Posted by: headyjey | June 11, 2010

Cloudy With a Chance of Meat, brews.

I started selling meatballs on tour way back when hippies still ate animals.

It all started one heady night on Phish tour back in the nine-nine. Shit was still gangsta on Shakedown. I had ingested some kind of liquid dropping, pill popping, powder chopping platter of excellence when it started raining meatballs. And not those dinky little, rinky little, stinky little swedish meatballs – these were some seriously plump, juicy, meaty balls. The.biggest.ever. They just kept raining down.

Okay, so you know when you’re on Shakedown and you look at those big ass lights generating a halo of flying insects? Imagine meatballs just taking them out! One by one – just plummeting down to their final destination. Planting their epic meatiness in some heady mama’s dreads, or some wook’s beard. Taking out illegitimate lot babies and puppy pits. Dude, brews, it was a mess. A meaty mess. But I wasn’t surprised that the mess wasn’t left untouched – free food is free food.

Right?

Heady.

Jeez man, I think back – that platter must’ve been some seriously super epic excellence! Well. . . with that, I thought it was like some sort of sign. I mean, a visual is one thing, but shit my nose was bleeding like I got hit by a flying meatball torpedo. (Could’ve been bleeding for a number of. . . more realistic reasons actually. . .)

When I came back to a point of reality, I picked myself up off the lot and took a stroll to the nearest port-a-potty, where I locked myself in, sat my ass down and began brainstorming an uber heady business plan.

That plan did bring me luck on the following tour – shit I was slingin’ meatballs up and down Shakedown like no other. Like it was my job, yo! You’d walk through like… “Mali”, “Doses”, “Clean needles”. . . “Meatballs.” I fucking raged that shit brew – One for $3, Two for $5 . . . sometimes, if I was feeling extra heady I’d hook it up Three for FREE! Hell yeah – Cha-Ching to the Karma gods!

And then, October 7, 2000 happened – Hiatus hit us smack in the face. It was a hit that couldn’t be compared to any damn meatball whack. “Let it be” played over the speakers as the foursome walked off the stage, away from us. Man oh man I cried tears the size of meatballs. So unheady.

I kept having these dreams with angry meatballs just harrassing the fuck out of me. Armys of bloody meatballs chanting, “He ate us, He ate us, He ate us, He ate us!” Dude. . . HE ATE US. . . on. . . HIATUS. WTF. FML. I mean they wouldn’t stop until I promised to cut the meat from my balls. I awoke screaming many a night – definitely a sign. No more meatballs, brew.

Hiatus ended bringing in a new year – 2002. The “He-ate-us Hiatus” was a closed case! Now I came back selling. . .Brew Balls – an elevation vacation.

Chaahaa!!

These took all of hiatus time to perfect – a superb dosage of elevating goodness, minus the meat, plus the treat. A creation consisting of uber mindfulness and crunchy goodness.

When you bite into my brew balls – you experience the calm before the storm. . .what happens right before it starts douching meatballs all over your face. It’s that cool windy feeling, a breeze to please. An extra beat of excited anticipation.

Floaty, flimsy, funny, floppy.

The epic sideways walk down Shakedown.

So no longer do you eat your meatballs.

Meet your eatballs!

. . .brew balls!

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Responses

  1. Finaly I know who is making this shit. We will meet shortly…

    • Meat is right, brew. . .


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