butjulianimalittleyoungerthanyou:

“it’s okay dave, people still care about you”, says pat smear, attempting to cheer up his bandmate.

“no it’s not,” retorted dave, “just because fucking mick jagger is here everybody is just going to forget who i am! you know what, fuck off pat.”

pat smear thought it would be best to leave dave alone in his time of sorrow.

dave hopped off the couch and washed his face off briefly with water and glanced in the mirror.

he removed his iphone from his pocket and slowly typed “fuk every budie”.

It was a long day at 606 Studios.  The Foo Fighters had taken some time away from their world tour to record a few demos with Butch Vig for a new project.

Taylor sat behind his drum set panting.  Sweat trickled down his shirtless back as he waited for his queue for yet another take. 

“God damn, Taylor” Dave muttered under his breath as he sat in the control booth.

“Sorry! I broke a drum stick” Taylor screamed.  No one in the control room could hear him.  Dave had shut off his mic.

“What are we going to do?” Butch quizzed Dave.

“The only thing I know how to do” Dave answered ominously.

- - - - - - - - - -

A few days passed and Taylor hadn’t heard from Dave, or any of the Foo Fighters about their demos.  He looked at the unanswered message to Dave and decided to get some answers.

“NATHAN TAYLOR’S ON THE PHONE!” a woman screamed into Taylor’s ear.

“Hey Tay, what’s up?” Nathan asked.  His voice trembled.  He knew what this was about.

“What’s goin’ on with these demos man?  Should I come down there?”

“NO DON’T COME DOWN HERE!” Taylor heard Dave scream.

“Oh my god is that Dave?  What’s going on?  Nate, tell me what’s going on?”

Nate shook under the pressure he was put under.  The air became thick and he looked to Dave, who had his hand curled into a fish threatening a punch, then back to the phone.

“Hello?  Nate?” Taylor yelled.

“DAVE IS REDOING ALL OF YOUR DRUM TRACKS!” Nate screamed before running from the room.

Taylor was dumb founded.  He felt a pang of sadness pierce his chest.  His best friend, nay, his brother had betrayed him.  The tears welled in his eyes and spilled down his face, much like he spilled down the stairs of their private jet.

“Is it true?” Taylor sniffed.

“Taylor.  I like you.  I still want you to be in the band, but I know what the rudimentary parts of a song should lie.  That’s just a fancy way of saying I kn-“

“ENOUGH!” Taylor screamed.  “You think I’m the worst drummer in the world don’t you?”

“This just isn’t gel-“

“STOP IT DAVE YOU’RE KILLING ME!” Taylor screeched before hanging up the phone.

He ran from his garage, tripping over hi-hats and hitting his knee on a snare drum.

“THAT FUCKING SNARE HIT” he bellowed.

He ran to the bathroom and cried over the sink.  “He hates me” he sobbed.  He looked at his red face in the mirror.

“I’m so ugly!  I’m the worst drummer in the world!” he screamed pulling at his hair.

He rummaged through the drawers under the sink.  Grabbing a pair of dull scissors he made the first cut through his blonde locks.

*snip snip*

“I should’ve known that it would end this way…” he sang as the hair fell around his feet and the colors changed in the valley skies.

“An album made in a garage, entirely to analog tape, with no help from computers, can be nominated for Album of the Year,” Dave lectured to his bandmates who were all staring at the floor in his garage.

Dave got right up close to Nate’s face, “Say it!” he hissed at his bass player.

Nate hesitated then spoke quietly, full of resentment, “You were right.”

“Yes,” said Dave, very satisfied with himself. “Yes, I am right, aren’t I?”

The Foos continued to gaze at the floor.

“AREN’T I???” Dave repeated himself, looking at everyone.

“Yes, Dave” the band mumbled in unison.

Dave got up in Taylor’s face this time and scolded him, “I’m always right!  I was in Nirvana!  You wanted to ProTools the record!  Well guess who got us the Grammy nominations?!”

Tears welled up in Taylor’s eyes as he sobbingly whispered, “I just wanted it to be perfect.”

“It was perfect, no thanks to your missed cues and broken drumsticks.”

Taylor buried is face in his hands as he thought of himself being the worst drummer in the world.

Dave continued, “We got those Grammy nominations because I am a coffee-fueled genius who was in Nirvana.  Coffee fueled me to be genius enough to make an album with John Paul Jones and Joshua Homme.  It fueled me to play the role of Satan twice!”

Pat thought about how sick he was of all this and considered quitting the band again, but he could not stand the thought of the Foos winning more Grammys without him.

“That’s why we’re going to do it again,” said Dave.

He looked out onto his driveway as he picked up the garage door remote.

“Take a good look at this street boys.  ’Cause it’s the last you’ll see it for a long, long time.”

And with that, Dave clicked the remote button.

The rest of the band stared out at their last glimpse of the outside world, tears falling silently down their cheeks as the sound of a new fresh pot bubbled behind them.  The colors changed in the valley skies one last time and the garage door completely shut.

It’s Christmas morning and Dave Grohl’s daughters, Violet and Harper, run into their mother and father’s bedroom, shaking them to wake up and see what Santa brought them.

Dave is angry and screaming for a fresh pot. The only way he will get up is if someone brings him coffee.

Violet and Harper quickly make a fresh pot and bring it to him. Dave is now in a happy mood and agrees to go into the garage, where their Christmas tree is, and open presents.

As the girls are running around the Christmas trees searching for their presents, Violet finds a large one with her name on it. She quickly opens the present to find a new computer. 

Dave is furious. He turns to his wife Jordyn. “Did you get her this?” he hisses.

Jordyn looks afraid and whispers with her head down, “I — I — Yes, Dave, I did. I’m so sorry.”

“BUT WE’RE A GARAGE FAMILY!” Dave grabs the computer from Violet’s hands and pours his fresh pot all over it and storms out of the garage. Nothing will be able to calm him down now. 

Jordyn finds him within a few minutes with a clear produce bag in her hand and small wrapped present. “I know now how serious you’re hatred of computers it — I will never buy one again. Will you forgive me?” Her eyes are big of sorrow. Dave stares at her with a blank face. 

She continues speaking and passes the bag and present to Dave. “Look, I got you kiwis and a punk rock album.”

Dave’s eyes light up with happiness and joy. He takes the kiwis and CD from Jordyn and runs around the house screaming with ecstaticness. 

He’s back in the garage and the CD is playing and everyone is eating kiwis. All is forgotten of the computer incident and the family has a very Grohl Christmas.

Dave walked down the hallway of a California High School.  He was getting strange looks because he was 42 and back in school.  

“When I get a degree I will make a bigger salary” Dave sung to himself and paid no one any mind.

Just then he saw a teenaged girl wearing a Nirvana shirt.  He smiled and approached her.

“Oh my god! Hi! You like Nirvana?” he shouted.

“Yeah I love them!” she beamed.

“What’s your favorite song?” Dave asked.

“Smells Like Te-“

“Ugh. Nope. Stop” Dave said and pushed her into a locker.

Part 1

Part 2 below

Taylor lay on the stage with a salty puddle of tears gathered around his head as he quietly sang “On the Mend” to himself.

The echos of Dave’s panicked whispered and panicked voice rang through his head as Taylor imagined the worst sort of things happening to his #1 bro.

What if the kidnapper is forcing him to use a computer or making him record in a normal, non-garage studio… OR DEPRIVING HIM OF FRESH POTS??? Taylor thought.  If he weren’t already fallen down, he would fall down again.

“Are you just going to take this lying down?!” Chris said.

Taylor turned his head and looked at him.  He couldn’t tell if it was tears or hot sauce building up in Chris’ eyes, but he brought himself to his feeble drummer feet and shouted with Foo Fight, “No!  I will never take it lying down!”

“Good!” shouted Chris as he tried not to innuendo-ize what Taylor had just said.  ”Let’s go find Dave!”

“Okay, Political Guy!” shouted Taylor, jumping in the air.

Nate and Pat were too buys arguing over Pat’s ringtone to notice any of this and remained on the stage while Chris wheeled Taylor in his wheelchair into the backstage area and out of the venue.

Chris ran down the street wheeling Taylor as fast as he could.  The boxing athlete eventually ran out of breath and had to stop for a rest.

“No!  You can’t give up now!” wailed Taylor.

“I can’t go on, Taylor!” wheezed Chris.  ”I’m only human!”

Just then a white limousine with the FF symbol on the side pulled up beside them.  The vehicle’s windows opened as smoke billowed out of them.

Chris and Taylor gaped in awe at the potential debauchery that may have been occurring inside of the limo.

Nate’s headbanded head appeared in the window and motioned for the drummer and lead guitarist to board the vehicle.

Chris threw his drummer into the backseat as he threw the wheelchair into the trunk.

The white limo zoomed down Hollywood Boulevard or whatever is a famous street in which this story is supposedly taking place.  Flying over speed bumps, sailing through the air, perfectly nauseating the intoxicated band members aboard its mighty body.

“Who’s driving?” said Pat.

Everyone in the limo fell silent.

Just then the limo pulled into what seemed to be an abandoned warehouse.

“Ew,” Nate said, looking out of the window.

They all looked out and saw piles of empty KFC buckets all over the floor.

“Do you guys not even check to see who limo drivers are anymore?” said Chris, ready to box at anything that looked like it might have hot sauce.

“I just assumed it was Lemmy,” said Nate.  ”He’s owed me a few favors since hitting me with this limo a few months ago.”

Just then the driver-passenger separator lowered and revealed a total stranger in the driver’s seat.

“I’ve been wondering when the rest of you would show up,” the stranger said, turning around, revealing his face.

“Who the hell are you?” said Pat.

“IT’S HIM!  THE KIDNAPPER!” Taylor screamed.

The band members all threw their arms around one another as they collectively gasped in unison.

“Locked guitar case guy,” whispered Nate.

“Hello, Taylor and Nate,” said the kidnapper.  ”Long time, no audition.”

“I’m the worst drummer in the world…lol” Taylor playfully updated his facebook status. He chuckled at himself and went to his garage to record some demos for the new Taylor Hawkins and the Coattail Riders album.

He returned from drumming later that afternoon to see the status had one ‘like’.

It was from Dave.

Taylor slowly closed his laptop as a single tear rolled down his cheek.

lifewasted:

Dave reached for Taylor’s container of drum sticks and began bending them so that they would break whenever he tried to record a drum track. He knew this meant the album would get done slower, but he relished the look of frustration and disappointment on Taylor’s face every time he cried out, “Sorry, I broke a drum stick!” Besides, if need be, he could just do the drum parts himself.

I was in Nirvana, Dave thought, bending the final drum stick and placing it back.

lifewasted:

Christopher excitedly ran into the Foo Fighters rehearsal space with tears and hot sauce soaking his cheeks. 

“Dave, I have an idea!”

“That’s great Chris, just really quick, raise your hand if you were in Nirvana?”

Dave raised his arm and Pat raised his index finger from the couch, because he’s lazy and doesn’t give a fuck. He decided that in five minutes he would quit the Foo Fighters, because he was just so sick of it. Say hello to your Franz, he thought.

Nate silently judged the people that were about Kurt, and Taylor fell for some reason.

Satisfied with the response, Dave turned back to Christopher.

“Now Chris, you were saying?”

“… nothing.”

Chris wandered back to his bag of tacos.

sssquidney:

Dave sat down ready to write a new song.

His brain filled up with thoughts, but none of them good enough.

At that moment, Chris walked in, holding a box of oreos. He walked over to Dave.

“Hey, Dave!”

“Chris, help me write a new song” Dave pleaded.

“I can’t write good songs, you know that. C’mon, you can do it, man, you’re the best!”

Dave nodded and got back to his paper as Chris walked away to go find milk for his oreos.

“The best..” Dave though.

Those words stuck to his brain.

He started writing “the best” down on his paper about 20 times.

Then it hit him.

“THE BEST” Dave yelled.

“The best, the best, the best, the best, the best, the best, the best, the best” Dave mumbled to himself.

“The Best” he thought proudly, and continued writing.