Too Bad Life Just Ain't Fair

I'll tell you who Chris Collins is, bitches! It's this guy right here, with the thumbs. Or, rather, that guy, yonder, shirtless, with the thumbs, and the lacy ladypanties. Really, there's a little Chris Collins in all of us. Imagine of Jesus was a baldheaded lunatic from bumfuck Ohio who liked smokin' weed and eatin' pussy. You know, a salt of the earth bastard who might turn water into wine for the sake of a really bitchin' party; or knock a motherfucker out with one punch for being a classless, glass-throwing asshole. He'll smoke his last bowl of weed with you, and would give you the shirt off his back if he could remember where he put it.

And, not to put him on blast on these here interwebs, but this motherfucker has had even shittier luck than me this year. First, he got hit by a car, over the top, Starsky and Hutch style. Ripped all the tender bits up inside his knee: ACL, MCL, all that shit. Most of that shit. More than that shit--maybe some extra shit too. Meniscus? I don't know man, I'm not a fuckin' doctor. Things were rotten in Denmark.

Then, right before he was supposed to get surgery, he gets pneumonia.

Then, somewhere in the midst of all this nonsense, scabies. Yeah, scabies. I said it. No idea how or from who--just sat on the wrong chair or fucked the wrong crackhead on the wrong abandoned mattress--who knows where these things come from?--and itchy and scratchy are off to the races.

Things were not looking good for our hero.

Then this fella steps up out of the shadows:

[These last two images are by Miller Thomas]

His name is Colton and he won't pay for drugs, sex, office supplies, or hot dogs, so give it up smooth. He goes ahead and organizes some kinda punk rock shindig for the benefit of his cousin, to wit, Christopher Collins. (They're all cousins in Ohio, right?) The Buckshot--the bar where I work--hosts it, hot dogs are grilled, DJs Vinyl Hayride and Jonny Landmine show up, as do the bands Street Justice and the White Barons, and, well, shit gets a little loose. For once, the Buckshot looks like an actual punk rock bar inside, not a theme night at a USF dance.

I went bike riding that day and got stuck in traffic on the way home, so I missed Street Justice, but I did get to see the rock and roll juggernaut known as the White Barons, which is always a shot glass full of awesome sauce:
Which, in laymen's terms, means whiskey.
The rock? Consider it broughten:
Lately, Kenny G's hair has found an entirely cooler place to hang out:
Find a girl with faraway eyes:
Raw power I can feeeeeeel it:
Q: How far we goin' back?
A: Waaaaaaaaaaaaay back.

Colton had no fun. Too stressed out playing Johnny Organizer-of-charitable-events-guy. Here he is, grinding his teeth from stress:
This might be my favorite shot of the night. Enter the maelstrom:
The Devil's blood came seepin' through the walls:
And Miss Eva was not scared:
Some sort of man-ilingus went down:
Electric freakout ghosts started flying around the room:
Then Colton went into a trance:
In layman's terms, whiskey:
Singalongs were of the epic, NYHC variety:
Which, as we all know, invariably end in dudefests:
Somebody let in the riff raff. On the right is Sean Ramirez, of the eponymous principle:
The other guy is the Herculean Chilean, Rocky Lobos.

Joel, a.k.a. Jonny Landmine, lookin' like the ghost of Bobby Peru:
Josh, manned the door for a hot second:
And, lest we forget, the celebrity cripple, which is to say, the man of the hour, and his barbed wire birdcage full of loot:
Seriously, people, ones? He's moving back to Ohio, not Fresno. Give the motherfucker some gas money. Ones should go directly to the G string you know he's wearing.

Talk about beauty and the beast. I'm thinking we should use the donations to buy this pretty lady some contact lenses:
Gus from Fist Fam wildin' out:
Yeah, there were fuckin' hot dogs. You thought there weren't? Didn't see Colton paying for any, that's for goddamned sure:
Chris, you're a great guy with shit luck, and we're going to miss you in Fogtown.

When you're broken down and beat up...

When you're coughing up blood and your balls itch...

When you're stuck between a flatulent homeless dude and an old Chinese woman with a pillowcase full of live chickens on the Stockton bus...

Just thank God you're not French:

Which is to say, I could see you building a crazy contraption like that, but you'd ride it a lot faster.