Category Archives: Song Parodies

(Excerpts from completed manuscript. Unpublished.)

101 Songs You Shouldn’t Sing on TV (Intro)

101 Songs You Shouldn’t Sing on TV

Impress your friends, acquaintances and innocent bystanders with trashed hits in nearly every musical genre. You’ll be instantly popular at parties, karaoke clubs, Bar Mitzvahs and biker bars. Your children’s friends (over 21) will idolize you! Now you can sing along to previously inviolable classics with new, perhaps even improved lyrics! Such as:

Moustache Sally, (sung to the tune of Mustang Sally)
Just a Skanky Ho, (Just a Gigolo)
Coochie Fire, (Ring of Fire)
Under The Boardwalk Blues, (Under The Boardwalk)
I’m So Fired, (I’m So Tired)
Good Vibrators, (Good Vibrations)
Good Morning Hardon, (Good Morning Heartache)
Plaid Booger, (Brown Sugar)
You’re So Strange, (People Are Strange)
Funny Cigarettes, (Benny and the Jets)
You’re Such a Reject, (You Can Do Magic)

With YouTube or VodPod links provided to the working soundtracks, you can perfect your delivery at home.* Try memorizing a few to pull out at special events. Born To A Rabbi (sung to Born Under a Bad Sign) could come in handy at the next bris!

*(Internet connection required, and an electronic device with a browser. Browser not included. If solar powered, sun not included.)

Even if you’re naturally retentive, you’ll have no problem wowing the audience by putting slyly embedded “[prompts]” to good use, such as: [get jiggy with 33 second air guitar solo], or [play vibrating comb for 14 seconds].

Included with some selections are “FUN FACTS,” such as: Did you know there’s a vibrator that will pulse to the music of your iPod? What woman wouldn’t want Good Vibrators on her pod? Think: Valentine’s Day.

We’re talking roughly six hours of raw amusement for some of the whole family!
Get ready to light your Bics and sway to your own sultry tones with: Hazy. Patsy Cline’s Crazy takes on a “ho” new meaning.

Think your favorite TV theme songs are safe? Think again! Top Cat gets a makeover and we re-visit Cheers, “…where everybody knows you’re Gay.”

Can you live without this book?*


Rx rated, 101 Songs You Shouldn’t Sing on TV is your prescription for meeting new strangers. “Karaoke” it with you wherever you go! Thanks to our nearly patented and practically unique “Star Rating System,” you’ll know how drunk you can be before making a stuttering fool of yourself with an ambitious song.

Standards Guarantee: Each song has practically meticulously undergone rigorous quality control standards in order to ensure the lyricist’s interpretation is phonetically feasible according to a relatively standard standard which doesn’t include, or exclude, people who should also be considered mostly standard under predominantly normal conditions.

You can’t hardly go wrong, with 101 Songs!

Ladies, want to drop some hints that you’re available? Try singing I’m Randy (to the tune of Black Oak Arkansas’ Jim Dandy) at the next company party.

Speaking of holiday songs, are you bored with the same old Christmas carols? Well, guess what mommy’s kissing now!

Don’t want to sing alone? Try our Duets!

Stink when you try to sing Aretha’s Think? Stink again! Our version, Drink, has been modified to fit an everyday, ordinary, non-Queen-of-soul person’s cadence. Perfect for Grandpa!*

*(May require extra Polident®)

Ever wonder what the real words to Benny and the Jets are? So do we!

Nearly 600 pages of original rip-offs!*

*(Actual count less than 250.)

Girls, does your boyfriend embarrass you sometimes in public? Now you can get back at him  on karaoke night, say, the next time you’re on a cruise, with a heartfelt rendition of You’ve Been… Masturbating (sung to You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feeling). (Gotcha covered, men. Reply with a “rousing” rendition of Don’t Get Enough Head, sung to Going Out of My Head. Little Anthony would be proud, perhaps.)

Is your singing voice kara-yucky? Ever been told you should sing solo (“solo” no one can hear you)? Has someone suggested you sing tenor (“tenor” eleven miles away)? Have you been invited to do a duet (if you “duet” in another county)? Has someone said you should have an “aria” all to yourself (soundproof)? Does this paragraph have any discernible point? Indeed, because…

Get a stiff one ready for eleven included BONUS TRACKS. Killer, smash-hit instrumentals for an all-new, untried, unwarranted karaoke format—the Hum-along! Had your jaw wired recently? No problemo!

Caution: Random and provoked commentary/dissertation/nonsense ahead.*

As if that weren’t enough, check out the optional prose!** That’s right, actual writing is contained within these shallowed pages. Shakespeare was referred to, just to give you an idea of how lofty this mini-opus can get. Totally random, often provoked, and usually unrelated to the song to which it is attached, with dizzying discourses, sassy essays, disconcerting dissertations, a bit of soft erotica… and the like… this writing ventures into places perhaps no one should have gone. Find out what coup de plume*** means.

*(All of which you can completely ignore.)
**(That’s “prose,” not Pros. Hookers not included.)
***(Look it up.)

Proudly display 101 Songs… in your library* as either a song book, or a quirky piece of poetic literature. (It’s like one of those reversible jackets they made in the ’70s, only this will fit better on your bookshelf.) Let your friends discover how unique, even exotic, you are!

*(Keep out of reach of children under 21.)

Copyright © 2013 Mitchell Geller

101 Songs You Shouldn’t Sing on TV—I Love My Wife/A Date With No Shame

Rated R (language and situations)

I Love My Wife

Author’s Note: Babe and I have been together for over 25 years. The adventure transcribed below took place early in our relationship—back when computers were DOS and VCRs were still in use. This is an excerpt from my non-fiction, as yet unpublished book “Daddy, Why Can’t I Say ‘Ass’?” It also goes with the song parody below, A Date With No Shame (parody of A Horse With No Name). Click on the YouTube link provided and read my lyrics while the song plays.


Babe and I left By Th’ Bucket restaurant after a late dinner of oyster shooters, steamed clams, salad, pasta and garlic bread, and headed home. There’s nothing like a steamed clam in butter and garlic. Throwing social convention out the window, we drank red wine with the meal.

We rode in silence down El Camino Real passing the great American variety of stores, restaurants, car washes, hotels and…

“Pull in here,” Babe said.

“The adult bookstore?”

“I’ve always been curious about those places. What are they like?”

“Beats the hell out of me. I’ve never been inside one. Well, just once, a long time ago,” killing time as a salesperson.

“Aren’t you curious?”

Definitely. I looked at Babe with a new respect and pulled in the driveway. “Sure!” My X- File wife would never have gone into one of those stores.

It was a small place, with no windows and quarter peep shows in the back. The aisles were narrow and packed with videos. Some guys hung out in the shadows by the peep show booths, watching Babe. She ignored them and started looking at the video titles.

Squirt Off. Fuck me Plenty. Swallow my Big, Fat….

Speaking of big fat… I noticed a huge, pink thing in a box and moved to inspect it. Whatever it was, it was circumcised.

“Hmm. What’s a nice, Jewish dildo like you doing in a place like this?” One of the peep-shady guys watched me. (Please back away from the dildo…) “What the hell’s this?” I wondered, looking at a fat, stubby… thing. Butt plug? For diarrhea? Must be. Surely no one would stick one of those up their ass for fun. Maybe it goes with the “Stretch that Ass” video. Other items had straps and harnesses and complicated paraphernalia hanging off them. Must be for engineers and rocket scientists, I determined.

There were all sorts of rubbery-looking apparati one was supposed to insert in their favorite places. A display of batteries stood nearby, ready to keep going, and going…. Perhaps someone stuck some of those in a favorite orifice or two as well, as a substitute for coffee. Use a pair of ‘D’ batteries for those hard to reach places, then sit on a butt plug to push it in.

A guy tending the counter hummed to himself and did some paperwork. I gravitated over to take a look at what was in the display. Lubes, condoms, massage oils, handcuffs…

“How you doing?” The kid said to me.

“Huh? Good, thanks. You?” I’m just browsing.

“Can I show you anything?”

Please don’t. “Uh, no thanks, I’m just…” trying to be nonchalant. “What the hell do you do with those?” I pointed in the case.

“Those are nipple clamps,” he told me, with a broad smile.

“Hmm.” I said, looking at the alligator clips. Ouch. Why would..? Never mind. He kept smiling. I turned back to the display, carefully avoiding eye contact.

“What about that?” I pointed to a gel-like hole with nubs on it, bigger than a silver dollar.

“Cock ring.”

“Oh,” I tried to imagine whatever for. It certainly wasn’t deep enough to fuck.

“This one vibrates,” the young clerk added. The kid looked like he was working his way through college, and spoke to me like he might just as well have been serving me a danish.

“I see…” Not really. I moved past the jelly to the playing cards. These I know. Except I didn’t know that. I cocked my head to figure out what was happening on the back of the card. Christ! You have to be a yoga instructor to do that! No way. I’m exhausted and my neck hurts just looking at it. I straighten up and move over to the adjacent wall of boxed… stuff.

More videos showing lots of leather, with studly guys on the cover. They’re wearing some slick, black hybrid of overalls and alpenhosen, bulging like ballet dancers with potatoes in their shorts.

Oh my god… elephantitis! I snicker. That’s gotta hurt. Then I read the title: Boys Will Be Boys, and moved on to another cover filled with gorgeous women in tight fitting, sexy dresses. They all have big tits and I wonder how many are real. Boys Will Be Girls, the title read. I guess that answers that question, and moved on. I think I’m in the wrong section.

Dildos! Dildos with knobby balls inside them. Dildos that are ‘actual size’ of porn stars. I look for Milton Berle’s, wondering if dildo envy is a viable concept. Vibrators lined up like missiles in every color, ready to heat-seek some pleasure. What’s this, a vibrating egg? I’ll take mine over easy, please. Something called a ‘Bullet,’ and something shaped like a butterfly that’s named after a bug-eating plant… dildos to strap on, put in your purse, or wear all day. Dildos for any hole and dildos with little smiley faces on them. Dildos ‘Pussy Galore’ and ‘Jack Rabbit’ with antennae inappropriate for those under twenty-one. There was a dildo for Valentine’s Day. What better way to say I love you than Here, go fuck yourself. Dan the Conehead dildo winked and blushed. Laurel and Hardy dildos in a boxed set, one fat and one slim. What, no Duke Dildo? The Duke would make a very fetching rubber penis. Surely if Milton Berle could have a sculpture made of his private self… I’m thinking a Presidential set put out by the mint would be a real collectible. (Try the Andrew Johnson!) One dildo doubled as a vibrating candle holder (candle not included), good for waxing afterward. Dildos in every color and nuance; even one for King Kong.

Strap-ons and love dolls and penis enhancers,
Silver-tipped dildos with red and green flashers…
These were only a few of people’s favorite things.

Whips, masks, riding crops, and chains with rubber tips. Clit flickers and booty bumpers, love dolls and disassociated lips and ‘helmet huggers’ and beads you were supposed to shove up your ass and girth pumps for your penis and something called a ‘hot seat’ I wouldn’t want to confuse with a whoppee cushion and a penis with another penis on the other end and a ‘backdoor buddy’ and extenders you attached to your dick so you could bang your partner from the barbecue and… what’s this? A latex pussy? Pocket sized, no less—a carry-on item for that next long flight. Next to it, oh no, can’t be… a ‘magic flesh’ vibrating butt. Just the butt, face down and buns up, cut off at the waist and thighs.

I laughed. “Hey Babe, look at this!” I grabbed the box and turned around, waving it over my head at where I thought she was still reading the video packages. Now there was an older guy there wearing an overcoat, looking at me from under the brim of his low hat “I… Babe?” I put it down with a humiliated grimace and looked around the store. She was by the peep rooms; sort of keeping her distance, but curious. I went and got her.

“What do they do in there?” she wanted to know.

“What do you think?”

“I heard there’s a hole in the wall in those booths,” she chuckled.

I was naive. “What for?”

“I heard people put it in the hole and, next door… someone takes it…”

“OH-h-h-h…” Get horny and stick your dick in the wall, makes perfect sense.

I remembered the first porn movie I went to, Deep Throat. It had just opened and the Santa Monica theatre was packed. I sat there when it was over and looked at my pal Cliff, “Great idea, buddy. Would you mind if I sat here for a while before walking down Santa Monica Boulevard with a boner the size of Florida?”

“Rhode Island, you mean,” he said. Very funny

“Can we get a video?” Babe raised her eyebrows.

“Sure,” I agree, heading that direction. “You pick it.”

“How about ‘Wanda Does the World?’” I suggest.

“I don’t think so.”

“The Bush Pilot?”


“Midgets on Fire?” No answer. “Forrest Hump?”

“What? Lemme see that.”

I walked back toward the counter, where the kid was stirring up dust with a cat o’ nine tails.

“Finding everything you need?” he asked me.

“More than I need,” I told him. “But I didn’t see any dildo Christmas lights.”

“Those are in here.” He pulled a three-inch thick catalog out from under the counter and slapped it down. “Circumcised or au natural?

“No. Thanks anyway. Now I know where to get them,” I add.

Babe finds a video. It’s a collection of sex scenes from different movies. The tiny thumbnail photographs on the back are so microscopically small I’d need a 10x lupe to see anything clearly, but they look active. What I think is someone’s open mouth turns out to be something quite different, so I stop looking and find the price. It’s $39.99. Holy hell, why not add the nine-tenths of a cent, like a gallon of gas, to make it come out (almost) even?

“Forty bucks? Holy shit!” The kid at the counter smiles again. I’d like to rub jelly on his teeth. “Babe?” Where’d she go? I found her by a rack of newspapers, leafing through a tabloid called Swing Sets, and wandered over. The paper looked like sales ads to me. “Any monkey bars or see-saws in there?” I asked, looking over her shoulder.

“What? Not quite… Look at this.”

I thought I was an open-minded man; experienced and fairly learned in the sensual arts. After reading the ad about a couple looking for another couple to ‘swing’ with, and I’m not talking about the ones next to the see-saws, I immediately felt prehistorically old. How do I feel about that? At that moment, I felt like I’d just had a shitload of penises stuck in my face for the last half hour and wanted to bolt.

“What, exactly, does ‘swinging’ include?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Babe replied, and I was pretty certain she didn’t know any more than I did. “Wanna buy this?” The tabloid was a couple bucks, so I said sure, why not. “There’s pictures too,” she added as a sly aside.


Later that night…

Babe has emerged from changing clothes in the one bedroom of our tiny apartment wearing her red flannel shirt. She doesn’t know it, yet, I think, but it’s the shirt that turns me on the most. It’s so… soft, and it’s a button-down. The thought of her naked breasts touching the inside of it never fails to warm my engine. “You look nice,” I tell her as she walks into our tiny apartment kitchen, which, from the bedroom, is no more than eight diminutive Babe-steps away.

She laughs at herself, “What, this? I bought this shirt at a second-hand store in San Francisco about ten years ago. I don’t even know how old this thing is.”

When she’s close enough, I’ll unbutton the top button like I usually do and run a casual finger over the top part of either breast, or both, if possible. I haven’t told her about the effect her red flannel shirt has on me because I don’t want it to be a pre-determined sort of thing. I like the randomness of it. I also like the idea of her knowing already that the red flannel shirt raises my ‘marital right’ flag and wears it when she secretly wishes I’ll ravish her like a ripe plum. When she walks out with it on, all I see is the cape of the Matador. My breath escapes heavily and I stomp a hoof on the carpet, internally snorting and…

I pick up the tabloid and read an ad aloud to Babe, “‘Not into watersports, ‘b’ stroke ‘d’ or kink. No pain. ‘H’ stroke ‘W’ proportionate. No STD’s…’ Could you translate that for me please? What, they don’t want to go to the beach?”

“I think watersports has to do with peeing on people,” Babe clarified.

“Oh, of course. The old ‘golden shower.’ I forgot some people like to do that. Sounds… warm, and… smelly.”

Babe continues, “And ‘b’ and ‘d’ must have something to do with bondage and discipline, or domination.”

“Ah, bondage I should have known. Domination is a little… vague. ‘No pain’ is something I understand, but don’t really get why it has to be stated. I mean, what the fuck, who wants to be in pain?” I was pretty sure I couldn’t carry a hard-on with, say, an alligator clip on my nipple. Babe shrugged and sat down next to me on the small futon we called a couch. She took the tabloid out of my hands and started reading while I looked down her shirt.

“STD’s are sexually transmitted diseases.” Of course, I should have known that, too. “There’s a lot of that going around.” Babe looked at me squarely. I kept looking at the top of her right breast.

“That’s for sure.” I straightened her shirt by pulling down on it a little, and opened the top part up a wee bit more. She looked down at her slowly uncovered cleavage, waiting till I was done arranging her shirt just the way I wanted it. “What else did you find in there?” I pulled some of her curly locks to the side, brushing a fingertip along her neck.

“Huh, what? Oh… let’s see. Let’s look at the photographs.” She turns the page. There’s a couple photographs but the low resolution halftones are completely plugged. “Jesus, they can’t even hold a 65-line screen,” Babe comments, ever the printer, and turns the page. When she looks to the right, she exposes her neck just a smidgen more than I can resist and I make my move to plant a kiss there.

From the very beginning we made an agreement: No tickling. I took a sharp elbow to the stomach when I tried that on Babe early on. Not only that, she promised payback was a bitch and started poking me in the ribs until I had to run from the room. So it was agreed, no tickling. But…

There’s a sensual fulcrum with regards to tickling and arousal. Then there’s the endorphins… When the proper amount of each are employed at the proper time, the effect takes on a heightened, sensual significance. One only has to know where their partner’s current boundary is, and when to back off. So I kiss her neck and run my hand across her stomach. The way she’s sitting, I can squeeze a breast or two while I’m in the neighborhood. The longer I kiss her neck, not moving my head once I get there so it doesn’t tickle, the quicker I have to squeeze at least one breast. In that way, I’m balancing the tickle with the arousal, and saving my teeth from getting knocked out.

There’s a photo of a guy, I think, fishing in a river. He’s got the whole fishing ensemble thing going on; waterproof overalls, vest and floppy hat. “What’s this guy into, rubber and blowfish?” I ask while rearranging Babe’s shirt, opening another button so I can see the inside curve of her crescent moon. She laughs and I run my finger along her soft, warm, inner-right cleavage. “Don’t tell me, he wants to show us his rod, right?”

“Ha-ha! That would be reely funny.” We both laugh.

“You think he’s salmon you’d like to get to know better?”

Babe ignores that and turns the page. “Here’s a couple looking for a ‘discreet relationship, group sex, three or more, miscellaneous fetishes or exhibition and voyeurism.’” She points to the photo. It’s an older couple who both look like truck drivers. I assume the one with the gray beard is the guy.

“Do they describe what ‘miscellaneous fetishes’ are?” I wonder.

Babe puts the paper down. “Wanna watch the video?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” and got up to slip it in. “Want some popcorn?” She didn’t. We kicked back and hit play. The leader fumbled through a squeaky set-up of snow and tracking lines before some type finally came on the screen, then a prim-looking woman in business attire sitting behind a desk. She started to explain some shit about porn in general so I fast-forwarded to the ‘cumming previews.’ A huge pair of breasts jiggled their way into existence and I slowed the tape down so my eyes would stop boggling like a lottery-ball spinner. Bobble-breasts turned out to be an ad for a 900 phone number. Suddenly cum was flying everywhere.

When one guy finished, another took his place and another and another and they all shot their wads close-up and personal. You get all this by phone? “Call this number and you can talk to me, and I’ll make sure you’ll feel like you’re plugging up my nostrils with your chism while I…” chatter like a chipmunk as I hit the fast forward button again. Fifty guys cum in three seconds as the chop-edits fly by. It looks like the fountain show at the Bellagio Hotel in Vegas; all that’s missing is the 1812 Overture.

A plain, typed title shows up so I slow it down. It tells us that this is movie No. 472 and cuts to the chase. Some guy in a red Speedo is chasing a narrow-waisted, extremely tall platinum blond in spiked heels around a kitchen block. Following her bouncing breasts on TV is like singing two songs at once. Then it gets interesting. Using some very creative shots of bizarre, distorted reflections in pots and pans hanging overhead (and, for a while, ‘over head,’ if you get my meaning), they were somehow able to tilt the cameras and crossfade into some very tight places. One moment you were looking at a two-quart copper pot, then realize it had turned into a 27-inch vagina and the handle had foreskin. I wanted him to pull out (the cameraman). It was making me dizzy.

We fast-forwarded, and watched, and did some Hmmmm-ing and… “Have you ever tried that?”

I re-focused my eyes on Babe. “Not that I remember.” We watched some more. “How about you, ever try that?”

“Have you ever thought about trying that?”

“There’s no fucking way that upside-down thing is happening,” Babe said at one point.

“Wanna try that?” She put her hand on the inside of my thigh.

My manhood suddenly felt like a teenager again. “How about now? I have a dildo growing in my pocket.”

The point is, that movie had a happy ending. Babe and I learned a lot about each other, and had fun in the process. Several times, in fact. Most importantly, it caused us to talk about our sensual fantasies. Once we did that, we were sharing secrets between ourselves. Armed with those intimate details, we wink at one another from time to time and pass the sly smiles only lovers who know each other too well can pass. She’s still got that red, flannel shirt too.


#17—A Date With No Shame (sung to A Horse With No Name, by America)

Degree of Difficulty: Even potheads can sing this.

(Click on a link below to hear the original, than read along with the new lyrics below.)

The version you’re familiar with:
Alternate, techno/acoustic version:

On the first aisle of the sex shop
I was looking at all the junk
There were batteries and cocks with rings
There were molded beaded things
The first thing I saw was a pussy with fuzz
And this guy with-out brows
The shop was hot and my mouth was dry
But my hair was looking good

I’ve been through a sex shop with a date with no shame
He asked me if I was in-to pain.
In the sex shop, you can’t tell people you’re game
Or you might end up as a vibrator name

La, la, la,

[repeat la-las]

After two hours with my horny chum
My face began to turn red
After three hours I wanted a gun
I was wishing that my date was dead
And the story he told of vibrators that glowed
Made me think that he was brain dead

You see I’ve been through a sex shop with a date with no shame
I saw dildos built like Great Danes.
In one section were blow-up dolls with a name
Kinda weird when you see one who’s called Elaine

La, la, la,

[repeat la-las]


After nine hours I had to take a pee
I was thinkin I’d flush then flee
There were penis pumps and plugs for rumps
But no-toilet paper for me
You have to be perverted when you’re askin around
For a latex vibrating glove
And it’s not pretty, like a fart with no sound
But I know what I’m speaking of

You see I’ve been through a sex shop with a date with no shame
He picked out a big doll named Lorraine
In the sex shop, you should assume a new name
And there ain’t no one who will clean up the stains

La, la, la,

[repeat la-las] [repeat la-las]
[repeat la-las]
[slight pause, then repeat la-las]
[repeat la-las]
[keep repeating la-las]


101 Songs You Shouldn’t Sing on TV—Where Everybody Knows You’re Gay

#13—Where Everybody Knows You’re Gay (sung to the theme song from the TV show Cheers)


One Star: Even potheads can sing this.
Two Stars: Most reasonably sober people shouldn’t have much trouble.
Three Stars: Read it through first, preferably to the music.
Four Stars: If you can sing this without rehearsing, you’re definitely gonna get laid tonight.

…where each song is rated thusly.


SMALL, INNOCUOUS, PROBABLY IRRELEVANT DISCLAIMER: The lyrics presented in this karaoke bible do not necessarily reflect the author’s political or religious views, sexual or smoking preferences (ref; Fudge Packer and Vote In The Reefer), or personal bitterness against politicians—but in some instances, they may.


Two Stars: Most reasonably sober people shouldn’t have much trouble. (Listen to the original while reading the alternate lyrics.)

Making your way past bigots today
Takes everything you’ve got
Taking a break from homophobes
And remembering that you’re hot
Isn’t it great to be a gay?

All those nights when you get in fights
Because you sometimes swish
It’s the way of nature
But at times you have to wish
They’d get a life and leave you alone

Sometimes you want to go
Where everybody knows you’re gay
And they’re always up for play
You want to be where you can see
Leather chaps, penis straws and brie
You want to be where everybody knows you’re gay.

Roll out of bed, Mr. Cockster is dead
The morning’s looking bleak
Your shrink is running for Congress
To vote against you freaks
And your boyfriend wants to date a girl.
Be glad there’s one place in the world

Where everybody knows you’re gay
And they’re fans of Tina Fey
You want to go where hot guys know
Who gives the best bee jay
You want to go where everybody knows you’re gay.


101 Songs You Shouldn’t Sing on TV—Much Too Stoned

More fractured karaoke…

#18—Much Too Stoned (sung to Rainy Day Women #12 & 35, Bob Dylan)

Three Stars. Read it through first, preferably to the music.

Note: I wish this were the longer version (the one everyone in creation has), but couldn’t find an online video. However, thanks to one guy with an excellent audio system, I found the original, shorter, 45 RPM single version to which I wrote these lyrics. Since then, the shorter version on youtube was removed and the longer one showed up (link below). There’s room for more stanzas in this version so feel free to collaborate:

Well you’re too stoned when all you think about is food
The girls all look like Carrie Underwood
You’re too stoned when you’re gargling cologne
And you’re too stoned when yer drivin’ on the lawn
If your underwear is not your own
You mighta got much too stoned

Well you’re too stoned when you dress for Halloween
And show up at a gig for Christmas Eve
You’re too stoned if you walk out of the door
and just found out you joined the Marine Corps
If your head ends up in the commode
You mighta got much too stoned

You’re sayin’ things no one can comprehend
And put party favors in your rear end
You’re too stoned if you take up the sitar
You’re too stoned if you’re actin’ all bizarre
But when you order twenty-five scones
Ya-mighta got much too stoned

Let’s eat!


Song Parodies—Epi-logue (sung to Vogue, by Madonna)

Song #94—Epi-logue

(sung to Vogue* by Madonna)

Four Stars: If you can sing this without rehearsing, you’re definitely gonna get laid tonight. (Play the vid and read the new words below).

Note: “Epi-logue” = “Eppa log”

Strike a pose [WAIT 9 SECONDS, THEN…]

Pick your nose [6-COUNT]
Gross, gross, gross
gross, gross, gross

Look around everything you see is jihad
It seems that’s all that we do
Call it anything you want to call it
Jihad, Holy, or Crusade

When all you mean is that you want to be
In charge of everyone else’s prayers
You know a god where you can get away with murder
and what’s it good for? So…

You’re toast
Happens to the overly bombastic
Everybody loses the war
You know it can’t be won

Spend your time, looking for a new machine gun
And use it for what it’s for
Genocide, spread your holy ‘doctrination
Your schemes end up on the floor

You take your prisoners and off with their heads
And then you give it a twirl
Then the other side is gonna mount a crusade
We’re a bit bizarre, yes, that’s what we are, you know it

Hello roast
Happens to the overly bombastic
Everybody loses the war
You know it can’t be won

Truth is there inside you
Not just where it’s pushed and shoved
Soul is a-political
How did we get so, terrible?
Awfully cruel, ugly too
Set fire to the scriptures!

Happens to the overly bombastic
Everybody loses the war
You know it can’t be won, The End

Truth is there inside you
Go inside and find it

[Wait for it…]

Presidents, Ministers
Clerics and the bearded guys
Suicides, what a scene
Just to sell it to the atrophied

Oil money, hello men
Capture all the bounty then
Get ready, stick it here
Holy Ones, grab short hairs

They had style, call them Grace
They all want to run the place
Make you do what they want to
Beavis-and-Butthead, rule the world

Killers with an aptitude
Gallows that are in the road
Have another brand new Bible
Pick your nose, there’s nothing like it… joke


Oooh, you’ve got to
Let your neighbor have their own wisdom
Oooh, you’ve got to just
Let your neighbor keep what they know
Or-r-r… you’ve got an… epilogue

Random Writings—Suppository Writing #2

Suppository Writing #2


Isn’t it amazing that we use fire in order to light a vegetable (tobacco’s a vegetable, isn’t it?) so we can turn it into a gas (smoke’s a gas, isn’t it?) and inhale into our bloodstream as a tiny chemical? All those natural mechanics at work to finally exhale as a steady stream of smoke formed into a donut that sails in the prevailing atmosphere to become an egg, and finally a halo. It all takes place in one breath in the life of a god. If that’s not a symphony of nature then neither is Niagara Falls.

I have two voices inside my craw. One is a female voice, my conscience. She is the mistress I keep hidden, to drag out and fondle once in a while, and speaks in small cap italics. There is URGENCY in her voice. Typically, I’ll hear her at the exact moment I go for a smoke, shortly before the ring hits the fan.

I try to explain to HER that smoking keeps me in my body. Without it, I have that much less to live for.


And I say: Hey, it could be worse, bitch… That always shuts HER up.


“Tell me something I don’t already know,” I reply to HER.


“How else am I going to write?” (Or is writing a crutch to smoking?)


Sure, I quit for seven years and managed to scrawl out three hundred pages of poorly crafted fantasy. I stop HER from reminding me that it wasn’t the non-smoking that ended up trashing that manuscript before it got into second gear. It sucked no matter what I wasn’t smoking. Perhaps I should have been smoking something strong when I wrote it. I wish I had been smoking something; it might have made it better.



“I know…”


“Shut up!”


“I’ll smoke the ‘ultra light.’”


“Hmm, you’ve got a point there…” I do, and then another and another and another and another and another. Then one more. I’m teetering on the edge of having another. Yes, I think I will. I have another and another and another and another. Now I’m out of dunking tea.

“Now what?”


Sounds good to me! So I have another and another and try to scrape the last dribble of tea out of the cup with my tongue but it detours at the last second on a dry spot and slips down my neck instead.

“I can’t do it!” I plead with HER. “I can’t eat another and another and another and another cookie.”


“Augh! That’s it, I’m having one more smoke.”


“What? I don’t think I can pull the pud every time I want a smoke… And what’ll I do after meals? Or when I come out of a movie theatre? And after a long plane ride? What will I tell them at work? Jack break? Time to smoke the monkey? How can I type wuth 1 hnd..?”


“By that logic, I can jack off and smoke at the same time if I want.”




Knock-knock. “It’s me, your male voice of reason, rationalization, perfectly misconstrued logic and King of the sleight-of-tongue—the Despair Killer. Can I ask you a question?”