The Jizzbuckets must go down in Solar System history as the most abnormal, abrasive, addicted, and annoying band ever. J was a young, acne ridden black-clad teen when he was staying in Rye for Christmas holidays. It was on a deserted back beach that he met his life-long pal Keef, who had just finished having his way with a young girl suffering from Down Syndrome. That period was to be forever known as Keef’s “Down Syndrome and Heroin Stage.” He was twelve at the time. J and Keef got talking about music that day. They both shared a love for underground rockers: Busted Hymen, Alvin and the Chipmonks and The Inalienable Right to Eat Fred Astaire’s Asshole. Days later (with the help of J’s friend Grater on keyboards), they started jamming in a dingy surf club backroom in the middle of nowhere. They used an incredibly cheap drum machine that played only one beat. They developed their horrendously ear-splitting “tunes” such as ‘My Mother’s Got an Oedipus Complex,’ ‘So What if I Wanna Spank Bert Newton?’ and ‘Jakle May’s Boring Chair.’ The enigmatic and now famous Bizarre Taxation Accountant (or Taxy, as he is popularly known) was to join years later, acting as the most volatile factor in the destruction of the band.
They started obtaining low-key gigs in truck stops, mutant brothels, insane asylums, amber porn theatres and Cybermail? stations. Their cult following (made up at this point of mainly homosexual fundamentalist Christians and pancake chefs) grew steadily and their most devoted fans often committed suicide for no apparent reason. Though they had split up often due to stints in prison and mental institutions, the band remained intact for decades to come. They met their bass player Momma at a Californian skate ranch sometime later.
Keef’s flirtation with Jock and dead grandmothers, Grater’s overuse of Mono13, Momma’s use of broken bottles, fish meat, and marijuana and J’s use of, well, all of the above plus a lot more, caused constant friction and arguments within the band, fuelled by their fans’ general hatred for them. J often threatened a solo career as a Baroque mime, but this never came to fruition. It was their collective love for punk disco that kept them together for so long.
Shortly after a disastrous tour with the Arabian Goggles, keyboard wizard Grater was found dead from a heart attack in his Pitcairn hotel room. Though the actual details of the death have been distorted by time and the federal authorities, it was generally assumed the basics of the situation pertained to Grater being a fat bastard who had too many bottles of tequila and deep-fried bacon and peanut butter sandwiches that night.
J and Keef were devastated by the news whilst Momma was quite happy and threw a party celebrating the end of years of artistic differences with Grater.
Grater’s autopsy was a colossal event. Fans, sightseers and many rats travelled miles to see exactly what was contained in the now bloated gut of the dead Grater. As soon as the mortician made his first incision into the stomach, it exploded and covered the audience with bucketfuls of vomit, Jim Beam, cocaine, fingers, licence plates, parsnips, and bolts. J and Keef were disgusted by the whole fiasco. Momma just laughed and had another Tequila Sunrise.
Jimmy and Plato the retards had been playing intermittently with the lads for a few years now, but they did not find anyone else to replace Grater (much to Momma’s dismay). Still, they only had a minor cult following (though hardcore) and had not yet obtained a record deal. Eventually they stumbled into the studio of the Crap Bands label with the promise of a released album and as much lite beer as they could drink.
Soon their concept album ‘This is a Concept Album But We’re Not Too Sure. I Guess We Were Pretty Stoned at the Time’ was created and saw the amalgamation of classics such as ‘Pretentious,’ ‘Herpes of the Mind,’ ‘Uh... Sorry No Title’ and ‘Jesus Christ I’m Sick of Lite Beer.’
This album sold an amazing thirty-six copies (J bought twenty-five) and the band had now grown used to playing at scout-hall sized venues and (occasionally) actual pubs. Many of the shows were banned because of J’s propensity for putting his microphone in his rectum and singing entirely in farts, Keef’s propensity for eating aborted foetuses on stage and Momma’s propensity for being at a beach house in California watching TV while the others were playing a show in Boronia.
Eventually, the band semi-permanently split. During a fist fight in the studio over artistic differences, Keef’s nose was broken and he sustained brain damage (though strangely enough he seemed unaffected), Momma was disembowelled on a mic stand (but survived thanks to the miracle of microsurgery), and J fled to become one of the regulars at the Crystalline Bar, practically living in the twenty-four hour establishment in a soak of drugs and alcohol for many months. They never finished the piece they were working on: ‘The Jizzbuckets are Going to do Strange Things Involving Your Pet Goldfish and a Soldering Iron.’ The future of the band was unclear at that point.
Inflict Kafe Gavani On The World
  
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