Dear The Warcocks
No, no, no.
I cannot allow this. You may not be The Warcocks. I don’t know whose idea this was–my instincts say it was Sean Briskey–but it was a bad idea and its execution was a mistake. I am waving the black flag; I am issuing a red card; I am handing your band’s name its pink slip.
What does it even mean? Cocks are not for war: they are for love, or peeing, or idly playing with, or hanging towels from. Do not make war with your cocks, Warcocks. How would you even do it? Would you just get a boner and run at people? That’s not war. I don’t know what it is, but don’t do it to people. Especially you, Briskey.
Cockfighting–I hope we can all agree–is not the referent of your name. There are strange and obscure links between the Dead and damn near everything else on the planet, but not cockfighting. (And if there is, I don’t want to hear it.) The thought of a Dead-related musical project having anything to do with the vile activity beggars belief. Plus, it’s been two years since Sean Briskey was acquitted on charges of running that cockfighting ring, and he swears he isn’t doing it anymore.
I cannot understand your name, The Warcocks, and disapprove of it. Please change it forthwith and henceforth, or I shall be forced to start a petition on Change.org and attempt to sic the Beyhive on you.
Thoughts on the Dead, DDS