“Yo, man, didn’t you try this last year? You know no one wants to be in that crappy band of yours.” Kemba Walker said incredulously.
“That’s not what your mom said last night.” Jeremy Lamb responded absentmindedly, not turning from his current task, which was affixing fluorescent pink printouts on the Hornets’ team bulletin board.
“You tried recruiting people last year for this, and no one bit, I know for a fact you were sitting on your ass all last year, you’d think that a guy would take the hint that no one associated with this team wants to play in a glam rock band.”
“A sleazy glam rock band” Jeremy corrected, turning around. “First mistake. Second mistake, I did have a guy who was interested, remember that nerdy video intern we had? He was totally down but I had to fire him after like one practice.” He returned to the bulletin board, and worked on affixing another flier over the top of one advertising “MJ’s Diversity Training Seminar”.
“You’re telling me you got another actual human being to join your goofy-ass band, and you kicked him out? What, did he not want to wear the purple bodysuits? Did he not do enough hard drugs for your taste?”
Jeremy sighed. “If you really want to know, it’s because he was trying to take over my creative vision, trying to move the the band in a different artistic direction. Jeremy and the Little Lambs does not go in different artistic directions. We have one goal and one goal only: to play the glammiest, cocainiest, teaseled-hairiest, spangliest glam in the southwest. No compromises.”
“That sounds like four goals to me. And you say ‘we’, but it’s only you in the band.”
Jeremy stepped back and admired his work. The bulletin board was now almost entirely covered in sloppily-xeroxed bright pink paper. He shoved another sheet from his only slightly diminished pile into Kemba’s chest.
“I don’t have time for haters, bro. I just gotta find some local musicians, and Jeremy and the Little Lambs is good to go. Up and running in no time. Next show date is on the flier. See you there.”
“Dude, you know I’m not…” Kemba started.
“Bring your own cocaine.”