Man Vs Phone. Shameless self-promotion. It's a national pastime. What's worse than not getting called? Getting the call..of KTULU!

Of course you all must be wondering what Brick has been up to in recent months. You weren't? Well, we have to tell you anyhow. It's in our contract. Yes, we know that Tigerman's previously scheduled five cheese and meat macaroni and cheese recipe was cancelled for this brief entry. We apologize. Oh, and by the way, it was delicious. A culinary masterpiece.

Brick has recently taken a break from being the and mope and has taken his energy and converted it into a short film. Do not confuse this with a MFUJSF webisode. This is merely a standalone film about the epic struggle for man to overcome his own impatience. Just like we're impatient about ending this entry as soon as possible.

Here is the movie:

Here is your music:

Good night!

What's this, a call? I wonder who it's from?

Hello?

RAAAAAAAAAAWWWRRRR!!!!

OH No! It's KTULU... and this gag is lame. 1,000 apologies.

MFUJ's sometimes complex, sometimes deranged, but always evil manager, G Mod, stoops to an all time low (or should we say high?) of escapism: Trying to raise $65 million to leave Earth's orbit. Ground Control to Major Idiot...

Long time readers of MFUJSF's blog (or people who can briefly skim through old entries for a couple of hours and then think of themselves as long time readers) are aware by now that the manager of the band has not always made the most financially sound business decisions: He refused to reunite with his old band, Super Mario and the Koopa Troopas, when they were recently inducted into the rock and roll hall of fame; He refuses to buy value packs or bundles of anything, choosing to buy everything in individual sized packages; he paid for MFUJ drummer Shadow's books of poetry and school essays to be published despite the lack of interest from the book buying public; he decided that devoting all his time to managing a group of four musicians who no longer wanted to make any music together and playing psycho mindgames with them was a valid midlife crisis  choice.

But his latest financial blunder is sure to put the others to shame. In a recent impromptu press conference on a local flight from one end of Florida to another, he announced his quest to go to the moon. Before being tackled by the air marshal for raving on and on while running up and down the aisles, G Mod announced that he is seeking financial donations to raise the 65 million dollars it would require to go into outer space and do a spacewalk. One confused passenger slipped the misguided record producer twenty bucks before G Mod's inevitable takedown and extradition to an undisclosed interrogation room. The twenty was later confiscated as 'evidence' by a secret serv...no we're not making that joke.

Some have speculated that G Mod's desire to go to space is  a sign that he has grown weary of the semi-retired rock band that he has managed since mid 2007. Others think it is just another misstep in a career built almost exclusively on missteps. And then there are some who speculate that this blog has strange swings in mood and direction, sometimes veering off into depressing melodrama and other times into unbelievable and unrelatable screwball comedy. Well, uh, no comment? Ugh, we really need a PR person (Now hiring! No pay, but free dental insurance, if you don't mind a six foot tiger drilling your teeth.)

Will G Mod make into space? Or, more importantly, will he ever get out of the dark room that he is being interrogated in? Who knows. Enough of this bull. Time for Space Oddity   

Is it any wonder they rejected him first? Slate is confused as to why he isn't as famous as he thinks he should be.

Tired of being ignored by the Tabloid Media, Slate Man, the heavily tattooed dude with too much phony facial hair who 'sings' for the American 'rock band' MFUJ, decided to stage a press conference with the very media elites that he felt were ignoring him. The following is a transcript of that heavily rehearsed rant.

Slate: "Ladies....and gentlemen of the so-called 'press', I have called you together to discuss a most egregious event. No, it's not Kony 2012. No, it's not Trayvon either. And it is definitely not UFOs *hums the X-Files Theme for an obnoxious amount of time*. No, the big story I want to discuss is....well, the media's complete and utter lack of coverage of...ME!"

Journalist  1: "Who are you?"

Slate: *stumbles* "What? How can you say that?! You showed up here and you don't even know who I am?"

Journalist 1: "I received an envelope with a hundred dollars and a note telling me to show up here."

Journalist 2: "Yeah, I got that too."

Journalist 3: "I didn't get any money. I wanted to come here."

Slate: "Thank you. So you know who I am."

Journalist 3: "Yeah, you're Slate Man, frontman of the band Mike's Fg'd up Journey...."

Slate: "Thank you..."

Journalist 3: "...and the worst rock singer of the last 20 years. I wanted to tell you that in person."

Slate: "...for that. Ok. So we've established who I am, minus the commentary from Jealous McGee over here. I am a rock and roll frontman from a band that has the F-word in the name.  How am I not on the cover of Rolling Stone Magazine?"

Journalist 1: "Because you're not newsworthy?"

Journalist 2: "There are more important stories out there?"

Journalist 3: "You have yet to release a song that doesn't make one want to impale their own ear drums with needles?"

Slate: "WTF! What the hell does it take to get your attention? Do I need to wear a suit made of meat? I tried that in 2007 but Tigerman kept eating the sleeves before I could leave the house. Do I have to crash an awards ceremony and interrupt some else's speech? Well, I tried to do that at 2009 MTV Music Awards but security put me in a headlock and kicked me halfway across the country. Do I have to make a sex tape? Well, I tried, but I couldn't get the camera to stay in focus...

Journalist 3: "And?"

Slate: *Reluctantly* "...and I couldn't find a woman who found me attractive."

*The journalists snicker relentlessly, hissing like snakes, giggling like coyotes.*

Slate: "Hey! That's not funny! I'm a ****ing Rock star! I demand to be given the recognition I deserve!"

 Days later an article was printed across several prominent rock periodicals with the title: "Slate Man: Rock's Least Sexy Frontman."