General Mills Accidentally Unveils New Product --

October 25th, 2009 :  8:00AM  — Golden Valley MN - General Mills HQ

General Mills public relations was sent into a panic early this morning as news broke of the accidental unveiling of a new Cheerios brand offshoot. Being one of GM’s most popular cereal brands, the delicious toasty oats have seen many iterations in the past, ranging from Honey Nut, Yogurt Blast, Multigrain to the Y2K tie in, Millenios.  A brief investigation by GM’s research and development team concluded employee Steve Shankington has involuntarily broken his confidentiality agreement when he accidentally boxed some of the new experimental Cheerios brand cereal with the original Cheerios cereal.

Dubbed “Cheeritubes”, this new Cheerios offshoot is essentially a longer, tube shaped version of the regular Cheerios recipe and was still in it’s product testing phase.  Chief Cheerios R&D Spokesman Rich Wheathouse expressed his dismay at a press conference this morning that his newest creation debuted unceremoniously before it was properly backed with advertising.

“I had great hopes for this new product. It saddens me that my creation could have done so much for the brand and now all is ruined.”

A brief question and answer session followed:

Q: Does the tube shape actually change the taste of the cereal?

Wheathouse: No, it’s actually the original Cheerios recipe, in an elongated, cylindrical shape.

Q: What is the main benefit of Cheeritubes versus the original recipe?
Wheathouse: Our research has found that the tube shape is much more preferred over the original design of the cereal. The original reminds consumers of donuts.

Q: Do you think it’s a good idea to compare your healthy cereal to donuts?
Wheathouse: I was merely making a logical argument for why my new cereal is a good…

Q: How much did GM spend developing this new product?
Wheathouse: Well we’ve been in development for several years …

Q: Do you actually get paid to think up new shapes for cereal?
Wheathouse:  ….

Q: What’s the point of reshaping your cereal if it tastes the same?
Wheathouse:  Fuck You.

Wheathouse then ate a handful of Cheeritubes out of the display bowl next to him on the podium, flipped off the crowd and yelled “CHEERITUBES!” before fleeing the stage.

Cheeritubes was slated for launch early next year, but after today’s events, the project has been put on indefinite hold.

Prof. Wheathouse’s whereabouts are unknown.

- Joey
Cartoosday@gmail.com
Twitter @jreinisch @mooncounty @destructobox @LOLjoeyANDkyle

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Monday Grab Bag

Welcome to “Monday Grab Bag” where we throw up random things, videos from friends, or just anything to spice up our relationship with you, the internet viewer.

Today’s selection is from one of my co-workers, Aron,  who on the side makes mash-up video trailers for two different movies.  Here’s “You’ve Got Served/Wizard of Oz Trailer”.

If you would like to see more of his stuff, go to http://www.youtube.com/withonea

Enjoy.

Happy Monday.

~(Nick)

Sunday Punday

DEAD PREZIDENTS (o.k., 5 are alive)

Y’know what I was thinking the other day? What the hell is George W. Bush up to? For myself and most people around my age, whether you agreed or disagreed with him, you can probably admit that in our lifetime, no president…possibly no person, has been more reviled or hated or questioned. Sure, Clinton caught his fair share of criticism and contempt (fucking guy was IMPEACHED. You know the last time that happened? Well,….I’m getting to that, stick with me here), but when you compare the relatively misinformed mobilization of armed forces against a couple extramarital beejers, things fall into perspective. I mean people HATED Bush. And now what is he doing? Dick Cheney pops up now and again to voice his opinions on how to stop the war he started, even old man Bush is kickin’ it Chi-Town Stylie with the O-Bomb, but Jr. is nowhere to be seen. Sure, there are plans in the works for the obligatory G.W. Bush Pinball Emporium, er, uh, I mean Library, but where the fuck IS this guy?

The point is, wondering about Bush II got me thinking about all Presidents…about where the position started, where’s it’s been and where it’s going. And all the weird shit associated with and implicated with and simply ABOUT the highest office in the land.

Before we lived together, Paul Straw and I sat around one night trying to name all the Presidents in order. We were pretty good. I was convinced (correctly) that Franklin Pierce was No.14, and Paul filled in a big miss with accurately calling Millard Fillmore No. 13. You know who got us, though? The guy preceding Honest Abe. Probably for the first time since he ran for President even though he didn’t want to and then promised in his inaugural speech to not seek re-election, one JAMES BUCHANAN had befuddled American citizens, until we wiki’d that shit and moved along.

Presidents are weird. Nowadays, we are well aware that they hold the nuke codes, can’t even jerk off without some Secret Service fellows hanging around and have probably [definitely] seen some alien bodies from Roswell. But back in the day, Presidents were just sort of,…guys. Andrew Jackson (No. 7 (actually, when you think about his determination to develop Tennessee and his order of Presidency, he should be called “Old No. 7”)) opened up his White House to the public the night of his inauguration, and the carpets had to be replaced because there was so much chewing tobacco spit on them. Abe (who may have been more hated than Bush) regularly walked around D.C. unaccompanied (In fact, it wasn’t until Lincoln’s assassination that the Secret Service was established, and when they were established, they had nothing to do with Presidents, they were to investigate counterfeiting (in fact, it wasn’t until an attempt was made to degrade Lincoln’s body years after his death that the Secret Service got involved in protecting Presidents (in fact, it was only because some of the perpetrators were formerly counterfeiters))). Grant was an open boozebag. Wilson was a raging asshole. Many,…most?…all?….were racists. Nowadays, our Presidents are criticized for their form throwing out the first pitch at an opening day of Major League Baseball ceremony. What the fuck happened?

Who cares. Obama appears to be the man, everyone loved Reagan, but Presidents don’t have the same coolness factor that they used to. So, without much of a point, but a love of American History flowing through my veins, I present to you the MOON COUNTY AMERICAN PRESIDENT FUN FACT LIST:

IMPEACHED (by the House of Representatives, acquitted by Senate and maintained office): Andrew Johnson, 1868; Bill Clinton, 1998.

DIED IN OFFICE (Natural Causes): Zachary Taylor, gastroenteritis, 1850; Wm. Henry Harrison, pneumonia contracted at inaugural speech, 31 days in office, 1841; Warren Harding, food poisoning/stroke/complications, 1923; Franklin Roosevelt, complications from polio/old age/crushed by the weight of America’s hope and promise, 1945.

ASSASSINATED: Abe Lincoln, via John Wilkes Booth, most famous actor of the time, 1865; James Garfield, via Charles J. Guiteau, pretty much just a bitter asshole, 1881; Wm. McKinley, via Leon Czolgosz, Polack Anarchist, 1901; John Kennedy, via Lee Harvey Oswald/Dutch Schultz/Che Guevara/Xenu, 1963.

BROKE THE LAW AND WE COULD PROVE IT: Dick Nixon, 1974 (God, how I wish I was alive at this point in time just so I could actively HATE someone with everybody else.)

NOTABLE VICE PRESIDENTS: Thomas Jefferson ran with Aaron “I killed a motherfucker and no one said shit about it” Burr, and then some guy named George Clinton.

Lincoln ran with Andrew Johnson in 1864, but in 1860 ran with some guy named Hannibal Hamlin. I wouldn’t fuck with that guy, would you?

Bush I ran with Dan Quayle. Remember that goon?

At one time or another for a fairly significant amount of time, these Presidents DIDN’T HAVE A VICE PRESIDENT: James Madison (twice), Andrew Jackson, Franklin Pierce, U.S. Grant, Grover Cleveland, William McKinley, Theodore Roosevelt, William Howard Taft, Calvin Coolidge, Harry Truman, Lyndon Johnson, Dick Nixon and Gerald Ford, including Chester A. Arthur, Andrew Johnson, Millard Fillmore and John Tyler, who NEVER HAD A FUCKING VICE PRESIDENT THEIR ENTIRE TERM(S).

8 YEARS AND BEYOND: FDR is the only guy to get elected more than twice, but it’s worth noting that Teddy Roosevelt was the first guy to run for a third term.

OH, AND SPEAKING OF TEDDY ROOSEVELT: Where on God’s green earth do I start with this guy? Well, considering there probably wouldn’t be a patch of fucking grass in North America if it wasn’t for him, I’ll start there: Everybody’s going “green” nowadays, giving a shit about the environment. Well, ahead of the times as usual, Teddy Roosevelt was going green before there was a neat little catch phrase to describe it. National Parks, anyone? Teddy. Soul-crushing monopolies of industry? Teddy busted that shit. Daily White House press junkets? TR. Oklahoma in the Union? You’re welcome, motherfuckers. I could go on and on but possibly the coolest thing this dude ever did was after his Presidency when he WAS SHOT IN THE CHEST AND DELIVERED A SPEECH IMMEDIATELY THEREAFTER WITH THE BULLET IN HIM AND BLOOD SOAKING HIS SHIRT. You can go weep quietly while reflecting on your own uselessness now.

WILLIAM HOWARD TAFT GOT STUCK IN A BATHTUB ONCE: That’s it. That’s the entire entry.

WHO’S KILLED WHO?: People claim Clinton doled out mob-style hits left and right, but realistically, probably the last guy to kill someone, in my book, is George Bush. Guy was in WWII and ran the C.I.A. for a while. The only question is, did he blow some Japs away with a cannon from a battleship or quietly snuff out a Soviet agent with dental floss?

HOOVER GOT SCREWED: Poor guy takes the fall for the Great Depression, even though he was barely in office when it happened. Yeah, he’s got a Dam named after him, but he’s also got shanty towns in Central Park (Hoovervilles) and pockets turned inside out (Hoover flags) to go along with it. Just sucks, is all I’m saying.

NEPOTISTIC MUCH?: John Adams and John Quincy Adams, father and son; William Henry Harrison and Benjamin Harrison, grandfather and grandson; Bush I and Bush II, father and son; TR and FDR, some sort of cousin, but really, who gives a shit? Turns out Matt Damon and Ben Affleck are distant cousins. No one gives a shit.

FUCKING POINTLESS: 2000 was the only time two candidates ran against each other with four letter last names.

WHO WAS THE 21st PRESIDENT?:

Yeah, you know this one.

TOTAL BULLSHIT FAVORTISM: Virginia has produced 9 Presidents, Ohio 8. These are the states the guys ran from, not necessarily were born in.

LIES MY TEACHER TOLD ME: I consider Illinois my home state, but just for the record (again), Abe Lincoln was born in Kentucky and spent a fair amount of time in Indiana. Oh, and that house in Springfield? That’s not his real house, you idiot.

And finally…

IMPRESS YOUR FRIENDS WITH THIS ONE: William Howard “I got stuck in a fucking bathtub” Taft is the only man to be President and then, following his term, a Justice on the Supreme Court.

Now, go read a book or something.

-Druska

The Last Straw

First things first in memorial of the passing of Soupy Sales I would all the children reading this to go into their parents wallets or purses and please send anything green, paper or money-like, then email Paul at mooncounty@gmail.com and I will give you the address to send it to.

Secondly, perhaps my biggest crush as a child, Jodie Sweetin of Full House is going to being writing her memoirs.

While it will unfortunately lack any Paul and Jodie action it will detail her plunge into alcoholism and drugs. And not just your run of the mill-taken lightly pot variety drugs, we’re talking full on-breaking bad meth head.

Despite her past indiscretions the girl is Full House On hot! (see what I did there) She also has a kid, which qualifies her for MILF status as well.

Just like Lori Laughlin, who I presume wants it. (note: from me)

Seriously though if that’s how good she’s gonna come out looking, maybe there’s no truth to the notions that drugs will ruin your body.

Thirdly, Wednesday was Moon County’s own Phil McLaughlin’s birthday. What a jerk.

-paul

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Thursday...Because Wednesday is for the birds.

My Karaoke is Sex

by

Chett Bosner

Behold! The Corner Bar.

There is no doubt in my mind that this good ole watering hole is the gem of the West Side. No where else will you find a more complacent group of degenerates.

It may not look like much most of the time but on Tuesday nights it transcends into a cutthroat battlefield of lyrics. Karaoke night.

That’s right. I fucking own this place. I am the king of the West Siders and I’ve got the voice to prove it. Not unlike the gladiators of ancient Rome I come here to protect my honor with the weapon of my choosing. Over 500 songs.

And just like the Roman warriors, I reap the benefits of victory…with sex. Dudes…chicks totally dig guys that can kind of sing. Just like how they dig guys that can kind of play the guitar. You a white guy? Own a baseball cap and a guitar? Well learn 3 chords and turn that bitch sideways and BAMM, honeys be all over you.

Tonight…my target is that hot little number there at the end of the bar.

That’s right…the one slurping down a $3 quart of beer. Oh she doesn’t even know that she’s going to get it. That’s it , baby…look around and act like you’re too good for karaoke. But then I’ll draw you in. You’ll turn to your friend and say, “Who is that stud? I’ve never heard Safety Dance sung with such fortitude before.” Baby, prepare for an eargasm as the sound of 100 angels voices stream forth from my larynx.

Now….what should I start with? Carry on my wayward son? No…everyone will be singing along. They need to shut the hell up so I can make this broad fall in love with me.

Mr. Big’s To be with you? Nah. That’s too strong too fast. I want her to fall in love with me, not drowned in her own juices.

Tenecious D? No…however fun the songs are to sing they are ineffective. Chicks don’t go home with the funny guy. Just look at that Nick guy. He sang Cecilia but instead of “you’re breaking my heart” he said “you’re breaking my fart” and then proceeded to make fart noises.

No. let’s not travel down that road.

How about some Prince. That gets girls going. Oh wait..i don’t have the range.

Oh shit. I better hurry, she just got another giant beer. I don’t want her to get too drunk or i’ll just fall into the ambience.

Journey? Not in the mood.

Dashboard? Fuck no.

OH wait. Maybe I could sing a song that’s by a chick so when I sing it it’s all different and cool. I hope they have “Still the one” in here. DAMN.

Fuck….no ideas…..all my sex will be wasted again. Wait. Sex. ….Sex BOMB. Sex Bomb, by Tom Jones. Hell yes. It’s almost too perfect. Sit up baby and pay attention, there’s some serious melody being slung your way. Open those ears and those pretty blue eyes, cuz i’m going to send you to heaven before I take you home….and send you to more heaven.

God I love the corner bar. It’s where a king gets to be a king.

<by Nick>

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Pantsless O'Clock: Point/Counter-Point/Counter-Counter-Point/Police Blotter

Point: There’s Literally No Reason to Wear Pants in Our Own Home

by Robbie McKlasky

Guys, this is fucking ridiculous. This our house. The house that we’re paying rent on, which make it ours…so long as we remain fiscally solvent.

No, stop, I’m getting bogged down in the details. This our house, me and Pat lived together for two years in the dorms, we have no secrets, and Sarah has made it clear, abundantly so, that she has no desire to fuck me or Pat, so what the fuck?

We’re not trying to impress each other, and if no one’s over, why in the fuck do we have to wear pants at all times?

Dishwashing? Better sans pants.

Vacuuming? Better Sans pants.

CSI: Miami? Better. Sans. Pants.

I’m not saying we make it weird or dangerous, like deep frying food sans pants, or working out on the weight set downstairs, or sitting on the roof and drinking beers sans pants.

Okay, I might be saying that last one, but the point still stands. Done responsibly, and in moderation, pantless o’clock is not only fun, but giving freedom of movement with unrestricted groin access, and increasing the oxygen flow to our various rods and holes can only be good for us.

My boys need to breath, Pat’s boys need to breath, and Sarah, it’s time to let the box out of the box.

Counter-Point: This is Ridiculous…Heeeeey, he does have a point…
Pat Mulligan

Esteemed members of the Roommate Congress,

I won’t lie to you; I came here to argue against Robbie and his Sans Pants Initiative.

It was a change, and that change frightened me. But now, as he stands before us, headstrong and cocksure in his Thundercats boxers I see a boy, who became a man, a loose cannon turned into a leader.

You know what other historical figure went from rogue to respected general and leader of men? That’s right, Han fucking Solo.

Yeah.

In fact, my only problem with Pantsless O’clock, is I don’t think it goes far enough. The backyard is included in our rentalship of the house, is it not? What about the front yard?

What about Father Bear’s Pizza, a pizzeria, might I add, that is only in business because we frequented it five or six times a week during its lean times, allowing it to prosper now so it can engulf nearby businesses and expand its empire?

Were we not the Vanguard of that movement? Like the Bolshevik’s storming the Winter Palace, we were there; the movement is a part of us. I don’t think it’s a stretch to consider us owners, in the spiritual sense. So I think we can be pantsless at our own pizzeria.

And what about the Digital Saloon? Our favorite bar, where everyone from the bartenders to the busboys to the bouncers all know us by name; surely they would understand the need for us to be declothed betwixt our loins.

To hell with it! Let’s take our movement to the streets! Just like the actual Bolsheviks! With less murder of Royal families! Or maybe more! Let’s play it by ear!

Counter-Counter-Point: Morons.
by Sarah Roanoke

Shove your pasty legs into a pair of pants right now. You inept shmucks couldn’t inspire shit to do fuck. No one wants to see your hairy thighs, or underwear with holes in it.

Cartoon underpants don’t make you endearing or child like. They make you retarded. Not ‘look retarded.’ Straight up, power retarded. If you want to lounge around your room in your underwear, fine, whatever, but no way in hell am I going to be cool with you guys letting it all hang out when I’m trying to watch Weeds.

It’s not happening.

It’s pretty obvious that your penis isn’t accidently falling out of your boxers, and there’s no such thing as a touchdown boner, so stop ruining Sunday Night Football.

Hey! Where, are you going? We’re not done discussing this!

If you’re going to go outside, for the love of God, put on pants!

Police Blotter: Local Morons Arrested for Public Indecency, Lewd Conduct, Attempts to Incite a Riot, and Failure to Incite a Riot
By Campus Police

University juniors, Robert McKlasky and Patrick Mulligan, were arrested Thursday for a litany of charges stemming from being pantsless and the madness that follows such acts.

The two were first reported showing up at Father Bear’s Pizza near 2nd and Pippen where they tried to order pizza. After being refused service the two began to take pizza from other tables. Witnesses say the pizza was too hot and when they spit it out of their mouths, it fell onto their bare legs. Upon contact, the two let out a sound that manager, Sam Martinez, described as “high-pitched” and “woman-like.”

The two disappeared and reappeared at the cafe in the University’s Union. They had a flag which depicted a vagina and anus, with arrows pointing from both orifices to the words “peens go here.” The flag appeared to be written in blood.

After entering the cafe and ranting about “the tyranny of pants,” the two tried to incite some kind of sexual riot by McKlasky screaming, “this is fucking boring! Let’s turn this snoozeville into a gang fuck!”

Mulligan punctuated this odd order with another hearty, “GANG FUCK.”

It’s unclear if the two meant everyone was to gang fuck them, find someone else in the cafe to gang fuck, or if they simply didn’t know the word “orgy.”

Sensing danger, or perhaps just easy targets, all 64 students in the cafe rose as one, and beat the pair senseless, before returning to their drinks.

The police were notifed four hours later by janitors.

The pair havebeen charged with public indency due to not being properly attired, and lewd conduct when forensic teams linked the duo back to semen left in trees, mail boxes, and birdhouses trailing from their homes to the Union.

They were also brought up on charges for attempting to incite a riot, and for failing to incite a riot, an allegation that comes from the city’s little known and rarely used “do the things you say” law.

The hearing is set for Monday.

*-*-*

See you guys next week.

Matt

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THE BRO GUIDE TO LIKING PARAMORE

by Joey Reinisch

For those that do not know, Paramore is (now) a 5 Piece rock band from Tennessee featuring the vocal stylings of “Gwen Stefani” in training, Hayley Williams.  The band’s popularity has grown rapidly in recent years, culminating in Paramore writing the original song, “Decode” for the film Twilight last year.

If you have listened to Paramore, you know they are really catchy pop rock group that is the chosen vessel in which Hayley’s love notes are able to travel straight to my ears from her heart…but I digress.

While Paramore is more assuredly aimed at the tween demographic, their infectious pop knows no prejudice.  For any man unfortunate enough to have suddenly caught a bad case of the Paramore, I present the following: A code of laws I wrote to help those battling with their secret love/addiction to the band.

PARAMORE LAW #1 - If you heard of Paramore for the first time due to their involvement in the “Twilight” soundtrack, you are not allowed to like Paramore. No amount of laws, rules or justification will be able to combat the stigma surrounding your new favorite band’s discovery.

PARAMORE LAW #2 - You are never allowed to sing along to Paramore while another human being is present.  You are only allowed to sing along in your car, with the music turned up too loud to hear you trying to mimic her gorgeous voice with your high pitched falsetto. No matter how good you think it sounds.

PARAMORE LAW #3 - You are never allowed to see Paramore in concert.  While it would be sweet to stand 2 feet above your fellow 12 year old concert go-ers, your ears will never recover from the pre-pubescent screams of the crowd that will echo  in your brain hours after the show ends.

PARAMORE LAW #4 - Never hide the fact that you like Paramore by saying it’s about the lyrics.  This will give you away immediately. It is a proven fact that Paramore’s lyrics are terrible. Several songs actually repeat both verse and chorus multiple times during the song. But god damn it’s catchy.

PARAMORE LAW #5 - If you are over the age of 25 you are not allowed to comment on the attractiveness of the lead singer..  Hayley is only 20 as of this writing..plus she’s not allowed to have any other boyfriends.

PARAMORE LAW #6 - You are only allowed to buy their albums for your girlfriend/wife or sister. You then “accidentally” buy two copies of the album and then subsequently “accidentally” lose the receipt so you can’t take them back.  If your girlfriend/wife or sister does not like Paramore, you then have a second copy for when your first wears out.

PARAMORE LAW #7 - You can only wear your Paramore shirts underneath shirts for your favorite metal bands (i.e. Metallica, Every Time I Die, or The B-52s). This way it balances out.

PARAMORE LAW #8 - Never dye your hair “Hayley” red. Trust me you can’t pull it off.

PARAMORE LAW #9 - DO NOT, under any circumstances, write a letter to Hayley and send it to every address in Nashville hoping it’ll get to her….it’s too expensive.

PARAMORE LAW #10 - Never write articles talking about ways to get away with your secret love of Paramore.

-Joey
cartoosday@gmail.com
Twitter @jreinisch @mooncounty @destructobox @LOLjoeyANDkyle

Munday Punday

I regret not posting yesterday. I could pull the “I’ve been sick for three days” card, but I already did that to get my girlfriend to cook and clean for me and feel that card only works so many times. Instead, I post Monday and pull the “better late than never” card, which has indefinite pull-ability.

Here’s a favorite from my personal blog, which very few of you read so I feel okay re-posting.

I present: Negative Stereotype:

ZEP SESH

Par La Bete:

Do you have a functioning human brain? A valid question this day in age. But there is one easy way to tell if someone you are talking to has a working mind, or at least the functioning capacity to evacuate their bowels in the proper place. Ask someone the relatively simple question of what is the hardest rocking band in the history of the world. If their response is not “Led Zeppelin,” then they are braindead and should be tossed off an overpass or into a cauldron of some sort.

There is no argument here. Listen to a live Led Zeppelin song. Say, “Rock and Roll” into “Celebration Day” off of The Song Remains the Same motion picture soundtrack. Shit is epic. “The Rain Song” live? “No Quarter” LIVE? These are slow, pleasant/creepy tracks that still emit an actual visible shockwave of power from your speakers when they are played. Even the 14 second intro on the newer triple disc How the West Was Won called “L.A. Drone” is fucking cool as hell. It’s a quarter minute of feedback. It doesn’t matter. It’s Led Zeppelin. It is rock.

But that’s live. Let’s discuss the studio recordings. Led Zeppelin rocks so hard that they made a song about Viking conquest, intending for it to be taken seriously, and it was. A song about sacking and pillaging by Vikings was appreciated, sung, played and consumed unironically in 1973, because it rocked harder than Thor’s axe-handle. And that’s just one song. Let’s look briefly at the albums themselves. Zeppelin I is an unflawed piece of music. Zeppelin II is almost as perfect. The Untitled fourth disc has more epic in it than all of World War II. Well, the Japanese theater, at least. This band rocked so hard that when they made their fifth album, Houses of the Holy, there was so much rock on it that the song called “Houses of the Holy” had to be left off the album and put on the subsequent sixth album, which itself rocked so God damned hard that its rock spilled over into a double LP. Rock.

Look, I could go on and on, but the facts are there. Black Sabbath is the only band that comes close to matching Zeppelin’s power. Hendrix was the best guitarist ever, but if you throw his crew up against Pagey, Jonesy, Bonzo and Plant, they won’t get very far. Every stereotype of “rock stars” today was made so by Zeppelin. Every caveman behind the kit is a direct descendant of the John Bonham school of domination. Every brooding arrangement made by some guy who doesn’t want the limelight even though he might be the most musically proficient in the group is channeling John Paul Jones. Every shredding guitar solo with a cigarette dancing precariously on your heroin soaked bottom lip is an imitation of Jimmy Page at Knebworth. And every self-absorbed pretty boy with pipes who penetrates girls with a mudshark owes their bizarre sexual tastes to Robert Plant. Oh, and their music is more beautiful and meaningful then when the Germans first sang Silent Night in that town because the church bells were broken or whatever.

SO, since we’re in agreement, another question is raised. How, in a reasonable and fair way, do we pay homage to this epic quartet? Well, instead of getting lit on shitty hippie weed and acid and forgetting an entire concert of theirs (which one of my teachers once claimed was the case), there is a better way. Of course Zep can be listened to cruising in a car, or working out, or while you’re sacking and pillaging your neighbor’s yard, but the true, best way to appreciate and honor Led Zeppelin is with a little ceremony called the ZEP SESH.

First, the GENERAL GIST: A Zep Sesh is a casual, comfortable active listening session. Certainly some conversation over the music is allowable, but in general (although not a formal rule), the convo typically is along the topic of how awesome the song or band is. The best way to achieve a Zep Sesh music selection, is, regrettably, on a computer or iTunes like program, where songs from various albums or epochs can be dragged and aligned in a specific order. Some songs are picked out, usually some sort of chemical treat is consumed during the Sesh, and the good times roll. Or should I say, The Good Times, Bad Times roll? Hahahahahahahaha I’m so witty.

TERMS: You should first be aware of who is participating in the Zep Sesh with you. The only pre-requisite for participation is simply the vaguest of knowledge about Led Zeppelin. Everyone participating in the Sesh will have to make anywhere from 2 or 3 to 7 or 8 selections, so just don’t invite over someone who spends all their time jamming to Chumbawumba or Aqua or NickelBack. Oh, no deaf people, either.

Decide amongst yourselves what type of selection process or order you’ll go in. It’s a good rule of thumb to go in a determined order but have each person make several selections each turn. Maybe a 2-2-2 scenario. Or switch it up. Maybe 2 songs the first two turns then a lightning round robin where everyone impulsively picks one song at a time for several more turns. Often times, pick an original six or eight tracks, and then, as they certainly will, once a song has inspired you to listen to another song, throw that one on, bulking up the list as you go. This will inevitably happen depending on how much and what kind of chemical treat you choose to consume, if any.

And even though by the end, people are throwing “one last song on,” decide early and officially how far exactly you want this thing to go. 16 tracks? 20 tracks? Call it at midnight? This is important.

Also, technically, the host of the shindig typically gets the right to throw the last song on. Stick with tradition.

WHAT MOOD ARE YOU IN? Of course you want to rock, but Zep rocks in so many ways you never know which way they’ll take you. You want to start off guns blazing? Throw on “The Song Remains the Same” or “Black Dog.” Want to ease into the rock? Can’t go wrong with “Dazed and Confused,” or “Over the Hills and Far Away.” Or maybe you’re in a cinematic mood and want to imagine walking somewhere in slow motion? “Kashmir” or “When the Levee Breaks” have two of the greatest drum tracks of all time. Heartbreak? “Going to California,” “Tangerine,” “The Rain Song,” “That’s the Way;” I can keep going here.

So in your first couple decisions, play what you want, but as I said, it’s nice to let the Sesh develop as the songs go. Maybe someone throws on “Bron-Y-Aur Stomp,” and that tickles your pickle for “Hot Dog.” Just like the band, allow some breathing room for improvisation and weird, new directions of consciousness. And banging with dead fish.

This may seem like a big long diatribe essentially to sum up the thought, “Zeppelin rocks. Go get high and jam on some of their tunes.” But I don’t give a shit. For those of us who truly appreciate the band and pioneered the soon to be worldwide phenomenon of the Zep Sesh, we take our Zep very seriously. I am simply passing on my knowledge and wisdom to further the cause of Zep. Try out a Zep Sesh of your own and let us know how it goes. Oh, and one more thing:

.nataS teews ym ot s’ereH