Truffle + The Arthritics

All I do is paint, man. Not canvas any more. Nope, ain't got no time for that shit. I gotta paint walls. Until I get cramps in my hand. Not little cramps. Big ones. The Arthritics. The cramps last for days. If I am not painting, they tend to feel better. But that doesn't happen, because all I do is paint, man.

What you doing tonight man? Oh, I'm painting. Really, you paint quite a lot? I paint so much that I can't possibly continue to drink during every session. I am, quite literally, pickling my liver. I remember the good old days, when that blue tape came out, it was party-fucking-time. Grab a pop, turn up the radio, because we're gonna paint! Waaaazooo!

What's the color today, man? Truffle, I say. Hot damn. What's that look like? It looks like melted chocolate ice cream. Not the fancy kind of chocolate ice cream. The kind that comes in kids cups with wooden spoons. Those spoons are the same god damned type of wood that they make the stirring sticks for paint from. No shit? No shit.

[Wisdom: don't ever pay for a stirring stick, and don't ever buy paint from a place who charges for stirring sticks.]

Why's it called truffle? So assholes like me will feel better about painting my walls with it. That way I can take family and friends on a tour of my house with a wine in my cramped hand and say, see this room here? That's truffle. That room? Philadelphia Cream... they wouldn't dare call that color by it's rightful name, Melted-cheese-steak-cheese. No fucking way. But that's what it looks like.

So what are you doing tonight man? Painting. Well, I am getting Vietnamese at Eden Center and then painting.

You couldn't handle it.