Congratulations on Leaving Your Jug Band!

Tide’s been rising for some while now. Between Bruno’s constant cattiness, cutting your washtub bass solos every chance he gets, Craig’s prima donna bullshit, like his shit don’t stink just because he plays washboard and Jonah thinking he is the fucking band just because he blows on some jugs it's all getting a little much.

These bandmates, your former friends, collaborators and co-conspirators, have become something horrible to you. You remember watching Time Bandits with them and deciding to form this band a month and a half ago. You were so full of hope and dreams then. You had song titles coming out the wazoo and you only smoked a dime bag a night.

Now you’re up to a quarter and all the song titles have developed into lackluster pieces of improvised music which all seem to turn out the same way. It’s as if you created a jug band equivalent of Phish. We hate to put it that way, because you might interpret it as a good thing, but it’s accurate.

Luckily you’ve realized just how infuriating this form of music is. So today you’re going to show up to practice, your mind red with frustration and rage. Bruno will be on his cell phone, his banjo nowhere to be seen and Jonah will already be sparking something up already. Craig will come in behind you, wearing sunglasses. It will be seven-thirty at night.

You’ll run your hands through your dreadlocks and let loose a wordless scream to get their attention. It’ll work, mostly, although Bruno will still be talking on his cell phone. Jonah will freeze mid drag and Craig will take off his glasses to genuinely assess your emotional state. You’ll stand up straight, holding the broom handle of your washtub bass as if it was a staff to steady yourself. You’ll be modeling your speaking pose largely on Charleton Heston from The Ten Commandments.

But you won’t hold it long. Bruno’s continued insistence on ignoring you will push your rage to critical mass and you’ll grunt, straining against the screws you fixed to the base of the broom handle and snapping the whole thing off inside of the washtub. Then you’ll smack Bruno is his fat, stupid face, dislodging the cell phone from his hand and knocking his ass out.

Then you’ll turn around, breathing heavily and clutching the shattered remains of your instrument. Your shoulders will lurch with each breath and you’ll wonder if you should hit each of your band mates to make a point. You’ll think better of it fast, picking up your messenger bag with a sigh and doing a few breathing exercises to calm yourself down before you speak your peace.

You’ll close your eyes then re-open them, taking in your conscious bandmates and their current state (agitated). “I’m out,” you’ll say, dropping the broom handle to the ground. “Tell Bruno when he wakes up.”

Then you’ll walk out the front door, and just in the knick of time. A rival jug band will set fire to your practice space twenty minutes later and the rest of your band will die of smoke inhalation. On the upside, their deaths will make the value of your recordings skyrocket and your band will achieve popularity in death the like of which it never saw in life. And guess who’s going to be collecting all those royalties now?

That’s right, it’s you. So congratulations on leaving your jug band, and we hope you’ll enjoy your brief tenure as the world’s most famous African American washtub bass player.