And sometimes smelly ones. It’s around 3:00 AM—and I say “around” because George (who is proving to be quite the technophobe) threw my nice new Tag Heuer watch onto the floor of the van, then jammed the broken shards inside his own ears, sans explanation, so I’m going by the position of the moon—and the lads are asleep, which, for me, is a blessing and a curse. The blessing part: The threats of bodily harm and taunting about my alleged “tiny mortal John Thomas” have come to a temporary halt. The curse part: You ever been stuck in a van with three sleeping Zombies? I didn’t think so. When they’re awake, their undead reek—a combination of rancid forcemeat with a spicy hint of burnt thyme—is bad enough. But John, Paul, and George snore, and their breath could peel paint, so add that all together, and you’ve got one writer who would gladly cut his nose off, and believe you me, my face wouldn’t mind being spited. (Oh, Christ. Without waking up—without even stirring, for that matter—John just belched out a gray cloud that briefly came to life, and then he hocked a steaming green loogie onto my leg, and then he tried to eat my pen.
