The Fudge Report

"All the poop that's fit to scoop..."

Thursday, October 31, 2002

bloody like halloween movies!!!

Saturday, October 26, 2002

Hee hee! I know what brown does for me, it makes me stinky!

Tuesday, October 22, 2002

MI: 1/5
ST: 2/5


Tuesday, October 15, 2002

BF: 0/5
MI: 1/5
ST: 2/5
FL: 1

Ghost poo! You feel it go, but when you look in the bowl, it's gone! Appropriate for Halloween I guess.

Saturday, October 12, 2002

Friday, October 11, 2002

Oh...the pain and agony. What the hell did I eat today?

BF: 100/5
TP^2: infinity
ST: 110/5
FL: am still doing it

Wednesday, October 09, 2002

The fudge report will be out of commision for a couple of weeks, due to a severe and time consuming conflict with my landlord . Note that fudge is still produced, albeit at a higher-stress level quality and quantity.

Monday, October 07, 2002

MI: 3/5
FL: 2
ST: 4/5
BI: 0/5

Dear Lord... I almost passed out from the fumes. Nice volume too. My diet must have been the opposite of Tim's.

Saturday, October 05, 2002


Wednesday, October 02, 2002

It's amazing how peapods can just go right through a guy.
MI: 1/5
FL: 1
ST: 1/5

A tad bit nutty

Tuesday, October 01, 2002

Celebrity Fudge - Volume 2

Another installment from the excremental musings of Guster's 2002 road journal.

September 7, 2002 - The Richmond show was on one of those islands they have floating in the middle of the river downtown. We were playing on "Brown's Island" this time and isn't that just appropriate because once again there was nowhere to shit. That's right, it's another poop-themed entry! Go ahead and avert your eyes now if you're still recovering from the last one.
This time the port-o-potty was the only option. There was no plumbing on the island. So the only real choice to be made was between the three port-o-potties backstage.

And even though it was the only occupied one, I waited for The Blue Room. Never before had I encountered such an enormous port-o-potty! I figured it was probably air-conditioned and maybe there was even a dude standing in there with a towel and a bowl of mints. I went and got my book.

The inside wasn't as luxurious as I'd imagined it'd be. Like other port-o-potties I'd used in the past, it was pretty much a hot stinky closet where people pile shit on top of shit. There was no towel dude and no bowl of mints, but there was a cigarette butt on the floor and a few flies buzzing around my head, waiting for me to shit so they could eat it. However it was spacious, and there was a bit of a breeze, and it didn't smell nearly as bad as they usually do. So I let myself get lost in Larry McMurtry's tale of cowboys driving cattle out west and the next thing I knew I was on page 600 in Lonesome Dove and I'd spent four hours in The Blue Room!

Yes, I had the digital camera in the port-o-potty with me, but NO I didn't take any pictures of what was in The Hole. You're all sick people! If you want to see that kind of stuff you can just visit anyway.

Famous Fudge, volume 1

Today, we bring a special reprint from Guster's road journal!

August 25, 2002 An unfortunate sequence of events occurred in the hours before our show in Santa Fe, New Mexico:

1.) Catering served tacos for dinner.
2.) The plumbing at the entire Paolo Soleri amphitheater went down, rendering the bathrooms useless.

The worst part is that not only the Gusters, but all the John Mayer and John Butler Trio band members are pre-show poopers. You get pretty regular when you're on a catered tour. With about an hour until set time, here was the situation:

* Paolo Soleri is in the middle of nowhere... dirt roads, etc. (there was nowhere else to shit)
* There were four toilets backstage, but none of them could flush.
* There was the regular civilian bathroom at the top of the amphitheater but those toilets were out of order too.
* There were three port-o-potties in the venue.
* The venue promoter said the plumbing would be restored within an hour.

I have a huge fear of port-o-potties, so my first instinct was to just crap in the backstage toilet and not flush it, leaving the stink there for every subsequent shit-maker to inhale. But I couldn't do that. It's wrong. It's right next to the dressing rooms. Besides, the plumbing was supposed to be fixed momentarily. So I waited. And with twenty-five minutes to showtime, I thought about maybe just holding it and playing the gig weighed down. Then (comment dit-on en englais?) "it became apparent to me that this was no longer a valid option" and I decided I would just face the port-o-potty demons and get it over with. The sun was just beginning to set but I knew it would be dark down in The Hole. The Hole never sees the sun. It is always night in The Hole.

So I went into the crowd and walked up the steps to the back where the three port-o-potties were located and wouldn't you know that there was a line of about fifty people waiting to get into those things. Of course there was -- the bathrooms were out of order. Duh. Now what does one do? Show the kids in the front of your line your laminate and explain that you need to cut because you're on stage in fifteen minutes? No. You go back to the backstage toilets and do your business and let someone else flush it once the plumbing comes back.

But when I got backstage, all four toilets were already filled with band turds. It smelled horrible. I blame Dave, John's bass player, who shat in all four toilets. Anyway, now we have a whole new dilemma. Pile shit on top of shit?

You bet. But not before placing a wad of toilet paper on top of the water in the toilet so as to avoid the dreaded "splashback." And I shat, and I wiped, and I felt light as a feather on stage, and when I got off the stage the plumbing was back, my turds were flushed, and New Mexico lived happily ever after.

Good God, I've just lost three quarters of my road journal audience.