Dear Thieving Grog Blobbers,

It's been a while.  I know that.  But the truth is, no one cares.  You know it.  I know it.  Tom, the MySpace guy, knows it.  It's no secret.  So, since the last time I blobbed, much has happened.  First of all, we were in a plane crash in the Andes and had to feast on the flesh of our pilot.  He was mmm mmm good, at least at the time.  Second, we lost the battle of the bands to a bunch of mythical creatures.  Third, and worst of all, we had most of our FUCKING EQUIPMENT FUCKING STOLEN!  I know that, you know that, but the truth is, no one cares.   We just have to drum up some more shit to use.  C'est la vie.  But what has become of our equipment...

Last we heard from Carvin, our chain-smoking British tube amp, he had returned to the Isle and was working as a barback in a pub somewhere in Newkie, on the southern coast of Britain.  He's happy, but he wishes he was back with his friends.  However, he can't afford the plane fare back to the States, so he's stuck.  Good luck, Carvin, and drink a pint for us.

Then there's Peavey, our monstrous bass cabinet.  We all remember when he fell down the stairs that time and almost broke his insides.  He never was the same.  We're not entirely sure what became of him, but there is a new member of the WCW who is big, black, and boxy.  Even a mask can't hide that shape.  But it seems he's changed his name to Mr. Boom-Bap.  He's lost his first two matches - one to the Undertaker, and one to special guest wrestler Carmen Electra, though I think the latter was fixed.

The Bag of Tricks, which housed all our toys, cables, percussion instruments, and whatnot, is now a street magician.  Don't trust him, he's from Seattle. 

Then there's Red Stratocaster.  Red's been seen cavorting with Adrien Grenier and the rest of his entourage.  There's one blurred paparazzi pic with him driving their Escalade.  Looks like Red fell into the right hands.  Next we'll see him hanging with Bob Saget.

And last, but certainly not least, is Hamer.  Hamer was Ellis's best friend, and we've gotten no report on his whereabouts.  Here's what I like to think:  Hamer got kidnapped and taken to a desert isle in the South Pacific.  His good humor and strong cognitive skills earned him the respect and trust of his captors, especially the one-eyed captain of the ship, who also had a peg-leg and a talking parrot (why not?).  Whilst they guarded the treasure they had buried on this isle, the pirates got lazy and drunk off the mead they had brewed while asea.  Hamer, having built an ungodly tolerance for booze over the years of performing with both The New West and The Evergreen Playground, was unfazed by the strong brew, and outwitted the pirates.  As dusk faded, he waited for them all to fall asleep in their own inebriation.  Of course, the captain was still awake, but away in his quarters.  Hamer entered the captain's room and, by the light of one candle, cracked off his wooden leg, poked out his other eye, and beat him to death with his own parrot, who repeated only, "Fucking hell," the entire time.  Hamer then took the treasure map, dug up one full chest of dubloons or rubies or soemthing like that, and dragged it with him out to the ship, waiting in the harbor.  He raised the anchor and changed the flag, only to realize that he was now a bona fide pirate, and this was the life he had fallen into.  He's now sailing the seven seas looking to kill you and steal your shit.  If only he knew the pain that his own theft caused us, he might not pursue this life, but he was always the incorrigible one.   

There you have it.  If you see any of these things, report their whereabouts to us immediately.  We always like to know what's become of our friends.

Grog Blob Over and Out