We were once just a group of recent college graduates who were unusually good at making up band names. While riding on the drunk bus late one night we came up with the best band name ever before conceived of in the minds of men, Deadly Deadly Death Disease. It is our crowning literary achievement and the source of every liter of the fame we now enjoy.
But it wasn't so simple. In order to qualify as a true band name, a "band name in training" needs to be adopted. Normally we offer our band names to great musicians or good friends. Dismemberment Plan, Leftover Crack, Butthole Surfers---these are some of the great band names that great musicians graciously accepted to use as our generous gifts to them. Sadly the Deadly Deadly Death Disease name was too astonishingly great to bind itself to any potential adoptive artists. No musician, living or dead, could claim to live up to the magesty of this great name.
With little hope of finding a musician to accept our name, all three of us slipped into severe catatonic depressions. When all hope seemed to fade, the name came to us again. While in deep sleep, it swept the three of us into a single dark dream world. All around us howled the gray and black spirits of music.
"I am Aoede", a voice spat. "It is true that no living man is worthy of the great name, Deadly Deadly Death Disease. Further, no man who ever walked this earth has been worthy of its power. Even a perfect man, were one to exist, infinitly noble and pure of spirit, would be as vomit to the glory that is the Death Disease. Not even I, Aode, Muse of Music, nor the highest of all the gods or devils couid hope to host the name without feeling the shame of weakness. The immortal are but dim shadows in the face of this, the brightest of lights."
We stood silently. Tears ran down our faces to form a river at our feet. Never before had we heard so heavenly a voice...a voice so beautiful as to inspire the greatest of all artists to slit their throats in despair and prompt the keepers of knoweldge to damn to hell, on a whim, the stained, stinking refuse they once treasured and swore to protect.