The Little Story of Lars


I’m Lars. I’m Danish and I don’t want to do my homework. I just want to play drums, but my mom took my drums away. I’m trying to grow my mullet long enough to cover my Calista-Flockhartish biceps.


At one time, I kinda rocked (totally rocked; see “And Justice for All” -Taguchi). I had great hair and my drumset was freakin’ huuuuuuge. I like spandex because my groupies dig male camel toe. Sometimes my hemorrohids flare up when I’m drumming and I screech like a little teapot.

Then Bob Rock got a hold of us and we put out the piece of shit known as “The Black Album.” I forgot how to drum, and all I can do is play 2 and 4. I went crazy and made this face for several years.


Then this little college punk came along, stole our music, and made it free for the taking on the internet. I hate him. Your honor, I am now a grade-A douchebag.


Right now I’m shopping for the perfect van to complement my child-molester look. I’ve been loading up on Tootsie rolls, too. I hear the kids really like them.


We heard Newsted was making music behind our backs. We had to kick him out, and I’m very sad, because Trujillo’s constipated-gorilla walk really creeps me out.

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