The Roadie by Mr. Rich

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So I started being a roadie in the 70’s. I had knack for it.

I was really good and picking amps up. Putting amps down. Plugging shit in.

I toured with Goat Sack, Father Of The Goat, and If You Had A Goat You’d Be Here By Now.

I’m sure you’ve heard of them.



Then in 1974 my buddy said he had a gig for me doin’ shit for a band called Van Hellen.

I had never heard of them.

But the name sounded cool.


So I went on tour haulin’ shit for these cool ass dudes and it was awesome, or so I thought.


This guy David, from the band, started making these really odd requests. Ali Babba swords and cats with no hair, and then one day he told me to get him a glass of milk. I asked him where the refrigerator was and he screamed at me, “Yeeeeow!” So I ran away.

I asked some people on site if there was any milk and they said what the fuck are you talking about.

So I had to go out into a city I had never been to and find a convenience store.

I arrived at the dairy isle and was struck with a predicament. What percentage of fat did Mr. David want? Did he want non-fat, or low fat, or 2%, or whole? I didn’t know. So I went with half and half.

He was furious.

As he smashed random objects in his backstage glory-room he proceeded to tell me I was a fucking bitch and that half and half wasn’t milk. I think he was wrong.

I heard later that his fits of rage didn’t stop and that the band broke up.



After I was fired I went on to work for a band called Deaf Leopard over seas.

I had never heard of them.

But the name sounded cool.


At first they were pretty awesome, or so I thought.


One day we were in this tour bus and this guy Joe asks me for a glass of milk.

So I go to the front of the bus and look in the refrigerator.

There was non-fat and whole milk.

I yelled to the back of the bus asking which one he wanted.

At that exact moment the bus hit a bump in the road and the two quarts of milk I was holding flew from my hands and splashed into the driver’s face.

“Skabloosh!” was the sound.


We crashed and I was fine, but the drummer from the band somehow lost his arm. I am positive that this was not my fault, but for some reason the rest of the band blamed me.



Flash forward, I’m in the 90’s, and shit’s pretty sweet.

I started doin’ a gig with a band called the Stone Temple Pirates and these guys were cool.

I had never heard of them.

But the name sounded cool.


They ask me for this or for that.

All really easy stuff to find and get.

But the memory still haunted me.

Were they just like the rest?

Would they one day ask me for milk?


So one day this guy Scott, he looks pretty high at the time, comes up to me and says he needs to ask me for a really big favor.

My forehead began to sweet.

My palms clammed up.

I was so nervous.


He says,

“I need a favor from you.”


I says,

“Uh huh.”


He says,

“I need some orange juice.”


I screamed in his face and grabbed him by the arms.


I says,

“Oh Scott! You don’t know how happy you’ve made me. I’ll get you your orange juice and it will be the best you’ve ever had.”


He seemed like he was really happy as he awkwardly shifted his eyes side to side and struggled loose of my grip and I knew then, that this was where I belonged.



I found out later that he died of a drug overdose.





This story is brought to you by Sam’s Sunny Orange Juice.

“It’s the juice of your son!”