DEUS REGINUS INSPIRATI

I was once painting a house and came across a closet with a box full of old t-shirts. The owner of the house passed the shirts around my crew, saying "here, have some free t-shirts for painting." I found a wikkid one that had this logo on it:



I was like, "D.R.I.! Cool! They must be some local punk band...like, one of their brothers must have made them this shirt or sumthin."

Of course, I was wrong. D.R.I. were the Dirty Rotten Imbiciles, an early 80's hardcore band from Houston who are apaprently pretty shit kickin. I came across a compendium double-disc of all their best stuff in the new releases section at my old radio station one day, and lo and behold, a glowing orb floated out from behind the shelf, hovered in front of me, and a buttn popped out of it that said "Hyperdrive, Please Press."

I got really scared, so I listened to two tracks and put the CD away. I declined to go on to the next level, on account of the button experience, but I dug "Commuter Man" and other fine, short songs from when hardcore was probably way better than it is now (I wouldn't really know, since I wasn;t quite born yet.)

But I swear, the band's magical aura continues to effect my life. God sends messages to the True Believers through my shirt. Everywhere I go with it, people throw endless accolades my way. I now know what the Virgin Mary feels like when her eyes bleed.

There are many who are not so perceptive to the prophetic image on my shirt. They continually ask me, "Stevos, what does that shirt mean? Does it say "dry", and if so, why?" But there are a few who know exactly what must be said, but it took me a while to figure them out...

For instance:

I walked out of a grocery store once, and this punk bum begging on the street sees the shirt. He says, "Dude, nice fuckin shirt!" and gives me a look that says, "It's ok, you don't have to give me change. You're wearing a D.R.I. shirt, that's good enough."

Another time, I was at a drum n bass show at The Gypsy Co-Op, and some gorgeous, tall girl the likes of which hadn't even spoken to me since high school said, "Dude, do you listen to D.R.I.?"

I was gonna give her the whole spiel, but instead I decided for simplicity's sake, all I would say is a non-committal "yes."

"True punk rock fans do exist!" she said. Sure! I'll go with that!

But the moment of realization came when I was walking through my old man's neighbourhood, a nice, upscale residential area full of families and yuppies who start families, dig? This rich surfer cat in his VW sedan, windsurfing board on the roof and a golden retriever hangin out the window, drives by and hollers, rock n' roll fist in the air, "Fuckin D.R.I., man!"

Either my shirt is holy, or these people are my angels. But God does use the shirt to bring about demons. I saw one once. It was a strange experience, and I can't remember where I was or what I was doing, but I remember the bearded fellow and his diabolic words:

"D.R.I.? Who listens to those guys anymore?"

I was about to throw it in his face. But I'm one of the chosen, faithful few. I turn the other cheek, man.

Fuckin short hairs, man!

D.R.I. - Commuter Man
D.R.I. - I Don't Need Society
D.R.I. - Violent Pacification

Fuckin long hairs, man!