Jeremy Lamb sat despondently on one of the equipment cases scattered throughout the backstage area.
“Yo, Steven, you said there would be cocaine.”
Jeremy and the Little Lamb’s bass player looked sheepish. “I just said that so you would stop looking so sad after that disaster of a show.”
“I wouldn’t even call it a show, considering our fatass drummer Kendrick bailed to the nearest McDonald’s and the only audience member was Nick frickin’ Collison. I can’t believe it! What went wrong? Why doesn’t Oklahoma like sleazy glam about sex and drugs? And this damn bodysuit is pinching my nuts!”
The sequined-bodysuit-clad Lamb put his head in his purple-gloved hands and began to weep in earnest. His ridiculously large and teaseled blonde wig fell to the floor at his feet.
“Hey man, it’s okay. Screw the haters. No one said this would be easy. Music is about enduring trials and coming out stronger for them. We might not have fans or cocaine, but we have each other, and that’s all that matters.”
Jeremy let out a moan and began to weep even louder. Steven Adams’ face turned from concerned to stern.
“Stop that crying! What would Jon Bon Jovi think if he saw you like this? He’d think you were a pussy. A god-damned pussy who quits when the going gets hard! Now let’s get you up. Maybe we can head over to that McDonald’s and see if we can’t find that blob Perk. Maybe grab some fries. Those things are as addictive as cocaine anyway. How’s that sound?”
Jeremy rose to his feet, his face stained with running mascara.
“Yeah, sounds good. But can I change clothes first? I think this thing is making me sterile.”