The Triumphant Return of Bad Sandwich Chronicles

Whoa. That was a crazy couple of years, huh? Hi everybody, and welcome (or welcome back) to Bad Sandwich Chronicles. Back in the aughts, which you may remember as the much simpler time when websites were actually a thing, before the proliferation of Twitter (and that giant guy with the huge dick that people keep sneaking into news links in your text messages), Bad Sandwich Chronicles was my semi-popular, sometimes not unreadable blog, which had hundreds of entries (find them here), but then the world turned. I joined Twitter and got lazy, and alas, my beloved blog fell by the wayside. Now, with the impending apocalypse looming above us like so many rotted coconuts dangling precariously from atop the palm we’re all trying to nap away reality beneath, BSC is back! Apocalypse style! And what’s more: it’s in a handy newsletter that comes right to your inbox courtesy of Substack. 

What’s that? You have no idea who I am, what you’re reading or why you should care? Well, strap in, Cochese, because that’s exactly what I was just about to expound upon. 

I’m Brendan. I’m probably best known as the more abrasive guy from the Lawrence Arms, but I’m also on Twitter as @badsandwich and, more (or less, depending) interestingly, I’m the guy who does @Nihilist_Arby’s which, for those of you who don’t know, is a parody of corporate Twitter that is intentionally kinda stupid but which has enjoyed a level of success that nothing I actually care about ever could. But alas. Such is life in plague, beyond the thunderdome, here amongst the skulls and wild dogs, amirite? 

Beyond all that shit, I used to write for the Onion, I currently write for Hard Times, I’ve worked in advertising and I play in a band called the Falcon and another called the Wandering Birds (and the Lawrence Arms are about to put out a new record, so look out for that). I have a wife, two kids and 2 ancient Chihuahuas and a piece of shit old house. I’ve toured all over the goddamned world, and I’ve also been a stay at home dad. I’ve been audited by the IRS, I’ve been made fun of to my face by Little Richard…what else? I don’t know. That should be enough for you to get a fairly good idea of who I am. Oh, my son just googled me and according to the internet I’m worth $91 million dollars, but one of the toilets in my house won’t flush anything but liquid and I can’t afford to replace our shitty couch, so I’d say that the rumors of my wealth…exaggerated, to put it mildly. Also, I’m home quarantined just like all of y’all, and stuck with my various Kellys. My kids are 9/11 (Bush did them) and my wife is 14 (She’s also my aunt. I’m from Missouri, originally). Anyway. Enough balderdash and shenanigan (as my hillbilly and Irish roots compel me to say) let’s get to the newsletter…

What does Bad Sandwich Chronicles Beyond Thunderdome have to offer? Well, uh…listen, I know about some stuff. I like to write about parenting, music, drugs, booze, proper rules of etiquette, dick jokes, being trapped in a house with your family, the music industry (as hopefully understood to be a different topic than music), the ghoulish specter of marketing in our corporate feudal cyberstate, light politics (veering into heavy politics as long as we can keep it completely full of name calling), pornography, fuckin, kids sayin the darnedest things, and a lot more. Also, I do advice, and when I used to do it, I actually got a lot of feedback that the advice was good. So if you’ve got a problem with your dick or your tits or your parents or your relationship or your awesome coke habit, hit me up. I’ll shepherd you towards the eternal shores you’ve been trying to navigate your way toward. 

I’m gonna run down the numbers and shit real quick here. As you all know, in the midst of this global pandemic, I can’t tour and therefore can’t make any money. I’m WELL aware that lots of people….people in the service industry, people with compromised systems, people who deliver things, actors, office workers in shitty offices, fast food workers, etc. are all also pinched like a motherfucker right now. SO, I’m offering this up for free, but with the understanding that every other one is for paying subscribers. If you don’t have the money to spare or just don’t feel like paying, I still want you here on team BSC (beyond Thunderdome), but if you have the scratch, you’re gonna get literally double the entries that the freeloaders get. 

I priced this out at $6.66 a month or $60.00 for the year. According to actor Troy McClure, it’s a steal at twice the price, so hit the subscribe button and if you’re so inclined (you should be…I’m not actually worth $91 million….in fact, I regret bringing that ridiculous number up, suddenly, here in the part where I’m trying to appeal to y’all by pretending to be a real human). 

To be clear (and this is all true), I’m about a month away from literally living in my car with my family and we’re all infected and we’re gonna drive to your house if you don’t do the pay subscription. SOoooo you do you, but know that it’s a quick slide from just paying $6.66 a month to being the next zombie packed in my car to go to the next house of the next person who was too good for the pay tier so we can infect them. It’s gonna be like a clown car where no one can breathe….so It’s gonna be exactly like a clown car, I guess. But probably with less drug addicts inside. 

ANYWAY! That’s kinda my rap. You should subscribe. But if you want a taste of how this shit will go post-intro edition, I got you. I’m gonna tell you what your beer says about you. Ready? Cool. Here’s a taste of what’s in store.

What your beer says about you:

Bud Lite: I have NO taste. Blues Traveler is pretty good, right? I mean, who doesn’t like the blues? Especially when there are white guys wearing turquoise rings at the helm!

Miller Lite: I’m either A) someone who erroneously thinks this is somehow a diet beer or B) a true blue alcoholic that’s “not drinking at all” today

High Life: A nearly unimpeachable choice. Interestingly, it’s only good if served in a bottle and it’s ice cold. If you order a High Life can or (god forbid) draft, I assume you have kids buried behind your drywall or an underaged girlfriend that you’re also blood related to. I love High Life. 

Bud: This is a beer. Not good. Not bad. Just a beer. If you order a Bud, you’re not bumming out anyone except potentially dicks who talk about ABU and IBU and shit like that and honestly, that’s fine. Fuck those guys. I don’t care who you are, Bud is literally the best beer you can order in terms of perception. Anyone who has a problem, you turn to em and go “hey, fuck you dork” and problem solved. 

Some dingusy IPA: yeah. Fuck you guys. Beer used to be what we used to get AWAY from this kinda nerd shit, man. Drink it or don’t. Also, every one of these is called, like “Spaceboy Steve’s Pervy Caramel Adventure” or “Napalm Breath” or something. Yes. You’re very clever, makers of terrible beer that tastes like a bird shit into it before the whimsical cap got put in place. Just…this is not for me. Nor should it be for anyone else who’s remotely non-lame.

Sierra Nevada Pale Ale: You’ve done it! You’ve managed to find a beer that literally EVERYONE! From the Bud guy to the IPA guy thinks is a wack-ass waste of time. Way to use just the tiniest bit of pretend taste. Drinking Sierra Nevada Pale Ale is the equivalent of being like “nah, DMB is too wack for me. I’m into shit like Rusted Root.”

Guinness: Nice hat. Any chance you’re bald under there? 

Coors Light: for the thirsty and the racist. I don’t know what’s up with this beer, but yowza if it doesn’t practically sweat N-bombs right through the can. However, I know a LOT of very fine people (on both sides!) who swear that a good Silver Bullet is the best chugging beer on a hot day. They ain’t wrong, but it’s a LITTLE like saying the Hitler is the best low maintenance mustache. Lo mein? 

Any Kolsch: Learn a thing or two on that trip backpacking across Europe on your gap year? Cooool. Maybe you can break out your acoustic guitar and play me a little You’re Beautiful by James Blunt next, Johan. 

Corona: Eh…it’s fne. Tastes like pee but whatever. A Corona is a bad beer, but it’s also a test of your friends. If someone is making fun of you for drinking Corona, that’s about them, not about you. You have a horribly insecure dildo of a friend. Who cares about Corona either way? It’s FINE. Drinking Corona is literally like vacationing in Mexico…if you’re fucking with me about it, it’s your problem, not mine. 

Michelob Ultra: Wow. If you’re stupid enough to incorporate beer into your health regimen, I’ve got some amazing news for you about cocaine and improving heart strength.

Newcastle: Oh gimme a break. What, did your dad grow up in northern England scrubbing the nuclear black sooted cooling towers or something, and this is your homage to him? ‘fuck outa here. This is essentially a training Guinness for the pre-fat and pre-bald. 

Stella: Ah, finally…the literally worst beer at the highest price point in this corner shop. I mean, there are shitty beers out there (Milwaukee’s Best), and there are expensive beers out there (some Belgian shit that tastes like you’re drinking Shane MacGowan’s Sunday morning barf after he ate a bunch of candles) but no beer so perfectly illustrates the complete lack of taste of the drinker as Stella….At once overpriced, disgustingly flavored and produced in a non-pop top (gimme a fucking break, Stella) greenbottle that guarantees skunkiness, Stella is truly the dumbest fucking beer on earth. I would like to eat its children.

Okay. That’s all. I hope you’ve all enjoyed the triumphant return of Bad Sandwich Chronicles. Don’t forget to subscribe and please tell your friends. I’ll be doing a lot of these and I’d love to have yall along for the ride.