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Pimp and host girls siberian mouse3/31/2024 I write this from the basement greenroom of Neumo's I'm about to walk upstairs to sing for 60 minutes when the only other things that have come out of my mouth today have been a few painful croaks and about five quarts of evil-colored phlegm. The year 2005 has seen me sing with strep throat, bronchitis, and the flu, and it's also seen our drummer play two months' worth of shows with a fractured wrist. I regret that I wasn't more realistic about the limitations of my own body when I consented to play as many shows in a row as I have this year. The first time I ate there was in Austin at four in the morning with my friend Sam. Someone should firebomb every fucking Jimmy John's on the planet to spare the human race from their stale bread and avocados that are actually a florescent green sludge. My biggest regret of this year is having eaten at the fast-food sandwich chain Jimmy John's. Wait, I take that back, I got some good pills off that broken arm. Oh yeah, we also regret not playing any house parties all year and I personally regret breaking my stupid arm back in February because I'm startin' to spend more money at Harborview than I am at the bar. I hope Captain Randy and those bartenders all get pink eye and a bunch of parking tickets and maybe even shit on by pigeons at some point. Our only regret is not deep-sixing Captain Randy out in the middle of the bay when we had the chance. Whatever, we all stuck around and continued to get saucy even after the boat was docked. It was bad enough that the bartenders moved slower than glaciers, but what's worse is that just about an hour into the cruise, some jackass named Captain Randy turned the rig around and docked us for the rest of the night. The "I Sunk Your Battleship" cruise had all of the elements pertinent to a seaborne miracle fiesta-except for the huge stinking dead albatross of a goddamned ship staff. This summer, a great group of folks organized what promised to be an awesome maritime adventure. May your 2006 regrets be the sort that you'd relive in a minute given the chance to regret them all over again. This was a year of flooding levees and fornicating groupies, of shitting out gas-station jerky, stalking celebrities, and calling your girl "daddy." Below, some of our favorite musicians, promoters, writers, and DJs explain in more excruciating detail what regretting 2005 was all about. Time to look 2005 in the face and either give it the tongue, blacken its eyes, or beg for forgiveness for 2006.
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