One day, we were hatched from a pterodactyl's egg, and had to save the land of freedom with the staff of humonculles. We totally won, and became honorary ninjas. That is why we are called Head Sideburns.
With our newfound ninja powers, we decided that we should take on the task only a god could: eat more hotdogs then that one japanese guy did in new york. However, due to unforseen circumstances we did not accomplish this feat: mostly because we had to hitchhike to new york, and some guy named joesph taylor gave us a ride. He was this real tubby looking guy, who hadn't shaved in probably 2 weeks. He kept asking questions about farm animal sex, but we couldn't help him.
Eventually, headsideburns member number 2 said to him that he smelt like burning milk eggs on the sidewalk on the 24th of July, and he didn't know how to take that. Once we explained it was a bad smell, he went into a fatman rage and kicked us off the earth, and made a hole in the moon with a laser that shot from his mouth.
Unfortunately, Ol' Joesph had to concentrate too hard to pull off that vicious maneuver and collided into oncoming traffic. We continued hitchhiking, in space now, and we met a comet named George. He offered us a ride, but once we touched him our skin was seared off our bones. Thusly so, we shot George. With a gun. That we found. In Space.
George, slowly bleeding to death, told us to find his uncle's treasure, the three toothed honeycomb. We said "fuck you Georgie ol' boy" and pushed him into the sun where he cried for days, and then died.
A few months in space always does a man good said my grandpappy, so we stayed there for a few months. We found a condo that was owned by space mexicans, and they offered to let us stay for working. We said okay, but never worked. Josepedronicolaisantamaria la babera was so angry that he got us to sleep with beautiful space chicks. Apparently that is punishment in space. So, we took the ten cent bus back to earth, but it was destroyed in the atmosphere. We landed down in cuba, back in the 60's.
There we met Che Guevara, the cuban revolutionist, and he gave us some cigars and told us to smoke. However they were trick cigars that exploded, and when they did explode, we looked like fools and Che laughed. We felt so ashamed we moved back to California, and stayed underground for around 40 years till things didn't fucking suck so bad.
Once the 40 years had past, we came out of the ground and decided once again to take our journey to New York to eat hot dogs.
And that is really why we are called
HEAD SIDE BURNS.
