One year Jimi got “Never Mind the Bollocks Here’s the Sex Pistols” from his brother for Christmas. In those days me, Jimi and the guys fucked off from our families all afternoon to drink and run around. Once we had enough of that we would go home, get dinner and get back at the drinking shit.
That year I stopped into Jimi’s folk’s place on my way home. Jimi walked over to the record player, picked up the bright as a stripper’s light show record and put it on, took a step back before keeling over backwards, heaving all over his chest and passing out cold.
Jimi’s brother, looking at the scene over a tall glass of rye and ginger ale from the comfort of his dad’s easy chair, the room shaking like a universe of tits, shook his head slowly as an old dog walking on a hot day as he grimaced like a pastor at his parish on New Year’s Day. “You punk rock fucks don’t have any god damn stamina.”
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