The Blood Arm: Outsider Competitor With Only A Little Chance Of Win -OR- We'll Slay Our 70 Virgins Now, Thank You

We're in France now. A fortune cookie told Zebastian (in French) that we should look to our underpants--that they would reveal the future to us. None of us wear underpants, so we went to the Supermarché to buy some.

And there it was:


But what does it mean?

We've always viewed ourselves a bit outside the mainstream--ever since we chose to play with matches on windy preschool days when everyone else was experimenting with sex and huffing glue. Or in elementary school, when we were more interested in hardcore music than hardcore drug abuse. Or in high school and college when we were more into writing and dancing than cutting ourselves--self-mutilation was the fashion of the time.

We always assumed our outsider interests made us winners... not that they lessened our chances of achieving the Ultimate Goal. (The Ultimate Goal: 70 virgins at our disposal in heaven.)

How the hell does our outsider status give us only a little chance of win?

You know what we say? We say fuck the fortune cookie. We say fuck the underpants too. Hell, fuck the afterlife as well... We'll slay our 70 virgins now, thank you.

Oh yeah, and rock your pants off in the process.

We're winners no matter what any goddamn cookie or pair of underpants tries to tell us.

Tourcoing was awesome.

This is where we ate:


This is what it looked like when the concert got quiet for a second and Little Sausage (our Sound Man) farted:


This is what Dyan looks like when she's invisible:


And this is how you properly light the Blood Arm on stage:



I love you more than you will ever know,

Ben Lee Handler