There I was, standing in line at the bank earlier today, when all of a sudden I felt a sharp but only slightly irritating pain on my ankle. Thinking I was being attacked by fire ants in the middle of my morning errands, I quickly reached down and lifted the hem of my pants to swat the little bugger away. When I looked down, I saw that what I thought to be a deadly killer insect, was in fact a piece of a scab that had managed to attach itself to my hem. As the line suddenly lurched forward, I quickly pulled off the rest of the scab, which protested its unwillingness to go by gushing out such an amount of blood, it made my ankle look like a punctured packet of McDonald's ketchup.

As it started to flow onto my shoe, there wasn't much I could do. I rummaged in my bag for a tissue or anything to stop the bleeding. All I could find were a few receipts, gum, an elastic ponytail band, and a Kotex maxi pad. And, no, there was no way in hell I was giving up my spot in line to run to the ladies room--which you can never find in banks anyway. In fact, I don't think banks have them at all because as a customer, they want to see you and know where you are at any given time or, god forbid you should hide out in one of the stalls, McGuyvering a homemade gun out of toilet paper and tampons. Anyway, I did the only thing possible at that moment, and McGuyvered myself a tourniquet out of the elastic band and...yeah, after which I stepped defiantly up to the teller and boldy announced that I'd like to make a deposit.

Of course I looked like an idiot. But it was rock 'n' roll, so I think I was able to pull it off okay. Just put on a little fuck-you attitude and you can get away with being the biggest dork in the world, and people will still think you're cool.

Speaking of rock 'n' roll, I have this band called Juliette and the Licks. Now, I never claimed to be a singer, nor did I get bored one day and decide to turn all Keanu Reeves/Russel Crow/Kevin Bacon/Eddie Murphy/Don Johnson...anyway. It just happened that one night I was at a club and decided to check my sense of decorum at the door. Something I used to do quite a bit when I was younger, but not so much since I quit doing drugs. Now I tend to keep decorum wrapped around my waist even out on the dance floor. But this night was different, and I guess someone heard me singing along to Joan Jett and the Blackhearts at the top of my lungs. The next thing I know, I'm writhing around on stage with a member of Hole and getting calls from Prodigy.

And now, it seems I'm getting ready to go on Vans Warped Tour. On Friday 25, we hit Houston, TX. Be there or be square.

Was that the longest pimp post in history?