Repentance for our June abandonment

Hey there blog faithful, if there are any of you left. It's ok if there isn't, we understand. This blog has treated you readers about as well as the Los Angeles Clippers treats its fan base, but we're promising to make it up to you. That's right, we're rollin out a brand new feature called "Approximately June: The Recap" where I, Shotgun, will be recapping all of the Band's goings on in the past month and a half. We'll be working backwards, starting with the Redwood City 4th of July Parade/Battle of the Bands where we put those Davis fools in their place.

The sun crept upwards on the horizon in a beautifully clear day. Bandies all over campus and other whereabouts rose from their bed, excited for the day to come. Some were commemorating the occasion with a ritualistic eating of a bacon cheeseburger and 40 oz of ancient hopgrain juice. But soon the ATS approached and the masters of enthusiasm started making their way toward the Shak, the air crisp and clean. They approached the door, and OH DEAR MOTHER OF GOD MAKE IT STOP! WHY DOES IT SMELL LIKE THERE'S A CORPSE IN THE SHAK? ON AMERICA'S BIRTHDAY OF ALL TIMES. QUICK EVERYONE, WE'LL BARRICADE OURSELVES IN MICH TERRACE.

Indeed the Band kicked off Independence Day by being punched in the nostrils with a brass-knuckles wearing odor. We searched everywhere trying to find a reason for this senseless crime. The answer came in the form of Joe Lewis, rib-maker and drinker extraordinaire. You see, a week ago the Drum Corps Invitational came to town and while normally fine to peace and let them use the house, Joe, one of our more senior Bandmembers with lots o' gonnengtions, wanted us to play for some of his DCI friends and as payment cooked us a great lot of delicious ribs before we headed off to a volleyball game, but I'm getting ahead (behind?) of myself. Long story short, he left some of the leftovers in a cooler outside the Shak and they marinated with the sun's rays and an odious blend of bacteria to deliver us that olfactory grenade on Saturday morning.

After we recovered and made it to Redwood City, the parade started, and we employed our typical parade-flummoxing play and rock out parked, run to catch up, then park and play, then run, repeat ad nauseum (literally) for a mile and a half. Those with weaker constitutions cried aloud to the heavens what they had done to deserve this feeling afterwards, while the stronger among us just sat in fear afterwards, waiting for their lungs to exact revenge. But we were rewarded, with Food Tickets! And waiting!

But then, it was time for the battle to begin. We heard Davis pretending to cadence into the spot and we knew our moment of combat was nigh. When Drum Major General Byron blew his attack whistle, we all rushed the spot and threw down a killer rendition of "Welcome to Paradise." And by killer we meant literally. By the end, three Davis trombone players were on the ground with their entrails splayed out in front of them. The whole thing was somewhat reminiscent of the Charge of the Light Brigade except we were the side that wasn't the Light Brigade. There was a Christmas-in-the-trenches type truce as we joined hands for "Beginnings" but we then returned to trading musical blows. By the end, it was obvious who had won, but Davis wasn't letting us take our prisoners back to the Shak to get the meat smell out, so we just declared victory and left.

After that we carried out the rest of our 4ourth like the rest of you schlubs with OMGWTFBBQs and fireworks aplenty. And we all rode into the sunset.

Epilogue: Dateline July 6, 2009. The Shak appeared to be safe. The smell demons were exorcised and everything seemed back to normal. Jill arrived. She walked to the room formerly known as Teamball, now recently colonized by the Tenrz. She opened the freezer portion of Shak fridge to put in her ice pack, and NO. WE GOT RID OF YOU. HOW COULD YOU BE BACK? WHY GOD?
But it wasn't back, Smelly McRotten had been chased out of the Shak, but it's little brother, Smelly McMolden had taken over the Shak fridge by way of making it not work. It claimed the remaining ribs and a bottle of apple juice as its casualties. No burial was held. Let us not forget the lesson these ribs sacrificed to teach us. The Tenrz take over the teamball room. The fridge dies. The moral is clear. The Tenrz lose at everything. And so the call goes out. Anyone got a fridge? Preferably one with a Capri Sun pouch painted on the friont?

TUNE IN NEXT WEEK or day or so, when we recount how the Band single-handedly defended freedom against an imminent scourge, ON THE VBALL COURT.