TMS Investigates: Who Pooped in Vinnie Vincent's Tub?

November 16, 2018 | Comments (0) | by Governor X

Earlier this year, mad with power and Apple Music, I listened to the entire KISS catalog.  I’d always liked a few songs, but never bothered to listen to the bulk of their music, but with easy access, it was finally time.  This delighted fellow TMS bartender Chaim Witz, a lifetime member of the KISS Army, who assigned me Vinnie Vincent’s Ankh Warrior as my KISS character.  Little did he know that when I unveiled my KISS album rankings, the Vinnie Vincent era would be near the top of the list (perhaps a bit too high upon further review, but that’s another story).

Maybe you know the bizarre story of post-KISS Vinnie or maybe you don’t.  Rolling Stone had a pretty thorough article on it here, but the TLDR version is he moved to Tennessee, became a recluse, kept dead dogs in storage bins, and periodically scammed some fans.  The most shocking development was yet to come though.  As first reported by @KISSman onTwitter, someone had pooped in Vinnie’s tub:

What kind of a monster would do such a thing?  My first thought was fellow TMS bartender Jake the Terrible Cubs Fan, a known KISS hater and all around reprobate, but he assured me that since it would involve entering the state of Tennessee, it wasn’t him.  It made sense.  I had to investigate though.  This aggression would not stand.  Vinnie himself is apparently so terrified he only recently reemerged and now lives in permanent disguise as Ann Wilson from Heart 

Since the poop  in question occurred in Tennessee, I first reached out to my good friend Dolly Parton, who also happens to be the biggest gossip in the state.  Dolly and I go back years and now that Kenny Rogers is dead, I’m one of only three living people that have seen her without a wig.  She said she wasn’t aware of the offending turd, but suggested I get my butt over to Tennessee if I wanted any answers:  “Governor X, you won’t know a lick of a spit on a tick or some other southernism about this if’in you don’t head down there and investigate.”

My god.  Tennessee.  A wasteland of wannabe country singers and people in ugly orange hats.  What choice did I have though?  No one else was going to investigate this.  Certainly not the liberal media!  I headed off to the airport and caught the first flight to Nashville, which inexplicably involved changing planes in Quebec City.  Fucking airlines.

I hit the ground as a pilgrim in an unholy land, rented a car, and drove out to Smyrna, the scene of the crime.  The Vinnie Vincent Estate isn’t easy to find, but the locals were no help.  Every inquiry devolved into a tale of colorful local history.  Eventually I found it on my own.  You could almost hear the guitar riffs of Lick It Up as the wind blew through the abandoned home, which was now populated only by raccoons. 

I finally made it to the bathroom.  Jesus.  There it is.  The turd.  It was still there!  I collapsed into a heap on the ground and tried to compose myself.  Who?  What?  Why?  The questions raced through my head.  Damn it man, you’ve got to focus here.  What would your favorite unnamed Scandinavian detective do?  I shook it off and focused.  Using some things I “borrowed” from a buddy in my local sheriff’s department, I carefully took a sample in a crime scene bag.

What now though?  Surely there wasn’t a police department south of Chicago that could actually run tests on this for me.  Plan B it was then.  I got back in my car and headed to the nearest diner.  I’d just go table to table confronting them with the turd until I got answers.  

I burst in and said, “NOW LISTEN UP YOU HAYSEEDS, I WANT SOME ANSWERS.”  First, a woman with poofy hair eating with her two grown sons. 

“What do you have to say for yourself? Is this your doing?”

Silence from all three.  I see how it is.  On to the next table.

“You there, Hee Haw, did you shit in the tub?”

Son, I don’t rightly know what you’re gettin’ on about here.

This is going to take a while.  I went from table to table, waving the poop sample bag in front of them as they ate, but it was just one stonewall after another.  Finally the man in the NRA hat had some answers.

“Did you sh-…” He cut me off.



Soros.  The billionaire banker.  Things like this are always linked to George Soros. Look it up.  You might need to look around though, ‘they’ [he makes air quotes] don’t want you to know.  Trust me.

A man in an NRA hat wouldn’t lie.  I knew he was leading me in the right direction, so I made it back to my hotel and got online.  I was aghast.  It was all here.  Protests, fluoride in the water, football players kneeling…all Soros.  I clenched my fist and muttered his name.  He had to be the pooper, or responsible for the pooper.  George Soros is Hungarian, so it looked like Budapest was my next stop.

Three days and eight layovers later, I landed in Budapest.  Naturally, I was immediately accosted by gypsy pickpockets – sorry, Roma pickpockets.  I don’t want to offend anyone!  Anyway, after defending my belongings, I hail a cab and tell the cabbie to take me straight to Soros’ lair.

As it turns out, Soros’ Dracula-style mountain lair is actually a tasteful home near the city center.  I rang the bell, expecting to be whisked away by his jackbooted goons, but instead a kindly old man answers the door.

May I help you?

“Thank goodness you instinctively knew to speak English.  Are you George Soros?”

Yes, what can I do for you?

“AH HA! J’accuse!  Is this your handiwork?”

I whip out the bag of poop, knowing I’ve nailed it.

I think you’d better come inside.  We should talk.

I step inside.  As usual, Soros was ten steps ahead.  No plans for world domination sitting on the coffee table or secret weapons systems.  Just pictures of the grandchildren an unopened mail.  Who does he think he’s fooling?  We sit down and he offers tea.  I assume it’s poisoned, but I don’t want to be rude and drink anyway.  It’s chamomile.  Gross!  I just come out with it.

“Why did you shit in Vinnie Vincent’s tub?”

Well, you wouldn’t know it to look at me, but I used to rock.  Back in the 80s, before getting into the world domination game, I dabbled in a bit of hair metal myself.  Played the bass.  I was good too!  Anyway, when I heard Vinnie was working on a side project, I thought this was my big chance.  I flew to Los Angeles and auditioned to play bass in the Vinnie Vincent Invasion.  I nailed it too, as much as you can nail a bass line.  When it was done, he thanked me for coming in and said I’d hear from him.  I never did.  After  years of waiting, I vowed revenge.  I would settle this score by sowing discord and toppling regimes throughout the world.  I’d also poop in his tub one day.  Then, about 6 years ago, my people on the ground told me he had gone out to buy new dead dog tubs and now was the time to strike.  So I went, I pooped in the tub, and I left.  I regret nothing.

“You know what Mr. Soros. That all makes sense.  That seems like a perfectly reasonable reaction to not getting a gig in a band.  Well, thank you for the tea and the kind chat.  I’ll be off.”

And that’s that.

Turns out you kind of deserved this Vinnie.