The Thermals - The Sword By My Side video game
The Thermals have a video game! Or, maybe it’s a music video game. Or a video game in lieu of of a music video. Whatever, it’s awesome.
Go! Play! Do!
The band, called The Pizza Underground, recorded the EP live at Macaulay Culkin’s house on November 11, 2013.And here are the songs:
"Papa John Says"
"I’m Beginning to Eat the Slice"
"I’m Waiting for Delivery Man"
"Pizza Day" ("Oh it’s such a pizza day, I’m glad I spent it with food…")
"All the Pizza Parties"
"Take a Bite of the Wild Slice"
—Matt Colbourn: guitar/vocals
Phoebe Kreutz: glockenspiel/vocals
Deenah Vollmer: pizza box/vocals
Austin Kilham: tambourine/vocals
Macaulay Culkin: percussion/kazoo/vocals
(To stream the EP, click here.)
TINY PARK, BITCHES
Of course it is.
ALL BITCHES THIS IS MY HOME TOWN TAKE A FUCKING SEAT WHILE I TELL YOU THIS STORY. GET A BOWL OF POPCORN BECAUSE THIS SHIT IS DOPE
IN THE 1940’S PORTLAND WAS PUTTING IN LAMPPOSTS AND FOR WHATEVER GOD DAMN REASON THIS ONE NEVER GOT FILLED.
IN 1946, DICK FAGAN, AN AMERICAN IRISHMAN WHO WROTE FOR THE OREGON JOURNAL, GOT BLOODY FUCKING BORED AT HIS JOB AND WOULD LOOK OUT HIS WINDOW ONTO THIS SAD EXCUSE FOR ROAD CONSTRUCTION HOLE. ONE DAY HE SAID “FUCK THIS” AND PLANTED SOME FLOWERS.
HE WROTE ABOUT THIS NEW FUCKING PARK AND SPOKE ABOUT HOW LEPRECHAUNS LIVED THERE AND SHIT. MOTHERFUCKING LEPRECHAUNS IN THE MIDDLE OF DOWNTOWN, WHAT THE SHIT.
HOLD ONTO TO THE EDGE OF YOUR SEATS BECAUSE THIS RIDE GETS EVEN BETTER. THIS PARK HOLDS A GUINNESS WORLD RECORD FOR BEING THE SMALLEST PARK WITH WITH INFORMATION SAYING “It was designated as a city park on 17 March 1948 at the behest of the city journalist Dick Fagan (USA) for snail races and as a colony for leprechauns”. MOTHER. FUCKING. SNAIL RACES. BITCHES.
IT’S EVEN BEEN PIMPED OUT OVER THE YEARS
HO HO HO MOTHERFUCKS WE CELEBRATE CHRISTMAS HERE
WE CARE ABOUT THE ENVIRONMENT.
THE BEST PART IS THAT IT EVEN HAD OCCUPY PORTLAND PROTESTERS
SO I HOPE YOU FUCKING LEARNED SOMETHING TODAY ABOUT TINY ASS PARKS.
They have opinions about air travel, weather, and the relative cuteness and/or intelligence of my daughter and they’re not afraid to voice them. At length.
I don’t want to go to prison, guys.
It always happens this way. The kids start lining up in front of the school bus again and you think about dressing up for Halloween and fail to dress up for Halloween and you take a slow shower without shampoo and it’s December. The year-end lists start popping up everywhere and you don’t recognize half of the things on them. Your checking account looks sort of hungry and mopey but the screen(s) you’re sitting in front of are offering you hundreds of amazing deals on things you need to buy for all the people in your life who mean a lot to you. You haven’t read the book you wanted to read last summer, your feet are cold, you’ve forgotten to make a doctor’s appointment about that thing that’s been bugging you, you caught some sort of virus from an airplane trip, you’re eating too much but fuck it, you’ve gradually begun drinking two cups of coffee in the morning instead of one and now you get a headache if you try to go back. You had that one night full of soft lights and dancing and garlic toast and a coat that wasn’t yours. You have said “I love you” hundreds of times and actually meant it. There are songs in every car asking you to sing them and smile. You take a minute to sit down and it’s December. You remember how lucky you are. You realize it’s been a hard year. You think about all the things coming up next year that are going to make it an incredible one. You’ve stumbled over something full of grace. You’ve cried in different places every month of the last year. You think if you could collect all the tears in a big jar and pour them out over the balcony, yelling the whole time, yelling louder than you’ve ever yelled before, you might not have to do any of this again. You want to do all of this again. It’s December and the air is crisp and your arms smell like firewood. You’re tired. You’re still alive.
Me: Are there nuts in that cookie?
Him: This one? No, no nuts.
Me: Cool! I though maybe those white bits looked like nuts. What are they, white chocolate?
Him: Um…maybe? I think it’s double chocolate.
Me: You sure?
Me: Ok, I’m allergic to nuts so I’m trusting you on this, man.
Him: I promise you they’re white chocolate and this cookie is totally nut-free.
Me [twenty minutes later, at home, after spitting my first bite of almond-filled poison into the sink]: YOU LYING JAGOFF!
Him [I assume, because why the fuck else would anyone do that?!]: Mwa ha ha, I bet that allergic fuck is dead by now! High fives to all my still alive, not-allergic-to-tree-nut peoples! We got rid of another one!
Me [in gravelly, whispered psycho-voice]: You’re on the list now, asshole. You’re on the fucking list.