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Carlin had his famous “seven words you can never say on television” bit, which I gleefully committed to memory—shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker, and tits. I recited them to anyone who would listen, and plenty who wouldn’t.
I started wearing black eyeliner and red lipstick and spiking my hair in every direction. I got called homophobic slurs by jocks every single day and wore them like a badge of honor. That’s fuckin’ right, man. You don’t get me, and you never will. Good riddance and fuck you, too.
Over the years, we’ve offered a number of reasons behind the choice of 182. 182 pounds is my ideal weight. 182 was the number of the rescue raft my grandfather floated on after the sinking of his battleship in World War II. Someone claimed Al Pacino says “fuck” 182 times in Scarface. It’s been proven wrong, but that one stuck for a long time and we still get asked about it. Maybe 182 is the number lovingly painted on my childhood sled, long before I became a morally bankrupt newspaper tycoon, dying alone among my riches. Maybe it’s a blank canvas and everyone paints their own interpretation of
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Maybe someone sees “What’s My Age Again?” on MTV, comes to a show, and discovers Bad Religion. To me, that was what punk rock was all about. We’re all building this thing together.
But who could possibly replace Tom onstage? It had to be someone we got along with, a friend. Neither of us wanted a hired gun. This person also needed to sing, preferably with a higher, aggressive voice. We didn’t have to think very long, and there was only one name mentioned: Matt Skiba.
✨♥️Matt Skiba♥️✨
