Nobody Puts Bobby in a Corner!

the sequel to "we don't fight fair", featuring My Chemical Romance, Green Day, 30 seconds to mars, and Dave Ghrol :P

 

Dave Ghrol was waving about and blabbering on with such excitement that Bob Bryar struggled to get a word in. Dave seemed to be thoroughly impressed at the sight that was his miniature cactus, which had now, sprouted a brand new white flower from one of its spiny tips. “It did it all by itself!” Dave announced, still grinning from ear to ear, “Isn’t it beautiful?”

            Before Bob could even answer, Dave sprang into yet another fit of excitement over his plant and this dismayed Bob even more, though he was trying to look as interested and happy for the Foo Fighters singer as he possibly could. The truth was, Bob had his own little bout of glad tidings that he would have liked to share, but just never got the chance.

            Just that morning Bob had popped his slices of plain white toast to find one imprinted with a brown and crusty outline of the Virgin Mary. “The Sacred Toast” as he had named it, was now carefully sealed in a Glad-wrap-super-seal bag in the tour bus, waiting for his return.

            Little did poor Bob Bryar know that Frank was stumbling into the kitchen right at that very moment, looking for a new opportunity of mischief. And there it was! As plain as daylight reflecting upon Gerard’s platinum blonde hair, sitting there atop a stack of recipe books was Bob’s carefully sealed prize. It was marked in permanent black ink that read: Do Not Open, Bob’s property. Frank chuckled to himself as he picked it up, it was apparent that Bob had yet to learn what the words Do Not Open translated to in Frank’s mind.

            Frank was a criminal misfit, and even worse, on this particular occasion he was a hyperactive high on sugar criminal misfit… and at this very moment in time, the words Do Not Open, to Frank, translated quite plainly into “Please Open and Please Destroy”.

           

            Somewhere at the other end of the Warped Tour set up, Jared Leto was singing on an iceberg. Well, not a real iceberg (to the singer’s dismay), but one made out of cardboard and paper machete. “We’re 30 Seconds to Mars!” He shouted into the microphone gleefully after the last chord of the song was played. “Don’t forget, go to abeautifullie.com for more information about how you can save-”

            “Nice iceberg!” A voice jeered from the crowds, interrupting his speech and train of thought. “Jackass!” the voice added before everyone in front of the stage erupted into maniacal laughter.

            “Who said that?” Jared called out angrily.

            “A kindergarten performance has better props than that!” Another voice called out.

            “Hey! Was that you? Huh? You?” Jared began pointing at random faces in the crowd as they all just laughed back at him heartily. His band mates began to shake their heads and pathetically call for him to calm down.

            “Hey! Who’s the chick on the iceberg?” Another voice called out.

            “Okay! That’s it!” Jared said angrily before launching himself into the audience with a menacing growl.

            His band mates could only watch and cringe as their lead singer fell face-first onto the ground below.

            Red with embarrassment, and even redder with contempt for his audience, Jared looked up to find that his iceberg was moving! His band mates scrambled up around it and attempted to pull it back, but it was far too large. It moved, sliding slowly like a… well… an iceberg on water, and sailed off the stage, sending some lighting equipment and props and roadies crashing to the ground. The audience screamed and started running for higher ground.

            Jared could only stay lying on the floor, too horror struck to move. “Nooooooooo!” He screamed.

 

            “What the?” Frank shot up in his seat at the sound of an especially high-pitched scream. He dropped both items in his hands, the properly sealed ‘Holy Toast’ and a lighter which burnt his fingers as his grasp on it loosened. “Oh-my-god-I’m-on-fire!” He squealed and tossed the lighter away, sending it sailing through the air.

            It really wasn’t Ray’s week, first the incident with the spider in his ice-cream on Friday, and then the hair-painting incident on Sunday, and now, on a sunny Monday afternoon, Frank’s lighter landed right into this puffy afro.

            “Oh… this isn’t good,” Frank stared at his sleeping friend’s hair that began to emit a stream of grey smoke. His eyes got wider and wider before he took a few steps back, debating his next course of action.

            Luckily for the rhythm guitarist, the ideas-man and lead singer of his band walked in just then, chewing rather loudly on a subway sandwich. “Hey, Frank, what’s going on?” Gerard mumbled before picking his teeth.

            “Not much,” Frank replied meekly. “Well, except for Ray’s hair is on fire!” He screamed suddenly.

            “What?”

            “There!”

            “Where?”

            “There!”

            “His afro?”

            “I’m sorry!”

            Both men screamed in unison, but it was helpless. Ray muttered something indistinct in his sleep and still snoozed on, unawares of the tragedy befalling his hair. 

 

            Billie Joe had walked in to his band’s tent area to find his drummer and friend Tre Cool covered in red paint while eating messily from a bucket of chicken. “Is that your third bucket this week?” Billie asked, raising an eyebrow.

            “Yuuuup,” Tre Cool replied, licking his fingers.

            “And did you just cover yourself in red paint again?”

            “Yuuuup,”

            “After Mike spent all that time scrubbing it out of you last night?”

            “Yuuuup,” Tre Cool replied once more before reaching for another deep fried drumstick.

            “Well that’s a little ironic,” Billie said to himself, watching the drummer eat drumsticks.

            “I’m not doing it again,” Mike said as he entered the room. He handed Billie a red bucket that matched the bassist’s skinny red jeans and said, “It’s your turn,” before turning to leave.

            Billie could only grimace at the thought as he held an orange octopus shaped sponge in one hand and the bucket in the other. Tre Cool only giggled at the cartoon he was watching, one arm holding a piece of chicken to his lips and the other mechanically spreading around the red paint that was on his chest. “I hate it when this happens,” Billie muttered before walking grudgingly towards his friend.

            Just as he kneeled down next to Tre, pulling up his own sleeves before soaking the octopus shaped sponge, he heard a high pitch scream that caused him to jump up. He noted that the screams sounded like they came from one rhythm guitarist and the other from a singer. Billie Joe was never wrong about these things.

            “Uh-oh,” A little voice murmured from beside him and he turned to see Tre pointing at something. The fright had caused Billie to tip the bucket over and a stream of water was flowing slowly to the television, the DVD player, VCR, and X-Box sitting on the ground just in front of them. Both men gasped, sucking in a deep breath and shutting their eyes.

            By some stroke of luck, the stream of water just stopped inches away from the X-Box machine. “Oh, thank God,” Billie Joe breathed, blinking his heavily eye-lined eyes and adjusting his red neck-tie nervously. But he was wrong, Squishy the sponge Octopus, perhaps tired of constantly being used to bath the obnoxious, child like drummer, decided to have his revenge. He sailed out of the bucket and down the stream of water, faster than any of the boys could stop it. Alas, Squishy hit the X-Box machine at full force, while fully soaked.

            With a large cracking sound, the X-Box machine quite plainly exploded. There were sparks flying everywhere and the electrical mishap surged forth and spread to the other electronic equipment. A few more explosions and sparks later, the tent area was sent into complete darkness.

            And so it was that two fully grown Rock Stars were left screaming in the dark.

 

            Frank and Gerard spun around when they heard two screams echoing from a tent not so far away. “What do you think that is?” Gerard asked worriedly.

            “I dunno, but there’s been too much screaming going on!” Frank replied, biting his lip. “What’re we going to do Gee?” He asked in a high pitched squeak as he pointed towards the burning mass which was Ray’s hair.

            “Geez, what is he using on his hair? It’s sure lighting up!” Gerard replied.

            “Maybe we can pat it down with this!” Frank said, lifting up Bob’s Holy Toast.

            “Hey guys,” Bob’s voice suddenly met their ears as the doors of the tour bus opened. “You know that Dave Ghrol guy is such a jerk sometimes, you go over there and try to have a conversation- but it’s all totally one sided- and what are you doing with my toast!” He screamed suddenly, seeing Frank’s grubby little paws clasped around it.

            “Oh, this is your toast?” Frank asked, attempting innocence. Pretending to be innocent was never Frank’s forte.

            “You little…” Bob raged, storming towards the shorter rhythm guitarist who could only reel back in horror and squeal. “Put it down! Put it down!” Bob shouted, grabbing him by the collar and shaking him about, but still, Frank’s grasp on the Holy Toast was strong. Perhaps it was because the sheer horror of being shaken about by a large drummer, but Frank suddenly lost all control over his body and could no longer feel his hands, much less allow his grasp on the toast to loosen.

            “Let him go! We have bigger problems!” Gerard pleaded half-heartedly, still eating his sandwich. “Oh my God, I love subway,” he muttered.

            Suddenly there was a large crashing sound and the whole bus shook and shivered. Frank fell to the floor with a heavy thud as the other two battled to keep from falling over themselves.

Cereal boxes and coffee canisters fell from the kitchen cabinets. Magazines and books by Freud and Edgar Allen Poe fell from the bookshelves. Matchbox Twenty CDs and Mix Tapes fell from atop the stereo. Tim Burton DVDs and ‘How to dance like John Travolta’ instructional videos fell from atop the TV.

            With a loud cracking sound, a big crack tore through one side of the bus and it quite nearly split in two. When the tremors stopped the boys looked up to see a large mass of paper machete that look oddly like an iceberg, had tore through the side of their bus, and there was now a large hole for all the world to gape into their make-shift living room. Mikey fell through the crack in the side of the bus then, sliding off the iceberg. His face collided with the carpet just below it and he muttered a little; “I tried to stop it,” and “Too much paper machete…” before apparently passing out, because he said no more.

            “Well, this is awkward,” Gerard noted, and then took another bite of his sandwich as he watched people start to gather around the opening in the side of the bus.

            Just then, there was yet another eruption some tents away and an octopus shaped sponge flew into view. It came through the large hole in the side of their bus and landed squarely into Ray’s afro. With a long hissing sound, and more grey smoke, the fire died out and the lead guitarist woke up with a start.

            Ray had woken up to many strange occurrences in his life, but none quite as remarkable as this one. He looked up and saw the large hole with an iceberg sticking through it, and people gathered around outside with wide eyes. He saw his band mates staring at him with wide eyes too. Then a sponge fell from his head, and worry began to brew inside of him. He lifted his hand hesitantly to feel the top of his head, and where there used to be hair, amidst the mass that was his afro, was a clean bald-spot. There was no mistaking it.

            “Noooo!” Ray screamed and ran from the room.

            The sponge fell to Frank’s feet and the rhythm guitarist picked it up inquisitively, letting go of the Holy Toast that Bob made a quick grab for instantly. He cooed the holy crust and rocked it like a baby in his arms before shoving past Frank and going into the kitchen area.

            “Wow,” Frank murmured as he stared at the sponge in his hands, it’s googly eyes staring back.

            “That was some luck,” Gerard added.

            “No kidding,” Frank grinned as they walked towards the kitchen for skittle cupcakes and hot fudge-tea.

            And so it was that Squishy the sponge octopus saved the day… again.

Author's Note

ignore bad grammar- i wrote this in a bit of a hurry :P Jared Leto gets himself into a bit of a mess, no hate mail for that please- I don't mean to publicly blam him... it just fit in with the story!

Reviews

[Lynx]

Lolz this was hilarious, xD ahahahhahaha.

I love the how the whole thing is kind of connected to each other lolz, xD and Gerard's sandwhich lolz xD.

Haha, xD the HOLY TOAST xD lolz.

[Nikki]

Oh my God!! That was the best thing I have EVER read...It was soooo funny...I love how Gerard just keeps eating his sandwich and how at the end they all just go back to doing what they would on a regular day... This rocks...Will there be any more????? You should totally write more...

[DarkAngelWriter]

Oh my f*****g God... that was hilarious! Please tell me there will be more!!