We, the Fort Drastic crew, have decided to end FortDrastic.com. Stop your damn crying. We still meet and greet and control local governments, but we’ll longer be posting to this site. We love you. We thank you for reading. We encourage you to follow us like stubborn snakes in all our various travels. You can find Danny Eagle and He-Bro (aka Lou O’Bedlam) at The Back Alley Tabernacle. You can find ol’ Emkon with his comedy crew at Party Central USA. The rest of the bunch you’ll have to pay extra to find as they’ve all changed their numbers.  Thanks and g’luck.

This is the receipt / recipe for mourning.

When I got my first ever Jury Summons recently, I was surprisingly excited. I was out of work at the time and despite my near supernatural ability to be unproductive, I had grown tired of my routine. Having never served on a jury, the prospect of participating in our legal system seemed like the right thing to do, and at the very least it would get me out of the house. So I arrived at the Brooklyn courthouse on a rainy Monday optimistic about doing my part. It took me less than an hour to realize that, as usual, I am an idiot.

There are certain situations that you see in movies that seem so comically awful that they can’t be that bad in real life, namely the DMV and Jury Duty. When I worked in casting I once had the job of finding actors to be in a jury duty scene on a popular television show. I was instructed to find the most disgusting, creepy, scary looking actors in the city. I hired some real horror shows, and to illustrate my point, several of these same actors appeared again on the show in the background when we shot scenes in a mental hospital. It’s the idea in scenes like such to be hyperbolic, so I didn’t think I’d find anything like that in real life. I was wrong. If anything, the jury pools you see onscreen are flattering compared to what it’s really like. I consider myself at best an average looking guy, and when I’m easily the most attractive person in a room of 400 people, something is seriously wrong. They say that only idiots don’t get out of jury duty, and looking around the room I’d say that also applies to the morbidly obese, people with severe respiratory conditions, and the toothless.

After 45 minutes of checking the room for a carbon monoxide leak, my name was called and I was moved to the civil court across the street. I had hoped to get on a criminal trial, but my spirits were raised somewhat by the new crop of jurors that I was placed with. Along with several non-psychotics, there was one semi-hipster and the real prize, two Hassidic Jews. As I sat waiting for the lawyers I quietly fantasized about deliberating with the Hassids in the case of a man suing a restaurant for getting sick from a ham and clam and cheese sandwich. Alas, I didn’t get my wish and was placed on a jury with the mouth-breathers I had met earlier.
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Just watched the show Six Degrees of Separation on ABC news, about how people are so closely linked. The news anchor hands random people a name and a face and urge them to find that person with the contacts they already have.

I would love to see this with a CSI type twist where a person with crabs traces it all the way back to the sixth person. Just think of the potential! CSI STD! *Someone needs to get on this idea STAT.

*Then pay me, bitches.

I don’t hate Fall Out Boy. They’re trying to earn a living, I get that. They wanna do so by making emo-rock, that’s fine. Making music, touring, it’s work, I got no problem with that. And you know what, they’re not half bad. I won’t change the station if they’re on, during those few occasions I actually listen to the radio.

Having said all that, WHAT THE FUCK. The other day I heard the first single from their new album, and I have to say it is the most magnificently awful song I have ever heard. It is the aural equivalent of watching ten cars, a semi, a school bus, a van full of pigs, two airplanes, an oil tanker and a shetland pony all crash together. Never in all my days have I heard a song such as this. So many disparate elements, as if my cd collection was killed, buried in a swamp along with some radioactive material, and then, when struck by lightning, ressurected into some horrible twisted joke of itself.

In talking with a record executive I know (that’s right, I’m LA, I’m plugged in), the song is being viewed as the band’s reaction to being called emo, or soft. They are trying to appear edgy. And it is. Much like a two year old making a sculpture with glass, play-doh, cyanide and ninja throwing stars is edgy.

But you know what? Kudos to you, Fall Out Boy. If you can’t be the best, you might as well be the worst.

Once in a while a story comes through the wires that is sounds as thought Dr. Octagon broke in to the news office and wrote it himself. In case you’re not a fan, this means that it reads almost like junk mail except that it actually makes sense in a very cartoony, raving-lunatic-genius kind of way. This article titled “Manager Arrested for Garbage in Lard” is not long but manages to pack some amazing phrases I’ve yet to see anywhere else. Here’s a short list:

• substandard lard
• salted, red-yolk duck eggs
• phony formula
• wasted limbs and swollen heads
• night raid
• grease rendered from sewage
• pure fat from hogs

No idea how it happened but I’m 31. An old bastard still doin the same tricks. But this past weekend I was called out. While at a house party with a black and white theme, someone called me a “NARC!” There it was… The official announcement that I was old. From this point forth I will not stay past my welcome at a party where the only person I know left 1 hour prior.

I definitely saw two seagulls sitting on a pier railing, each with one leg. And today in the coffee line, the man in front of me had a missing ear. And he had psoriasis. I wish I could offer more insight, but I just can’t. Thanks for understanding.

May your mashed potatoes be plentiful and your cranberry sauce canned. May the sleepy gods of turkey shine their savory faces upon you. And may you discover another thing to watch than football. It also wouldn’t be Thanksgiving if we didn’t drag out the dusty old handturkeys. Happy Thanksgiving!

While the recent win by the blue team has things moving in the right direction, or at least stopped in its tracks, it seems fitting of the times that corrupt-ass lobbyist Jack Abramoff heads off to his first day at prison. Fitting in two ways. Finally justice is being served. And two, there’s no surprise that his special brand of punishment is in the form of a minimum security dorm! As much damage as he did, they won’t feed him to the general population where he belongs. I’m pretty sure it’ll be something like Goodfellas, where he’ll have a separate spacious room, a nice arm chair and a hot plate to cook up sauce, paying prison guards with stacks of cash for fresh lobster. What a kuntry!