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Wednesday, February 22, 2006


So I was at home enjoying a day off from the barbecue joint when my hotline rang. It was a lady friend of mine calling to extend a last minute invite to a night of hot chicks a-go-go, the first of a weekly party series called Roadkill Nights at Lucky 13 (in Brooklyn on 13th Street between 5th and 6th Avenues), a not-too-far away watering hole that has my respect for maintaining an exceptional jukebox fueled entirely by bands like Joan Jett & the Blackhearts. The Lunachicks, Fear, the Reverend Horton Heat, Nina Hagen, the Cramps, the Misfits, Suicidal Tendencies, the Sex Pistols, and of course my boys the Damned. You know, Bunche music. So how could I say no?

I donned my trusty coonskin cap and leather trench coat and ventured to Lucky 13, making it in just before the eleven o’clock start time. I was greeted by the event’s host, the refreshingly bizarre Scotty the Blue Bunny, a tall John Cleese-esque queen in six-inch heels and a skin-tight bunny suit that left nothing to the imagination; I last saw the guy at a friend’s performance in lower Manhattan and he was wearing a spectacular t-shirt that depicted a silhouette of one man being forcefully buttfucked by another, next to a logo that proclaimed, “I’d rather be cornholing.” Scotty happily welcomed me to the proceedings, and promptly left to work the other patrons.

As Scotty bunnyhopped away I was once more taken in by the divey atmosphere; a combination of rock ‘n’ roll posters, monster and horror memorabilia, signed photos of Elvira and Sid Haig, various implements of destruction like a Grim reaper-style scythe, an inspired portrait of Pope John Paul II with red eyes and horns sprouting from his red-beanied pate, and the inevitable photo of Bettie Page in her harem girl garb, her raven tresses cascading over her upraised hands past her untamed face. Once again, I marveled at how it feels like something I would have crafted for my own amusement if I had a decent-sized basement. And, fuck, how I want to steal those framed Coop lithographs!

I then was stunned by one of the performers, a lissome lass who has made me harder than Sanskrit algebra since the moment I met her nearly a year ago, bedecked in a smokin’ hot vinyl nurse’s outfit accented with black, stilettoed “fuck me” super-heroine boots, and the outfit was so scandalously short that my eyes discretely scanned for her nether-fur (which was sadly obscured by her cherry red panties). Her eyes sparkled when she saw me, and she ran over to give me a kiss and thank me for showing up. What, like I was gonna miss seeing a bunch of beautiful women in skimpy outfits shakin’ their goodness and pole dancing to music that I enjoy?

Her raw enthusiasm for the art of the terpsichorean gene-spliced with the inspiration of a stiff trouser trout
was clearly written across her face; before me stood a woman who embraced her own non-augmented female excellence and was not afraid to share it with the world. Thank you, Nursey. Thank you oh so much!

Presently this ecdysian avatar mounted the small go-go platform and lost herself to the rhythmic world within her head, her every luscious millimeter swiveling to the seductive tones put forth by the very talented DJ Hi-Speed Chase, and I must admit that very unchaste thoughts filled my head. Thankfully for my growing urge to “be alone for a while,” Nursey was soon replaced by the mighty Peekaboo Pointe, a tasty and tastefully tattooed brunette in a flapper bob and black bikini — with high-heeled Mary Janes!!! — who was hot as a motherfucker, but doesn’t inspire me the way that the Naughty Nurse did, but that is in no way a slight on her pulchritude or abilities; it’s simply a matter of taste, but I have to say that Miss Pointe does the splay-legged pole slide with a weightless aplomb that gives a rigid middle finger to the concept of gravity. Sure, she’s a hot lady splaying herself on a pole, but her professionalism and athletic style was what fascinated me. I’ll take pictures of her human scissors routine next time I’m there.

Then the show proper began, and Scotty did his emcee thing. The crowd sat riveted to the words of this towering azure lepus, and they smoldered in anticipation of the delights to come. Miss Pointe soon returned in a fetching 1920’s black number and seductively strolled about the pole that ran from the ceiling to the bar top, all eyes gazing at her lithe form with barely contained wonder; here was a slinky cat-woman whose undulations recalled the function of a spinning hypno-wheel, her every dip and pout fixing the observer like one of Medusa’s victims. Only in a good way. She soon ended up down to only her panties and a pair of very happy tasseled pasties, which she certainly knew how to operate, nearly causing whiplash in the onlookers, including yours truly.

After a brief pause, out strolled “the Officer,” a toothsome beauty in a cop suit with hot pants and a baton who made me long for an immediate felony collaring that would get me next to her lips that promised untold admonitions for my naughty ways. She mounted the platform, produced a bullhorn and announced, “If you see something, say something!!!”
Well, let me tell you that I saw something delicious, and I said, “God DAMN!!!” several times during her routine.

This authoritarian Aphrodite soon took to the pole, losing her jacket and revealing her lovely sweater-goblins, both of which had their suckleable bits obscured by a pair of black tape x’es. This image was both hot and fierce, and clearly appreciated by patrons other than myself. And all too soon, it ended.

The rest of the evening consisted of all sorts of naughty hijinx, all overseen by a fierce, brace-faced, fire-breathing Joan Jett/Chrissie Hynde hybrid named Taryn. So I humbly suggest that you check out Roadkill Mondays, especially if you need a dose of the naughty along with $3.00 shots of tequila all night long. TRUST YER BUNCHE!!!

Tuesday, February 14, 2006


I awake after losing yet another battle with insomnia and reach for the television’s remote control. Not surprisingly, the offerings on the telly aren’t worth a squirt of rat’s piss — Cinemax is unfortunately not running one of its myriad of softcore porno flicks, but is airing Spike Lee’s execrable GIRL 6, to be followed by the Elvis Presley turd EASY COME, EASY GO — so I resort to a tape of MYSTERY SCIENCE THEATER 3000: THE MOVIE to hopefully entertain me and lull me to sleep. No such luck.

Now wide-awake, I begin to realize that I’m hungry, and slowly I crawl from beneath my thick, warm comforters. I pull on my thermal shirt, put my ear baffles in place and lace up my Frankenstein-like hiking boots; presently I am ready to brave the chilly outdoors in search of eats.

The remains of Sunday’s record-breaking blizzard have turned Park Slope into a frozen wasteland, resembling a movie set that has been cleared for the day. The usually teeming streets are empty and silent, eerie in a strange way, accentuated by the pre-dawn darkness and full moon. Theoretically the buses are running, but why wait when I only have a thirteen- block walk to the diner? As I trudge up Fifth Avenue I attempt to avoid breaking my ass by falling on the ice, and I pass by the infamous alky bar Jackie’s Fifth Amendment; I have passed this wretched hive of scum and villainy both very late and insanely early during the day and had believed that it never closed its doors. As I walk past it expecting to once more see an old man who looks like Popeye passed out in a pool of his own piss, I am shocked to see that the place is actually shuttered.

I finally arrive at Daisy’s Diner, a mediocre greasy spoon that makes up for it’s culinary shortcomings by being comfortable and staffed by a friendly wait-staff that speaks questionable English. As I sit down I am greeted by the flaming waiter who usually serves me when I eat there after getting out late from the barbecue joint. He’s friendly as hell, and reminds me that today is St. Valentine’s Day, after which he mimes puking and says, “Fuck, I hate being single!” Then my waitress shows up; let me tell you, it was worth the early morning effort of getting there just to see this chick. She’s a six-foot-four bleached blonde Puerto Rican Amazon who’s pretty fucking hot, and I have decided to save my visits to Daisy’s for whenever she’s on duty. Deciding that I need more of a snack rather than a full meal, I order a bowl of Yankee bean soup and a side order of sausages. As usual, the soup is lukewarm, but tasty.

As I return home I pass by several of the closed neighborhood bars and marvel at the sight of cars still buried beneath the snow, a white blanket highlighted by the crystallized vomit of fubar drunkards. In some areas the dispersal of puke brings to mind what it would look like if someone loaded a scattergun with corned beef hash and let fly.

I now sit down to chronicle my non-adventure and realize that I love these occasional near-dawn jaunts, relishing the all-too-rare silence of my neighborhood. The sun is coming up and before I go to bed and attempt sleep once more, I will drop off my laundry when the local Laundromat opens at 7AM.

What a way to start a day off…

Sunday, February 12, 2006


The classy iteration.

Here I sit, broken-hearted
Tried to shit, but only farted

No Matter how you shake and dance
The last drop falls into your pants

Goddamn motherfucking two-ball bitch
Every time I see you my two balls itch

If it smells like a fish, it’s a good dish
If it smells like cologne, leave it alone

-Authors unknown

You are no doubt familiar with the timeless classics above, what with them being standards found in restrooms in public schools and dump stations all over the nation for at least sixty years, including the now outdated second line, “Paid my dime, but only farted.” Sheer, universal poetry, rendered deathless thanks to lovers of sophomoric stupidity, such as yours truly. Most of such odes are first encountered during our early grade school years, when we are first truly old enough to understand dirty/ toilet humor and perhaps even pen our own offensive lyrics. Staples of the genre include such topics as farts, doo-doo, pee-pee, racial slurs/stereotypes, disrespect of religion, television theme song/pop music parodies, and of course preadolescent misconceptions about sex. You know, intellectual stuff.

My own first exposure to such erudite wit was the classic of body-function awareness, “Milk, milk, lemonade,” used to spectacular effect last season on “Will & Grace” in a puerile pas de deux between Megan Mullaly and Jack Black as a doctor who confirms the piece’s biological validity:

Milk, Milk (pointing to each nipple)
Lemonade (pointing to urethra)
Around the corner (turning around)
Fudge is made (pointing to ass)

To a five-year-old, that shit is a comedy goldmine.

Perhaps the granddaddy of the genre of poetic juvenilia is Benny Bell’s recording of “Shaving Cream,” a Dr. Demento show perennial that burned itself into the collective cerebral cortex of children everywhere. The basic gag has the singer recount a particular situation that would end in a rhyme leading the listener to expect the word “shit” to end the line, but the listener is consistently faked out when the naughty word is instead replaced with “shaving cream.” For example:

Way back when I was in the army
I reached down into my kit
Expecting to find me a sandwich
I pulled out a huge pile of
Shaving cream!
Be nice and clean!
Shave every day and you’ll always look keen!

As you would imagine, the variations to this are nearly infinite, and Bell recorded it several times to escalating idiotic effect. My own favorite versions are as follows:

Our baby fell out of the window
You’d think that her head would be split
But luck was with her that morning
‘Cause she fell in a truckload of
Shaving cream!
Be nice and clean!
Shave every day and you’ll always look keen!

Along with:

And now folks my story is over
I think that it’s time I should quit
If any of you feel offended
Stick your head in a bucket of
Shaving cream!
Be nice and clean!
Shave every day and you’ll always look keen!

Even the youngest verbal smut artist could come up with a cornucopia of words that could lead up to the “shit” fake out, ensuring that cross-country trips with the parents became interminable torture for the grownups. And you could totally get away with it because you weren’t guilty of cussing! God bless you, Benny Bell. God fucking bless you.

Proving that such dumbass endeavors transcend the generations, I remember first hearing this when I was six years old from my beloved grandfather, Ozane, who was a huge fan of Tarzan:

Tarzan the monkey man
Swinging on a rubber band
Lost his pants in a hula dance
(imitation of the Tarzan yell, after which Ozane and I would laugh like a couple of morons)

Then I moved to Westport, Connecticunt (misspelling intended) and heard this one on the playground:

Under the cherry tree
That’s where she showed it to me
It was hairy and black
And it had a huge crack
But it looked like a jungle to me
So I took out my hairy banana
And stuck it in her crack
She let out a scream
And I gave her some cream
Then I took my banana back

Armed with such examples it was only a matter of nanoseconds before our filthy little minds advanced to more complex expression of smuttiness, and where better to start than with the corruption of familiar songs from our favorite babysitter, the television? The beginner’s corrupted TV song is unquestionably the following:

I’m Popeye the sailor man
I live in a garbage can
I eat all the worms and spit out the germs
I’m Popeye the sailor man

Sure, it was based on a theme song first heard in the movies during the 1930’s, but the majority of us were first introduced to the incomprehensible mariner via the glass teat, and as times changed and kids became naughtier, the Popeye song was altered into:

I’m Popeye the sailor man
I live in a garbage can
I like to go swimmin’ with bow-legged wimmen
I’m Popeye the sailor man

Then there was the Adam West “Batman” television series, a genuine phenomenon in its day (and the first time I remember my little pee-pee standing at attention thanks to Julie Newmar as Catwoman), with one of the all-time catchiest signature tunes in TV history, instantly dooming it to parody victimization. We all know the holiday classic “Jingle Bells, Batman smells,” but for the purposes of this article I’m sticking to riffs on the Neal Hefti theme, the best of which is easily:

Took me to his house
Laid me on the couch
Stuck it in greasy
Pulled it out easy

Most kids thought this was from the point of view of some hot Batman groupie, but I prefer to think of it as being Robin’s recounting of really goes on at Stately Wayne Manor. But where the hell was Alfred?

And of course you know this parody of another 1960’s cult fave:

The Addams Family started
When Uncle Fester farted
They all became retarded
The Addams Family

But the undisputed champion of TV parodies goes to this horrifying version of “The Beverly Hillbillies, “ which transforms the inspiring tale of a poor mountaineer’s discovery of a rich vein of oil and subsequent Croesus-like wealth into a humorous tale of incestuous rape and the inevitable inbred progeny:

Let me tell you a story ‘bout a man named Jed
He grabbed Ellie-Mae and he threw her on the bed
Down came the zipper and out came the Worm
And out of the Worm come the bubblin’ sperm

Well the next thing you know
Ol’ Ellie-Mae’s knocked up
The kinfolk said, “Jed, you’re such a horny pup!”
Nine months later, she began to scream
And out of her twat slid Jethro Beaudine!

What makes this song a classic is the blunting of the incest/rape angle by presenting the visually ludicrous image of Ellie-Mae giving birth to her hulking, L’il Abner-lookalike cousin as played by the huge Max Baer, Jr., complete with overalls and shitkicker boots.

Largely forgotten nowadays is the Fess Parker vehicle “Daniel Boone,” a much less successful follow-up to the monster hit from the 1950’s, “Davy Crockett.” This TV parody may be unique because it blends the forms of playground lyrics and outright, out-of-nowhere racism:

Daniel Boone was a man
He was a big man
But the bear was bigger
So he ran like a nigger
Up a tree

Which seamlessly segues us into the realm of ethnically offensive rhymes and songs!

My earliest exposure to this subgenre surprisingly happened before I moved to the ultra-racist Westport, occurring during my very early days in California, featuring an utterly weak slam at the two major Asian groups in the States at the time:

Chinese, Japanese (while pulling eyes to simulate epicanthic folds)
Dirty knees (miming appraising dirty laundry)
Look at these! (miming lifting of titties)

Now from what has been explained to me, that one can be seen as helping the ignorant to differentiate between the Chinese and the Japanese, namely one group is fit only to do your laundry and the other has awesome prossies who know exactly how to display the dairy goods.

Another slam against the Chinese that I never quite got was the following:

Ching chong Chinaman
Sitting on a fence
Trying to make a dollar
Out of fifteen cents

Exactly what the fuck does that mean?

And let us not forget the classic of American black/white confrontation:

A fight! A Fight! A Nigger and a white!
If the nigger/white guy doesn’t win
Then we all jump in!

Or the more offensive version:

A fight! A Fight! A Nigger and a white!
The White guy had a gun
The nigger had none
The white guy pulled the trigger
And then there was no nigger

Then there was the classic necrophile poem from when the infamous Ed Gein murder case was current in the late 1950’s (google Ed Gein and be ready to be chilled to the soul):

I fucked an old gal in a graveyard
God damn her old soul, she was dead
The maggots crawled out of her asshole
And the hair slipped off of her head
When I finished my job there
I seen I’d committed a sin
So I reached in my pocket and drew me a straw
And I sucked out the load I shot in

And two from the Catholics I knew back in the days:

Hail Mary, full of grace
Won’t you sit upon my face?

And this British gem that contemplates the duality of Christ as both man and God:

Two in one, one in two
Flush ‘em both down the loo

So with that I invite all of you to write in with your own rhymes and such, and always remember that the more juvenile, the better!

And as a final note, here’s a great Beatles parody:

Hey, Jude
I saw you nude
Don’t try to fake it
I saw you naked

"Don't try to fake it..."