The sad breakup of a truly promising rock ensemble occasioned because some idiot forgot to flush the toilet is remembered in the imperishable prose of Mr. James Montgomery, rock critic and skateboard aficionado:
My Chemical Romance broke up Friday night, ending a career that spanned a dozen years and produced some of the most visceral, dramatic rock and roll in recent memory.
I AM TOLD that this is the place to talk about Great American Saloons. But on reviewing the subjects previously celebrated here, I begin to wonder. Great American Saloons? Arnold's of Cincinnati? The Union Oyster House? An oyster house? What next—the Detroit Dairy Freeze? I suppose you Easterners thought the Golden Arches walk-ups were high times. Oh well, it can't be helped, I guess. You never saw the real saloons. You never painted your noses in Tombstone's Bird Cage, the Clippel Shades Saloon in Butte, the Sazerac House of Virginia City, or the Long Branch--and no, you don't get points for watching "Gunsmoke." The worst of it is that you never will belly up at those bars, either. The real saloons are all gone now. Nothing is left but tourist traps and the memories of the few remaining old-timers who regularly irrigated themselves on Old Towse, Skullbender, White Mule, and Panther Piss.
Panther Piss, Panther Piss,
Spit it out and hear it hiss.
It's pure bliss.
Taste my kiss of Panther Piss.
Panther Piss I love you.