Rock 103.5 - Chicago

Rock Jocks

Sludge's Gumdrop Kingdom
6pm - 10pm
Sludge SLUDGE, THE WHOLE TRUTH AND NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH...OR WE'LL EAT OUR OWN LIVERS.
I was a cop on the beat. Southside was my domain. It was my first week on the force, and I'm not ashamed to say, I was scared. In roll call, all the cops were laughing and joking with each other. I just sat there quietly, and sharpened my pencils. Then, Frank came into my life. Frank was a 35 year veteran of the Chicago streets, and his skin looked like leather. "Hey, rookie, I'm your partner...go and get me a doughnut or I'll rip your liver out and eat it," was how he introduced himself to me. I knew I was at the beginning of a special friendship.
One night, one fateful night we heard that a 211 was in progress on lower Wacker Drive. We arrived there just a few minutes later, but saw no sign of a 211, which by the way is ferret fighting (like cock fighting, but much more entertaining). Frank went around the corner when I heard shots. I sprinted after him, and that's when I saw Frank; there were bullet holes in his liver as he lie in a pool of his own blood and sewage (the city's sewage, not his own). He pulled me close and said: "Get me a doctor, or I'll rip out your liver and eat it." Then he died.
My parents had been killed when I was very young, victims of a stampede at a Guitar Center Liquidation Sale. Frank was my only family. I loved Frank dearly. Soon after, I fell victim to the bottle. I became a disgrace. The other officers could smell the Yoohoo on my breath, and knew I had hit rock bottom. No one wanted to work with me.
One night while throwing back the Devil's drink, I overheard some men laughing about a cop who was set up, and smoked out. Even in my Yoohoo stupor, I knew they were talking about Frank! I jumped up and screamed: "Tell me what you know or I'll rip out your liver and eat it!" They squealed like stuck ferrets and told me about a Columbian gang who has been importing White-Out to the Southside. They'd been getting kids with poor penmanship hooked on the white junk. They said Frank found out about it and had been threatening to eat all of the gang's livers if they didn't pack up and re-cross the border, to Wisconsin. That's when the Columbians ordered a hit on Frank.
I became enraged. My blood was boiling. My liver ached for Frank, killed for doing the right thing. I headed for the Southside...and left my badge right there on the bar.
I arrived at the White-Out warehouse on 95th Street, thinking that those thugs in the bar set me up. I didn't care. I had no fear of death...only of severe wounding. But still I pressed on, vengence driving me. I stormed in with assult weapons in both hands, shooting repeatedly at everything that moved. My bullets riddled the Columbian White-Out gang lords. I was hysterical, screaming and laughing and shooting...it was beautiful! My bullets hit cannisters of White-Out covering the Columbians and myself with White-Out. I was being fired upon repeatedly, but didn't feel a thing. My blood mingled with the White-Out, the whole mess resembled pink colored Fluff...you know, that marshmellowy white stuff that you put on peanut butter sandwiches, that sticks to the roof of your mouth, and hey what the hell is that stuff anyway...but I digress. I kept firing upon the gangsters, shooting everyone twice just to be sure. Finally, I fell to the ground...dead...or so I thought.
It must have been days later when I awoke. I attempted to open my eyes, but they were crusted shut with White-Out. When I finally did crack the white residue off of my eyes, I began projectile vomitting. I was covered in blood and puss and White-Out (or was it Fluff?) and pigeon dung and maggot larva and raccoon puke and cockroach urine and ferret spit.
I figured that I could never fit into normal society again. I walked toward Lake Michigan and convinced myself that I had fullfilled my destiny...I had avenged Frank's death. Now I wanted to join him.
As I prepared to fall into the cold lake, I heard someone approaching. I turned, looking into the morning mist: There was a child walking toward me. He was not disgusted by my appearance. He reached into his pocket and pulled out one of those counterfeit White-Out bottles, and threw it into the lake. He looked at me with tears in his eye, his voice trembling and said: "Thanks...you sludgy piece of crap!" He then walked back into the mist and disappeared.
"I must live on!" I screamed. "I must find a place where I am accepted! A place where I can help people, and people can help me, AND WE CAN HELP EACH OTHER!!!"
I then made my way back to the police station to resume my duties. Unfortunately it HAD been several days (two weeks) since the Columbian White-Out gang lord melee and I had been dismissed (fired) from the force. I wandered the streets of Chicago going from door to door asking for employment. After the Street Wise vendors said they "weren't accepting volunteers at this time," I found myself at the base of the John Hanncock Center, an extremely large and phallic spire in the sky. "This is the place for me!" I screamed. I wandered from floor to floor when finally I arrived on the 40th. Since Stuffy Real Estate Company Inc. wasn't hiring, I wandered next door to Rock 103.5 And in a moment that can only be called Kismet (recent firing), The Rock hired me to host evenings of death metal love songs from 6PM until 10PM weekdays on their airwaves, where I can help people and people can help me, AND WE CAN HELP EACH OTHER.
That's my story and if you don't believe it I'll rip out your liver and eat it.

Sludge's Gumdrop Kingdom 6pm - 10pm
SLUDGE, THE WHOLE TRUTH AND NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH...OR WE'LL EAT OUR OWN LIVERS. I was a cop on the beat. Southside was my domain. It was my first week on the force, and I'm not ashamed to say, I was scared. In roll call, all the cops were laughing and joking with each other. I just sat there quietly, and sharpened my pencils. Then, Frank came into my life. Frank was a 35 year veteran of the Chicago streets, and his skin looked like leather. "Hey, rookie, I'm your partner...go and get me a doughnut or I'll rip your liver out and eat it," was how he introduced himself to me. I knew I was at the beginning of a special friendship. One night, one fateful night we heard that a 211 was in progress on lower Wacker Drive. We arrived there just a few minutes later, but saw no sign of a 211, which by the way is ferret fighting (like cock fighting, but much more entertaining). Frank went around the corner when I heard shots. I sprinted after him, and that's when I saw Frank; there were bullet holes in his liver as he lie in a pool of his own blood and sewage (the city's sewage, not his own). He pulled me close and said: "Get me a doctor, or I'll rip out your liver and eat it." Then he died. My parents had been killed when I was very young, victims of a stampede at a Guitar Center Liquidation Sale. Frank was my only family. I loved Frank dearly. Soon after, I fell victim to the bottle. I became a disgrace. The other officers could smell the Yoohoo on my breath, and knew I had hit rock bottom. No one wanted to work with me. One night while throwing back the Devil's drink, I overheard some men laughing about a cop who was set up, and smoked out. Even in my Yoohoo stupor, I knew they were talking about Frank! I jumped up and screamed: "Tell me what you know or I'll rip out your liver and eat it!" They squealed like stuck ferrets and told me about a Columbian gang who has been importing White-Out to the Southside. They'd been getting kids with poor penmanship hooked on the white junk. They said Frank found out about it and had been threatening to eat all of the gang's livers if they didn't pack up and re-cross the border, to Wisconsin. That's when the Columbians ordered a hit on Frank. I became enraged. My blood was boiling. My liver ached for Frank, killed for doing the right thing. I headed for the Southside...and left my badge right there on the bar. I arrived at the White-Out warehouse on 95th Street, thinking that those thugs in the bar set me up. I didn't care. I had no fear of death...only of severe wounding. But still I pressed on, vengence driving me. I stormed in with assult weapons in both hands, shooting repeatedly at everything that moved. My bullets riddled the Columbian White-Out gang lords. I was hysterical, screaming and laughing and shooting...it was beautiful! My bullets hit cannisters of White-Out covering the Columbians and myself with White-Out. I was being fired upon repeatedly, but didn't feel a thing. My blood mingled with the White-Out, the whole mess resembled pink colored Fluff...you know, that marshmellowy white stuff that you put on peanut butter sandwiches, that sticks to the roof of your mouth, and hey what the hell is that stuff anyway...but I digress. I kept firing upon the gangsters, shooting everyone twice just to be sure. Finally, I fell to the ground...dead...or so I thought. It must have been days later when I awoke. I attempted to open my eyes, but they were crusted shut with White-Out. When I finally did crack the white residue off of my eyes, I began projectile vomitting. I was covered in blood and puss and White-Out (or was it Fluff?) and pigeon dung and maggot larva and raccoon puke and cockroach urine and ferret spit. I figured that I could never fit into normal society again. I walked toward Lake Michigan and convinced myself that I had fullfilled my destiny...I had avenged Frank's death. Now I wanted to join him. As I prepared to fall into the cold lake, I heard someone approaching. I turned, looking into the morning mist: There was a child walking toward me. He was not disgusted by my appearance. He reached into his pocket and pulled out one of those counterfeit White-Out bottles, and threw it into the lake. He looked at me with tears in his eye, his voice trembling and said: "Thanks...you sludgy piece of crap!" He then walked back into the mist and disappeared. "I must live on!" I screamed. "I must find a place where I am accepted! A place where I can help people, and people can help me, AND WE CAN HELP EACH OTHER!!!" I then made my way back to the police station to resume my duties. Unfortunately it HAD been several days (two weeks) since the Columbian White-Out gang lord melee and I had been dismissed (fired) from the force. I wandered the streets of Chicago going from door to door asking for employment. After the Street Wise vendors said they "weren't accepting volunteers at this time," I found myself at the base of the John Hanncock Center, an extremely large and phallic spire in the sky. "This is the place for me!" I screamed. I wandered from floor to floor when finally I arrived on the 40th. Since Stuffy Real Estate Company Inc. wasn't hiring, I wandered next door to Rock 103.5 And in a moment that can only be called Kismet (recent firing), The Rock hired me to host evenings of death metal love songs from 6PM until 10PM weekdays on their airwaves, where I can help people and people can help me, AND WE CAN HELP EACH OTHER. That's my story and if you don't believe it I'll rip out your liver and eat it.