his own), I am proudly obligated to introduce a new public service to the benevolence-impaired of this scene. I call it the Charitable Organization National Network, Eastern Division (acronym available on request) phone service. It’s simple, it’s non-complex, and it’s as accessible as the nearest telephone. Come to think of it, that telephone might just come in handy for using this service. Simply dial 1-800-555-4927 (that’s 1-800-LKJHYBP), enter the appropriate extension, and you’ll be a rebel without the lack of a cause in no time! Charities and tones of voice change daily, but here’s a sample of what you’ll currently hear.
“Hi, I’m Jacques Cowlique. Do you hear that sound? That’s the sound of a Beluga whale hiding from its fellow denizens of the sea. Do you hear that sound? That’s the sound of a sea anemone chuckling behind its back. And that sound? Sorry, I had Thai for dinner last night. A recent study by the International Council of Wet People has shown that these magnificent creatures are, contrary to popular belief, not endangered after all. They’re just embarrassed because of unsightly facial hair. Technology has advanced to where we can help spare them taunts like `hairy humpback,’ `wooly mammal,’ and `fuzzy sperm (not related to the drink of the same name).’ But seventy-five gallon tubs of wax, enormous rust-proof tweezers, and hundred-foot-tall disposable razors don’t come cheap. We need your help.
“For more information on Shave the Whales, press 1. BEEEP.
“`You phlegm-inducin’, white-mustache-makin’, cereal-drownin’, kitty-satiatin’, bovine-sublettin’ 2% fathead!’
“Yo, Gert! Keep chilled! I’m John Singlecream, director of Boyz Drinkin’ Hood and Mo’ Butter Blues. We’ve got enough problems in the world without giving in to homogeniphobia. Every twenty seconds in this country, there’s another act of dairacist violence. Every day, more curds are waylaid, more cream is whipped, more cheese gets cut. And that’s just a drop in the bucket. Don’t cow-tow to this udder madness. Join me, Rev. Monterey Jackson, Sir Parm-a-lat, and others as we prepare for the Million Milkman March from Washington to Wisconsin. Become a member of the Calcium Coalition and put an end to lactose intolerance. Fight the powdered! Get peaceteurized!
“For more information , press 2. BEEEP.
“I never thought it would happen to me. I guess no one does. You’re young, you think you’re invincible, untouchable, innately rhythmic. I certainly did. That night at Club Babyseal was no different. I don’t know what it was – the music, the crowd, the sixteen Lavoris margaritas – but I kinda, you know, went a little crazy. My friends tried to stop me, take my shoes from me, all that, but I couldn’t be stopped. I staggered out on the floor and I… I started dancing. Really badly. I was line-dancing to techno, starting a one-man mosh pit, doing the Bulgarian Hustle… I was out of control, man. The bouncers had me clocked at 200 BPM before the accident. I guess it was bound to happen – a bunch of guys in Morrissey t-shirts ended up beating the crap out of me. Now my life is in ruins, I’ve blown my juggling scholarship to Yale, my copies of Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo have been confiscated by the cops… it’s too late for me. I hope it’s not too late for you. Take it from someone who knows. You might be out one night, plastered worse than the walls of the YWCA in Ann Arbor, thinking it’d be cool to do the New Electric Slide interspersed with old Jazzercise moves – don’t. You may want to get soused and do the Hokey Pokey – I assure you, that’s not what it’s all about. It’s not worth it. Don’t drink and dance.
“For more information on Mutterers Against Drunk Dancing, press 3. BEEEEP.
“Give me money. Now.
“For more information on the Terse Fund, press 4 then hang up and go fuck yourself. BEEEEP.
“In 1975, young Tim Berr-Wolfe was playing a seemingly innocent game with a group of his friends when they were all called home for dinner. A seemingly innocuous situation, but something was amiss. They never completed the game, and for twenty-one years, Tim has been `it.’ Tim’s story is but one of millions like it. Young people across the nation have suffered the unspeakable humiliation and trauma associated with Tag abuse. With your help, we have been able to reduce cooties by 75% and kept an entire generation safe from things bouncing off of others and sticking to them thanks to the Rubber/Glue Amendment, now you can help kids like Tim lead relatively normal, reasonably productive lives even though nobody will get within arm’s reach of them. Or maybe the money will just go to booze and hookers. It’s a chance you’re just gonna have to take.
“For more information on Adult Victims of Tag, press 5. BEEEEP.
“Hi, I’m Rick Pshaw. Unlike the majority of Americans, I was not born with any kind of disability, I have a decent home, no great childhood ailments or incidents of familial abuse to speak of. In other words, I’m a pretty well-adjusted, happily contented kind of guy. And, strange as it may seem, there are millions out there like me… well, hundreds of thou… several doz… I think there might be another couple of guys like me. I think they live in Wisconsin. Anyway, we’re trying to raise funds to give people like me problems. Something. Anything. Come to think of it, I don’t even need money because I have no debts to speak of. So how about lending me something? An infectious blood disease you’re not using? A couple of leftover personalities? Anybody got a spare limp? I promise I’ll get everything back in good condition. I just need `em long enough to get some pity, and maybe a booking on Jenny Jones so I can have some shrill, overweight eighteen-year-old mother of six swivel her neck at me and cry out, `You ain’t all that, boyfriend!’ You don’t know how long I’ve yearned for somebody to avert their eyes from me on the subway and shake their head sadly at their spouse. `There but for the grace of God go I?’ Hey, I’ve had nothing but the grace of God and it blows! So share the ill wealth with me. I subscribe to People; I know you’ve got enough to go around. Thank you.
“For more information on Dys the Functional, press 6. To hear any of these again, press # now, or stay on the line for more options or to speak to a buxom Asian flight attendant with a thing for guilt-ridden losers who think that their dunder-headed support of worthless causes will amount to anything more than a tax deduction and a feeling of self-satisfaction that can be achieved more cheaply and lastingly in a 750-milliliter bottle with a picture of a waterfowl on the label…
“Thank you. Please hold for Xhung-Yi.”
