COOKIES IN MY MOUTH.

Happy New Year! I'm hoping 2011 will bring you good tidings, happy thoughts and winning lottery tickets. May all our heart's desires come true and yeah yeah. Just stay away from me and we'll be cool, alright?

I mentioned it before in one of my last blogs, but we get things. Whether it's sent through the mail or at a show, we're always gracious and humbled. It's not every day that someone hands off their treasures and goods just because you strum a guitar like a sweaty gorilla.

Now, I've blogged about some of the cool shit I've been able to swindle, but there's a whole 'nother world when it comes to what Calabrese gets. Artwork in blood, customized Calabrese Ouija Boards, etc. It's amazing and oftentimes delicious. Case in point:

A mystery box of cookies. Yeah, it's not much of a mystery when last month I was messaged, "I'm gonna send you cookies, what's your address?" and I already knew they were gonna be cookies, but my life is boring and I demand mystery. So for now, I have no idea what lies in between the confines of this red-tin-prison.

I know it's gonna be hell having to stretch four sentences into twelve paragraphs, but I'm gonna give it my all. Alas, there's a lot of pictures. That helps. Let's roll:

Well, there you go! If I was somehow still baffled, my eyes have now been opened and I see the light. The chocolate chip, gingerbread, coffee/kahlua light. In bold, attitude filled words, we're told we've just been offered a grand lump of homemade edibles.

This is from our pal, Lexy Monster, a fan and friend from the grand state of California, who knows just how to tickle us pick. Well, me pink. The bit about her letting us know that there wasn't any arsenic baked into the cookies is in reference to our uneasiness about eating unmarked food sent throught the mail. I can understand the apprehension, but at least 2/3 of Calabrese will puss out half of the time when it comes down to shoveling gamble-food into our mouths. Math whizzes, you figure that lest sentence out.

Personally, I can disregard any second thoughts when it concerns my general health, so food is a nice surprise I welcome home with open arms. I like the idea of eating food and desserts and booze made for us from our fans and friends -- it's like gathering and storing and consuming some kind of rock and roll energy from around the world. Or I just like the idea of eating cookies, anytime, anywhere. Probably that one.

Davey likes to throw Jolly Ranchers into the purchases we get from CalabreseRock.com, and when he's in one of his moods where fan-food is tainted and we're about to have our own "Selena moment," I point this out. I argue that those could be tampered with, those tiny chunks of artificially flavored nuggets (which can be easily dipped into any poison and sealed back up) and that eating someone else's food will only balance out the karma he presents. Even if it's just a single piece of wrapped up candy...if he's gonna play, he's gotta pay.

The natural order of life will be in immediate jeapordy, the universe that was once alligned will be knocked out of orbit and into complete disaster and doom. The sun will explode, planets will cease to exist, life will be obsolete. If he refuses to eat these mystery cookies, WE WILL ALL DIE.

Time to crack this bitch open:

Not gonna lie, this is horrifying. I first saw the bats, I saw the black mass of Halloween plastic-stuff smashed in there, too, and was turned off. Like, a total blast of uncertainty and moral uneasiness. For that instant where I first opened it up, it looked like a big, black mess of shit. No offense, Lexy, but you had me scared for a moment. Like I was being punked with dog crap and licorice puke. I just kinda expected to see nothin' but cookies, all up in my face, like I owed it money. But this...this was an abomination! A grab bag of nonsense and hate! Good thing I like digging through animal crap on the weekends, because I stayed the course, I heeded forth, I dug deep.

Underneath...salvation!

Yeah, upon further inspection, I was delighted and thrilled to see a bunch of toy bats to go along with my upcoming sugar intake. I really should stop jumping to conclusions.

Also, the bats are now on top of my fridge. They are members of an elite squad known as the Special Vampire Unit. These are their stories. DUM DUM.

Okay, I'm not sure what they're intended to look like, but I'm guessing and secretly hoping it's four, overworked stunt-doubles on the set of "Sean of the Dead." I initially thought, "Hey, it's Calabrese!" but soon realized there's one extra brother on hand. I wouldn't mind that scenario to be true, though, 'cause it would be awesome to have a second guitarist on stage. Bigger sound, powerful backups and someone else to berate and push around.

Also, unlike the cookies, we don't wear pocket protectors. Well, not to shows, anyway.

Oh, and top of that, these cookies are on top of another pile of cookies. They're faceless and boring, but they're still cookies, and that's alright with me. Plus, they make the previous layer of cookies all that more appealing. There's a certain ying and yang to it all. I feel like a ninja.

In the end, I'm stuffed and in a state of abdominal pain and discomfort, where the only thing I can manage is the DVD player and an extensive coma.

Thanks, Lexy. You rule.