Cover Story \

Crude Stories: Meet the Beastie Boys

A Day in the Life of the Rudest, Loudest, Deffest, Most Obnoxious Rappers in the World

Question: Who’s your biggest influence?

Beasties: Musically, from Julio Iglesias right on over to Beethoven, with a little bit of Led Zep, the Clash, and Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young thrown in.

Question: Which TV shows have influenced you?

Beasties: Make Room for Daddy, Abbott and Costello, and The American Fisherman.

Question: And your sense of fashion?

Beasties: Eddie Murphy. He’s not a very funny man, but on the fashion and the singing end, he truly has a talent that few people have recognized.

“Excuse me guys … umm, fellows, hey … you guys?” It was just then that everyone remembered that Eloise had been there all along. “Umm, fellahs, I don’t know how to put this, but I have to … you know … take a powder, tinkle, wee-wee.”

“You have to piss?” MCA translated.

“Umm, I don’t know, ah, yes,” Eloise agreed reluctantly.

“There’s a great macrobiotic salad bar just off the next ramp, with spacious quarters for you, Eloise,” Ricky offered.

“Shut up, hippie,” Ad-Rock said.

Question: Who is Eloise?

Beasties: Eloise Ladies and Gentlemen, as she’s always referred to, is the newest member of the Beastie Boys. We had a giant birdcage built for her, which she dances in throughout the entire show. She used to dance on 42nd Street. She goes to clubs to dance and that’s where we discovered her. It’s kind of like Lana Turner getting discovered at that Hollywood soda fountain. Her breasts must be about 50 inches. Naked, she fills out the Beastie Boys roster.

Needless to say, the Boys arrived moments later at Aunt Ballsfish’s Creole Critter.

“Again? Oh, I hate Ballsfish,” protested young David Scilken.

Inside the restaurant, the Boys encountered Auntie Ballsfish herself, who proudly seated them at the finest table. “Is this your first time down South, boys?”

Everyone looked confused. “I thought this was Ottsville, Pennsylvania,” Hurricane demanded, flaunting his gold.

“Metaphorically, yes. But geographically … also yes. But here at Aunt Weezilfish, we believe in bringing the finest Southern critters to Ottsville. And bring them we do,” she added ominously. “Now what are we havin’?”

“I’ll have ten eggs.”

“I’ll have the chicken stuffed fish.”

“A bowl of steam, please.”

“Caesar salad omelette.”

“Monte Cristo Sandwich.”

“I’ll have a Metroliner — that’s scrambled eggs, American cheese, Canadian bacon, served aboard an English muffin.”

“How’s the egg salad omelette today?”

Aunt Pencilfish looked puzzled. “Why, you don’t mean a coffee omelette now, honey?”

“Yes. I certainly do.”

“Pistachio paste for me.”

“Cap’n Crunch on a bagel with cream cheese.”

“Cheese pranish.”

“Just bring me a boilermaker,” Sean demanded, rounding out the order.

Just when things seemed to be running smoothly, Aunt Bogusfish emerged from the kitchen with a pensive look. She approached Hurricane: “I’m sorry, sir, but on behalf of myself, the staff, and the whole Fish-fish family, I find myself at your most sincere mercy, for we only possess nine eggs.”

This did not sit well with Hurricane.

Question: Who is Hurricane?

Beasties: He’s our DJ and, on occasion, he doubles as our security person, because he’s 6’5″ and mean. He’s a one-man Hollis wrecking crew. His arms are twice the length of our arms, with enormous fists covered with sharp gold rings.

Question: You mean his fists are almost the size of Eloise’s breasts?

Beasties: Perhaps much larger.

Hurricane rose and grasped Aunt Barnaclefish by the collar and the seat of her pants, hoisted her high above his head, and pushed her head and then her body through the front window of the restaurant. The Boys looked on in amusement while L.L. Coolfish pleaded, “But you can’t leave, you’re the guests of honor!”

Hours later, back in the van, a hungry David Scilken questioned the turn of events. “I don’t know, Hurricane, but I think if we had just waited another five minutes they would have brought us that tenth egg.”

“Word,” Hurricane agreed.

“If you’d keep your mind on the road map instead of Hurricane’s egg, maybe we wouldn’t be TOTALLY FUCKING LOST, you total bastard!” Sean screamed, grasping Dave by the hair.

“Yo, we’re lost?” MCA said, confronting the sad truth.

“Don’t be frightened, amigos, I know this tremendous short cut to Detroit. Take your next two lefts here, and another left at the Celestial Seasonings factory.”

“Wait a minute,” Dave Scilken offered, “I’ll just ask this nice old lady on the street what town we’re in.” He then leaned out the window and yelled: “Hey, you fuckin’ bitch, I know you’re naked under all those fuckin’ clothes, I fuckin’ hate you, you bitch.”

“Why David, what a strange and peculiar analogy you’ve made,” Cushman pondered. “Are you interested in Indian basket weaving?” But before Dave could admit it had always been a passion of his, he was interrupted.

“Yo, chill out. I said I’m rolling another one right now,” Mike D misunderstood, as the van ground to a halt.

“MCA, why are you making smoke come out of the engine?” Eloise giggled.

“Yo, dudes, we’re over — the engine’s seized.” MCA declared.

“I can fix it, I’m really good with locks,” Scilken said.

Sean was now becoming enraged. “Shutup, bastards, let’s walk up to that farm up there and try to get some help. And someone wake up Cey — tell him to stay here and watch the equipment.”

The group bounded up to the rather picturesque farmhouse as the sun set on their deceased van. Sean knocked on the door while the group gathered behind him and improvised a human b-boy pyramid, in order to pass the time. A young farmgirl greeted Sean.

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