We were wimpy and spoiled rotten, but we thought we were high and mighty.

We had about as much stage presence as a three-toed sloth in a coma.

They said we were boring and told us to turn down.

They said we were good technically, but not musically.

We were lame jerks and we didn’t even know it.

We had sloppy clothes and lousy instruments.

We couldn’t tell if we were in tune or not.

No one in the band could keep a beat by himself.

We were always late to a gig.

We always took long breaks.

We spent more time between the songs than we did playing the songs.

We were snobs with meager talents.

We didn’t feel like playing unless we were wasted.

We had Beatle boots and Fender amps, but no songs.

We couldn’t sing anyway.

We had poxy faces and nerd haircuts.

We looked like DORKS.

We were at least ten years behind the times.

We tore up the cars our parents gave us, moving obsolete equipment to and fro.

If it wasn’t for our parents indulging us, we wouldn’t be musicians.

We always left it to the other guy to find employment.

We made the same mistakes, over and over and over.

We wasted ours and the audience’s time with idiosyncrasies.

We couldn’t feel the music, so we intellectualized about it instead.

We couldn’t swing, so we extrapolated on jerky odd-rhythms and tricky changes.

We had the egos of superstars, and the chops of simpletons.

We were totally analytical and critical of anything and everything, except for ourselves, and what we were doing.

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