First there is a planet, then there is no planet, then there is. Or was that mountain? No, no… that’s planet, sayeth the booking agent. And we feasted on crow, and feces, and fillet of sole (the kind that’s glued to the bottom of your sneaker). And there was much rejoicing… not!
Well, friends… it’s only when you start thinking you’ve been fucked every way from Tuesday that they come up with three or four other days of the week you’ve never even heard of. What the hell am I talking about? Well, I’m gonna’ tell yuh. (Whoops… I’m reverting to my Warren Oates impersonation…. give me a minute. Mmmmph. Okay, that’s got it. Ahem. ) Now you may recall my account of how Quality Lincoln, our de-facto (or as we now call him, “de-FUCK-to”) booking agent, signed us up for a package tour of every planet in the solar system. And in his infinite wisdom, he accepted one flat fee for all performances on (and this is important) EVERY planet in said solar system. Then of course, moments after the toner was dry on the faxed contract, those mother-fucking snakes (i.e. space scientists) on the mother-fucking plane (i.e. planet Earth) went and added not one, not two, but THREE new planets to the solar system, obligating us to play twelve worlds for the price of nine. Remember? (Sure you do – it’s one or two entries down… have a look.)
Okay, now I will revert to 1970s-80s teenspeak to relate the subsequent developments. So we’re like, “What the fuck, Lincoln, we’re getting totally ripped off, here!” And he’s like, “No way, dude. This is great exposure.” And I’m like, “Way, Lincoln! How are we gonna’ make money here?” And he gets all, “I got it worked out, dudes… honest.” (All right…. you’ve suffered enough. ) So Lincoln suggested that we start with the outer most planets in the solar system – Charon, Pluto, and that other one… Sedna, or whatever. He said that those planets were so cold and sparsely populated that there was no way in hell we would spend more than one or two nights on any of them. Well, I should have thought better of this when I saw Marvin (my personal robot assistant) emit a strange green glow and start klanging like a steam engine. But did I listen? Did I? Now ask yourself… do I ever? (You’ve got your answer.)
Okay, so we lit out for Charon first and played three of the most bone chilling sets I can remember. We were set up on this glacier of frozen nitrogen, playing for a gaggle of stalagmite-looking shards of ice that looked… well… indistinguishable from the rest of this desolate landscape. Marvin froze in position like the tin man on the Wizard of Oz. Even sFshzenKlyrn — a denizen of deep, deep space with no body heat to speak of — was moving slower than what was common for his guitar-slinging, bound-about stage routine. Still, we turned up 
the thermostats on our rented spaceman suits and ground our way through the tunes, jumping up and down to keep the blood in our toes, wrestling with hypothermia while our audience stood in rapt silence. (Okay… just silence. Frankly, I think they’re really only icicles sticking out of the glacier.) Bad gig, man. And then Pluto…. you think Charon is bad, book yourself into a club called “The Cooler” on Pluto. (My shoes are still frozen to that stage, actually.)
Okay, so here’s the kicker… the thing that makes this GET ME THE HELL OUTA HERE Big Green Tour 2006 such a total bust. Now those fucking scientists are thinking about lopping Pluto and Charon off the end of the solar system again. So all that frozen-ass performing was for nothing! And that’s why we’re eating crow, sole, feces, etc. “Play the outer planets first,” he says! Blast you, Lincoln! There are going to be some changes around here, mark my words!
