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stories thrift store cowboys


Everything you are about to read actually happened. This is the story of one of the absolute craziest nights we have ever had on tour. It all happened in the Research Triangle in North Carolina.

It started as any other day of tour. We had just woken up from playing a show in Mt. Pleasant, SC and were slowly making our way north to a show that night in Raleigh at The Pourhouse. Since the drive was relatively short, we weren't in too much of a time crunch to load in and sound check. As we were inching closer to the Carolina border, our old friend Josh gave us a call checking on our location and ETA. Josh was and has always been a very mild mannered fellow. His roommates, however were balls to wall batshit party hooligans. He asked if we were still in South Carolina and we confirmed we were 15 miles from the border. He then asked us if we could afford to by $250 in fireworks at the last stand before NC (as they do not sell fireworks in that state). We agreed we could cover him as long as he had cash money upon our arrival. Of course, the fireworks were for his roommates.

We showed up rather early so we had a leisurely load in and sound check. We ate food and our friend Josh and his buddies finally showed up before we hit the stage. We played a great show and after grabbing the check and loading up the van, we followed Josh to his house. The rest of his party had already grabbed the fireworks and headed out soon after the show was completed. We were probably 45 minutes behind them.

This particular house was a rental that he lived in with 2 other bachelors that they referred to as the "Do What You Want Ranch". Except this wasn't a ranch. Or a farm. Hell, not even any acreage. This was just a house at the end of a cul-de-sac in a residential neighborhood.

When we pulled up, there was a fairly large gathering of folks in front of the "ranch" house. A few of them were shooting at a target stapled to a tree with a 30-06 rifle while the others were shooting MORTORS at their NEIGHBORS HOUSES. They would fire them off and watch a huge explosion happen either in the tree in their neighbor's front yard or on their front porch. For a second, we thought that this might be a bad idea and contemplated getting a motel room but ultimately decided to stay.

It only got crazier. At this point, I should mention that on our way out East on that tour, we had stopped at Colt's Aunt's house in Franklin, TN. While we were there, she ended up giving us a gasoline mini-motor bike that conveniently fit perfectly in the back of our van. We took it out on a couple of street rides, nothing compared to this night.

Between all the range firing and mortor shooting, drinking, screaming and dancing, someone had the great idea of having mini-bike time trials. IN THE HOUSE. Sure enough, we created a small track that started in the living room, weaved through a hallway into the dining room and finished in the kitchen. Quite the site of grown ass, drunken adults trying to navigate this tiny murder rocket throughout the house. The whole places reeked of gasoline and there were definitely numerous tire marks on the carpet and tile floor. Colt ended up winning the time trial.

While we were running our shortened version of Baja, others in the party were playing outdoor Olympics, throwing lit tiki torches like javelins in the ground out back while still others were firing bottle rockets in the house and out the back window at the intoxicated Olympians.

I don't know if it was all the booze or the gas fumes but everything got really hazy at that point and I woke up with quite possibly the worst headache I have had in ages. I guess that's how you know that a good time was had by all. Even though those kids don't live there anymore, I'm willing to bet that they never got their deposit back on that rental house. Excuse me, "Ranch" house.

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