I don’t know if any of you have known any drummers but this shit right here is why every band that has ever existed (except for our protagonists and one other) doesn’t let the drummer vote. If you don’t keep a sharp eye on percussionists, the amount of timbales, congas, and other hollowed out fruit/skull/animal skin combinations in your life will multiply like Tribbles on Molly.
And, obviously, the other drummer allowed a vote is Neil Peart. Which has–INEXORABLY–led to this:
Drummers cannot be reasoned with. They exist solely to play when you don’t want them to, disappear when you need them, collect noisy things, and have too much sex. They understand only the lash, and in most cases, request the lash, please and thank you.
IF YOU SEE A DRUMMER: Do not under any circumstances let him or her name the drum solo. Once a drum solo gets a name, it immediately accesses the Dungeon Dimensions and becomes NIGH-UPON UNSTOPPABLE and goes for thirty fucking minutes and it’s unbearable.
The Drummer (if male) will almost certainly remove his shirt. Do not be alarmed: DRUMMERS HATE SHIRTS. Almost as much as they hate books, but let’s be reasonable: no one hates anything as much as a drummer hates a book. If you see a drummer reading, just run. Something awful is happening.