Posts Tagged ‘whimsy’

Performance Anxiety In Bed

June 6th, 2017

I have an embarrassing story to tell and it’s a story that many men will understand but will not want to admit aloud.

 

Performance anxiety in bed is a thing that happens to fellers sometimes, when they’re in bed making sweet love with a lady. It’s not something that we want to think about because us guys, we don’t like to think about our brains getting in the way of our weiners. But it happens sometimes and it happened to me and I’m going to tell you about it or at least my side of it. Because it happened to me while I was making love to a semi-famous person.

 

Before I tell my story, I should warn you fellers that if you were to get lucky and hit the sexual jackpot and make it with a famous female celebrity, this might happen to you. You think about all the crazy things you’d do to Megan Fox or Jennifer Lawrence or Sam Elliott if you’re a gay kind of feller. The truth is. . . you would crack under the pressure of trying to satisfy them. Having Jennifer Love Hewitt scrolling through her smart phone while you sweat and grunt on top of her, not even looking or paying attention to you, making you feel like a pathetic failure of a man. Failing to get even the most minute rises out of Adriana Lima or Kate Upton and giving up with a floppy unerect wiener and a face full of tears. That would be you, my dear friend.

 

This happened to me, dear friend. But I have a good excuse. Because I was making love to Louise Mensch, the member of British Parliament, author, blogger, and conspiracy theorist.

 

 

We were at her place, in her bed, doin’ the deed. Or I was, or at least trying to, while she glared at me. Within a few minutes, she asked me if I was a Russian operative.

 

I’m not a Russian operative. But I figure that’s a question that should’ve been asked earlier in the evening before the clothes came off. There are certain questions sex partners should ask before doing it for the first time, and that’s not typically one of them but if it’s that important to her, then she should ask it. I would be way more interested in knowing if my sex partners have any diseases or are in a relationship at the moment. But that’s me.

 

Sure enough, within a few days of our encounter, she was on Twitter calling me an operative of the Russian government. I promise I’m not. Turns out she calls a lot of people that and never shows any proof of it. It’s kinda like calling somebody a witch.

 

I have no idea if she has slept with all of the people she has accused of being a Russian spy. I don’t believe Louise Mensch is a giant sloot. I just believe that she thinks I’m a dickhead who can’t satisfy her and thus tarred me as a traitor to my home country.

 

If you’re not in the mood to have sex, don’t have sex. You put pressure on a feller.

Trilogy Presented Without Comment

January 24th, 2017

The Pain, The Endless Agony

December 4th, 2016

 

A story no one will like, in tweet form.

 

 

Tomi Lahren, this is you eight years from now.

Tomi Lahren, this is you eight years from now.

A New Halloween Tradition

October 31st, 2016

Since I have moved to a new town, I guess it’s time to update my Halloween traditions. In Fordsville, my tradition was “not answer the door because nobody knocked on it wanting candy”. That was a blessing. It pays to be an unlikable hermit.

 

But now a new town requires a new tradition. These people don’t know that I’m an unlikable hermit. I’ve been here nearly a month? How can I possibly introduce myself to the community proper? I gots me a plan!

 

For all the kiddies who come to my door shouting “Trick or Treat” will be in for an immense treat, as I sit them each down to listen to this gem of a tune.

 

 

You want a treat? You’re gonna get a treat, goddammit. A little something from Abacab-era Genesis called “Paperlate”. Just sit there as I play this off my laptop speakers and get familiar with Phil and the boys. I am going to be the most popular debutante in all of Daviess County!

 

And then I’m going to yell at the kids’ parents to remember to vote for Rand Paul. Because it’s all about Rand Paul, who’s debating tonight. He’s only debating on Halloween because he didn’t want to embarrass his opponent on a night Kentuckians would be home to watch the debate.

 

I’ve come a long way from hating people who didn’t understand Zappa or the Beach Boys post-Pet Sounds albums.

An Inefficient Fairy Tale

November 7th, 2015

Once upon a time in a dark kingdom of wickedness and tall dead trees, there lived a peasant boy with his kindly grandfather in a long metal cabin.

The peasant boy was taught by his grandfather that he was just as good as the mightiest prince and that no man, be they of noble stature or nay, was better or worse than he. The peasant boy took this to heart and remembered it his entire life.

Furthermore, since no one was better or worse than he, there was no reason to assume he could not one day be considered noble. Because while he may have been taught that all men were created equal, he did not in his heart believe that. Or maybe he did, and recognized early on in his young life that those of nobler stuff were given more praise, more rewards, more chances to succeed, more. . . everything. Certainly more than a lowly peasant boy living in a long metal shack would get. This made him feel sad at the way the world was and sad for himself because he was not a noble.

 

The boy would spend the rest of his life trying to become a prince, or a king, or something of higher stature than he grew up in. He went into the world and attempted to be seen as a noble. But no matter how hard he tried, he ended up being a jester.

 

He sang songs, he told tales, he made merry and he developed a sharp wit. He became a very good jester, a very fine jester indeed. But this did not make him happy. Being a jester left him at the mercy of those he entertained. If they enjoyed his songs and jokes, he may be invited back to perform again. If they didn’t, he would be banished. Sometimes they liked him but could not figure out which other jesters and troupes to have him perform with.

 

The jester performed for big crowds and small. Mostly small. Sometimes he would begin performing in a king’s court and find part of the way through the performance that the King, his Queen and most of the assemblage had nipped out for a cigarette. Verily, the jester would announce he had two songs left to perform and a few patrons would drag themselves back in out of sheer politeness.

 

All the nagging feelings of self-doubt that plagued the jester in his childhood grew up with him and continued to haunt him. Was he really a good jester? What if he was actually terrible? There are other jesters who are far more successful than he, having found major-label patronage by a big time noble or clergyman. He attempted to pass the hat on the street corners but would have to give all the money back after the deadline passed without meeting his funding goal.

 

The jester began to feel like he had banged his head against the wall over and over. Perhaps he should not have become a jester. Perhaps he should have gotten a real estate licence instead. And furthermore it occurred to him that the most successful jesters make far less than they earn, having to tithe a percentage to their agents, managers, vendors. Plus they had to recoup expenses. Furthermore, he had never seen a jester become a king.

 

He discussed this on the internet but what he got in response didn’t help. “Try being a female jester. A three-day jester festival may only feature a dozen female acts or female-fronted troupes out of hundreds of performers.” “You think that’s bad? How about the feminist movement excluding jesters of color?” “I’m a trans jester and I prefer to spell it ‘jystyr’.” This didn’t not make him happy or thankful that he wasn’t a transgender woman of color. It only made him sadder and seemed to confirm he had made a bad life choice far too soon.

 

As a child, he had wanted to be a noble. Then he wanted to be a jester. Then he wanted to be a success. But he wasn’t a success. So he decided to stop being a jester. And now he was nothing. Now he had no purpose and nothing to work for. And he was still sad.

 

He went home to his long metal cabin/shack. It was falling apart. His bed was broken. His favorite comfy chair was also broken. His grandfather was older and becoming infirm. It would not be long before his grandfather was gone. Then what would the ex-jester do? He became afraid to lose his grandfather until the old man became so sick that the boy wished he would pass if only so the old man could have peace.

 

When he was a boy, he had a dream and the support of the one person who loved him the most. Now he was older and he didn’t have his grandfather. And he didn’t have the dream anymore. He had a broken-down bed and a chair that was uncomfortable to sit in. He turned out to be less than a peasant. He was not able to earn his keep, as a jester or as anything else. He was disenchanted. He was disenfranchised. He was dis-abled. He was disabled. He was disabled.
He is disabled. You can not hear him in the courts of noblemen any longer. There are always merry bands of singers, those who practice jape, and hilarious jester. He is at home in his ill-fitting comfy chair playing Tetris and waiting for the next event in his life to happen to him. He does not feel empowered to go out and change the course of his life. He does not feel like he can change the course of his life, not without significant help.

 

Because he is disabled, you see.

 

This was an inefficient fairy tale. It didn’t have a snappy ending and it took to long to get there. If you want, go back and reread it and stop every few paragraphs to listen to a song from your favorite Disney movie. See if it helps.

I Wrote Rap Lyrics for a Bjork Remix

May 19th, 2015

In 2004, Bjork released her sixth studio album, Medulla. One of the songs on this album, “Triumph Of The Heart” was released as a single early the next year, where it charted in the United Kingdom, Spain and France.

 

That’s where I come in. In 2005, I was really starting to get the Kentucky Prophet thing underway and what better way to kick off a hot career in hip-hop by collaborating by an internationally recognized artist like Bjork.

 

 

As you can imagine, my work with Bjork was ill-fated, in the sense that I never got to collaborate with her and she has no idea I exist TO THIS DAY. Since it’s been over ten years since this would-be collaboration fell through, I feel comfortable sharing with you the lyrics I would have used for the remix.

 

I realize now that this was not my best work but you have to keep in mind this was 2004/2005-ish and while my lyrics lack a certain grace(?), fragility (?), talent (?), they are certainly in keeping with some popular variations of the rap form. Now that I’ve got the apology out of the way. . .

 

Yo Bork, I hear you from Iceland

Lemme go there, make it Paradiseland

Make it Very Niceland

Don’t give birth to kids, let your pussy be a vice grip

Let me in that tight shit

Rock you like a hurricane

Like a scorpio with a paranoid android membrane

Shout out to Thom Yorke, Bork.

Let me give you radio head, get you radio play

Every soldier in the Army of Me gotta get laid

Hey Bork, I know you wildin’

In the airport passin’ out violence

From the Medulla oblon-gotta get up in the guts

Oooh baby let me squeeze your butt

Light the menorah

Blow your brains out like that stalker in Florida

I believe that this is the jam of the year

Motherfuck Lars Von Trier

Wrestlers Who Sing (Meme)

May 13th, 2015

Meme time.

0a2b2544 thepopeSINGS AUSTINANDROCKSING Heymansings AMBROSECENASING jimrosssings lawlersings otungasings samoajoeandkurtsing PunkSINGS

Potential Baseball Promotions

October 4th, 2014

Since MLB is in the playoffs, this gives the other teams that didn’t make the playoffs an opportunity to think up new ways to get fans to come watch games in 2015. If the New York Yankees are reading this, they may want to pay attention because they won’t have Derek Jeter again. I am giving these ideas away for free.

 

Ayn Rand Night. This will work especially well in Kansas City. The Royals play at Kauffman Stadium, which has a giant waterfall and (get this) fountain. Discounted copies of The Fountainhead for the first 1000 fans willing to buy them. NOTE: Do not misspell her on the big screen as “ANN Rand”. Big no-no.

 

Todd Rundgren’s Utopia Night. Seventh-inning stretch playing of “Take Me Out To The Ball Game” will be replaced by a playing of Utopia’s thirty-minute”The Ikon”. Afterwards, umpires will call the game on account of curfew.

 

Bassnectar Night. Bassnectar performance after the game. Fireworks included. Being molested in the foam pit, no charge.

 

Finnish Civil War Night. Recommended for interleague play if the Reds play the White Sox. Managers for the Reds and White Sox will sign a peace treaty at the conclusion of the series.

 

Old Fashioned Fappening Night. First 1500 fans get a slide of questionable erotic content. All slides found in storage auctions and all depicted persons are long dead.

All Tomorrow’s Prophet

September 4th, 2014

One of my favorite concert festivals is All Tomorrow’s Parties. I have never been to any of them, but I enjoy the concept of the festival. The idea being that the festival organizers allow an artist of some renown (in past years, the Flaming Lips, Matt Groening, the guy from the Afghan Whigs, the guy from Neutral Milk Hotel, to name a few) decide on who should play the festival. So it becomes their dream festival (or as much of one as can be mustered under financial and logistical concerns). Think of it like getting a look through someone’s record collection come to life, that’s All Tomorrow’s Parties.

 

I have never been to the festival because they usually occur far from me. Sometimes they are in Los Angeles or New York or London or Iceland. And it’s not like I’m spoiled for festivals, what with Forecastle to the north of me and Bonnaroo to the south. But ATP is a unique one because it represents a singular vision as opposed to other festivals which offer a broad variety.

 

I’ve given a little bit of thought to what would happen if ATP just rang me up one day and asked me to curate a festival. A guy can dream, especially knowing that the list of acts I would put together would probably draw a total of 150 paying customers. And that’s over all three days. But I made a list anyway.

 

In no particular order:

Sparks

 

The Tubes

 

Peter Hammill

 

R. Stevie Moore

 

Magma

 

Blue Oyster Cult (probable headliner)

 

Daniel Johnston

 

St. Vincent (this will be my only concession to the Pitchfork/Stereogum crowd)

 

Ultramantis Black

 

Damo Suzuki Network

 

Yellow Magic Orchestra

 

Jandek

 

Sloan (performing the entirety of Between The Bridges, which is probably not their best or most popular album)

 

Unknown Hinson

 

Unknown Mortal Orchestra

 

Lee “Scratch” Perry

 

In addition to music, there will be a wrestling tent. Also we’d have a white-rapper tent but I’ll be damned if I’m going over there. I guess my ultimate goal is to make All Tomorrow’s Juggalo Gathering when you factor that stuff in.

 

PS – The white rappers have to pay to perform. I would have to make money back on the festival somehow. Maybe a few hundred people would come to the festival I put together here. But they would fly in from all over the world. I would make a few hundred music geeks jizz in their pants with this lineup.

 

As a gesture of public service, I’d hire Ceelo Green to sit in a dunk tank and charge people to throw baseballs at him, with all the proceeds going to rape crisis and prevention charities. I should also mention that there won’t be a target switch for people to hit with the baseballs, just Ceelo sitting without a fence in front of him.

Jughead Speaks!

March 12th, 2013

AKA Excerpts from an unpublished tell-all autobiography by the drummer for the bubblegum pop sensation that gave you “Sugar, Sugar”, “Bang-Shang-A-Lang” and “Jingle Jangle”. Jughead Speaks: Everything You Know About The Archies Is A Lie! was scrapped by its’ publisher for unpublishable, unverifiable, obscene libel.

 

GIVE THE DRUMMER SOME!

 

Let me tell you something you can send your fact checkers to suss out, Simon N. Shooster. This is a true verifiable fact what I am about to tell you.

 

I AM THE ONLY MEMBER OF THE ARCHIES TO PLAY ON EVERY SONG ON EVERY ALBUM.

 

Who co-wrote all the songs on Wiggle-Waggle Wizards of Rhythm? I did. Who produced Funky Bubblegum Boogaloo ’72? Me, motherfucker! That’s who did it. Without that album, do you have Electric Light Orchestra? Do you have the B-53s or whoever they are with the “Love Shack”? NO. YOU. DON’T.

 

Archie Andrews? Fuck that guy. He couldn’t tell the difference between a guitar and a polecat with a bleeding asshole. Somebody else played the guitar on the Archie’s albums. And most of the singing, too. Tone-deaf faggot.

 

Reggie Mantle? That crummy Mexican couldn’t be bothered to learn his bass parts. Reggie was the kind of guy who would fuck a tree with a snake in it, if the snake was a Korean teenager. I tried to get David Bowie to produce our last album, Psychedelic Excretions In The Pants, but Reggie didn’t want to do it because he was afraid David Bowie would steal his semen in the middle of the night. So what if the guy was or is a cocksucker? The guy is magic when it comes to tunes. I say let him put your thing in his mouth and hum a few bars, Reg.

 

Betty and Veronica? Please. Betty was too busy trying to keep the weight off to sing. At least Veronica could keep her weight down. You would too if were taking Dexedrine all the time. Nice tits, though.

 

Who was the guy that kept the whole thing together? Me! I held it together as long as I could. That band should have been called The Jugheads. Assholes.

 

Everybody wants to do it with Betty and Veronica so bad, but they think they’re too good to spread it around. Everything you know about the Archies is a fucking lie. Those girls aren’t into Archie at all. Veronica won’t give the time of day to any man unless he’s a high-class fashion designer, and they’re all faggots. Meanwhile, Betty is in love with ice cream and hunky fireman calendars. What a fat whore, that no-having-sex-with-anyone whore.