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Patrick Melcher (not feltcher) Interview

By on September 3, 2012

Hi Patty! Can I call you that?

You can call me Patty if you like. My mom calls me that. It has a playfulness to it, with a side order of historical shadiness. Do you know where the term ‘paddy wagon’ came from? That’s right: Drunk Irish immigrants were, and still are sometimes, called paddies. And as the Irish immigration was in it’s throes, in the mid-1800s, Americans just weren’t prepared for a class people so rowdy and constantly drunk and belligerent. They had to invent wagons to haul them all off to the drunk tanks, night after night.


You getting fucked up today?

If I go skating today, chances are I’ll come home sore, bruised, battered, and scarred, so yes. If you mean, “Am I getting wasted tonight with my friends while out on the dance floor with some chick’s panties draped around my head and falling over myself in a drunken stupor then breaking 33.3 percent of the glasses in the place while mindlessly groping every semi-attractive bimbo in sight, only to get escorted out by security, when I will stupidly attempt to engage in a fist-fight with one, or all three, of the bouncers, who will proceed to pound me into the ground over and over again, getting pissed off at my friends yelling ‘you didn’t even have my back,’ blacking out, only to subsequently wake up bleeding in the bushes in some part of town that I’ve never been in, covered in my own urine, having lost my passport, ID, cellphone, and all my money, to finally make my way back home and find out that I’ve burned bridges, alienated my friends, been fired from half of my sponsors, and tried to make-out with my own sister?” If that’s what you mean, then no. No, I don’t think I’ll be partaking in the festivities this evening.


If there was an Asian girl who’s hitting on you in the Dominion Bar in Ottawa, and her boyfriend (blond streaks in his hair and Tasmanian devil stickers on his car and all that gay shit) comes up to you for a fight, you got a frozen cucumber and a saxophone on you — what would you do?

I believe that this is, in many ways, a loaded question. 1. It hinges on the predetermination that I prize Asian girls as some sort of commodity in the sphere of hooking up and/or dating, which I do not. 2. What in the world am I doing in Ottawa, Canada? This section of the question poses a few problems; If I am there, why am I in a bar? And is this “Dominion Bar” some sort of jock-orange-county replica, because … (bringing me to #3) 3. Why am I hanging out in a scene where blonde-streaked Tazzy fans are? 4. Weapons! This part of the question is what I will consider the most accurate and plausible of the four parts. I’m assuming the cucumber was part of some slight-of-hand trick that I was pulling on a local supermarket and I don’t have it in plain view, because you never show off the goods once you’ve obtained them. So, I am to assume that this dude-meister is drunk and, luckily, I do not drink. Having the advantage of a clear-mindedness, I pull out said vegetable as the fag is swinging at me, and insert my weapon into the Asian chick nearby. I then hoist her up and spin her around in a super-speedy manner, because it is well known that, although usually scrawny and lacking muscle mass, Asian females do deflect jock punches much better than Caucasians. While baffled, I slam the jock’s drink into his own face, wherein he will cry tears of blood as I stroll away to the theme “Another One Bites the Dust” on my rad saxophone which hangs, unscathed, around my neck.

We hear you got dagger cock: thin and long and just hurts, no pleasure — Shawna Olsten told me. Is this true?

I think you’re thinking of Mary-Kate Olsen. Yeah, that makes more sense. She must have told you about the time I … Never mind, she will sue me if I tell.

What’s the most fucked up shit in your life that you have ever seen?

Ok, so where I grew up in Rockford, Illinois, there was a building in our small downtown area which was long reputed by the local kids to be a brothel of some sort. Nobody ever took the time to research this fact … but on Halloween night, 1992, myself and several Rockford teenagers decided to go trick-or-treating at the door. We waited for a good five minutes with no answer, but then just as we were about to leave, the door slowly creaks open to reveal what must have been the biggest man-on-man orgy my eyes have ever witnessed. Mind you, I was just a little kid so seeing this was a bit off-putting to say the least. I mean, imagine Eyes Wide Shut, but all men. I believe that if I were to see that now, man on man on man, it wouldn’t really turn my stomach and send me into a coma while having vertigo and retreating into my hole in the sand not to return for three years. I think I might just puke and run now.

Do you like getting naked with your family?

I was born naked, bro.


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