From Our Hole to Yours

Greetings, lilies and geraniums! Pinky Tourette here. You may recognize me as the campaign manager for Sneezy Tourette’s infamous senate run in Tennessee. The public lapped up that campaign and I’ll go so far as to say we legitimately won the election, even though Sneezy’s name was removed from the ballot after the fake news pointed out that Sneezy had never set foot in the state and in fact couldn’t point out Tennessee on a map.

Or perhaps you remember me as the lawyer who mounted a massive federal lawsuit against the entire pharmaceutical industry for cravenly co-opting the term “Tourettes” for their own benefit, capitalizing on the band’s enormous fame to promote an alleged medical syndrome and subsequently peddle their own spurious treatments. Our rallying cry of “There’s no cure for Thee Tourettes!” was echoed by millions across the nation before the case was illegitimately thrown out of court by fake judges in the fake legal system after outrageously claiming my Juris Doctorate degree was invalid. My follow-up suit attesting that one JD was as good as another shockingly never gained the necessary traction to overturn the decision.

Certainly you recall my role as the ringmaster in the notorious, never-completed Tourettes movie “To Air Guitar is Human,” originally announced with Orson Welles directing before it was tragically discovered he had died decades earlier. I can now reveal that I was none other than the pseudonymous “Sinatradamus” who directed the raucous live and salacious backstage afterparty footage bootlegged on the unauthorized Tourettes autobiography “Some Velcro Morning,” released on Betamax with a now highly-collectible soundtrack on eight-track cassette.

But most egregiously you undoubtedly know me as the “Eighth Tourette,” the shadow member, the guru, the Svengali, the torch-bearer, the Brian Epstein to their Beatles, the Andrew Loog Oldham to their Stones, the Chaz Chandler to their Jimi Hendrix Experience, the Kim Fowley to their Runaways, the Malcolm McLaren to their Sex Pistols, the Don Kirshner to their Archies. It’s no exaggeration to say they wouldn’t be nearly so world-famous without my steady hand guiding their career, directing their moves, arranging their tours, strategizing their merchandizing, managing their investment portfolios, driving their van, roadying their equipment, selling their swag, serving their meals, paying their bail, polishing their boots, emptying their ashtrays, scrubbing the crusted puke from their leather catsuits.

Thee Tourettes have asked me to handle their blog, or they would have if it occurred to them, which it wouldn’t, because they’re too busy being huge rock stars. So I’ve taken it upon myself to share some delicious backstage gossip about your favorite band. I encourage you to watch this space for teasers and tidbits covering the wild highs and desperate depths of their long and illustrious career. New updates coming imminently! As soon as I manage to scrape the stubborn puke off Sneezy’s studded codpiece.