Psalm 172 – Dance Remix

I had intended at some point to do a thing where I showed what it would look like if my 9th graded English teacher graded Si Mixalot’s “I Like Big Butts” as if I had turned it in for a poetry project.  It’d be mostly just different ways of saying “This is INAPPROPRIATE!”  I never did that.

But now, I’d like to present you with “I Like Big Butts” if it were from the Bible.  Presented with the help of Daniel, from “Jessie’s Girl, The Aftermath” fame.  No, not fame.  Infamy?  No, that’s too much.  Well, whatever the opposite of fame is that’s not infamy.

Our Lord on High, Rebekah, cast thine gaze upon her buttocks. Tis grand. She doth appear as if one of those rap guys’ girlfriends.

 

None who walk the Earth understandeth those rap guys.  They speak upon her solely because of resemblance to an unvirtuous maiden.

 

 

 

Her buttocks art so grand.

I stand in awe of its size perfect symmetry

Tis presented for all mankind to witness

Tis not a desiderata.

Verily, she is so Egyptian

 

 

 

Yea and verily, I like posteriors as big as the Jordan, and I doth not lie. You other pharisees cannot deny.

 

Forsooth, upon the entrance of yon maid with an itty-bitty waist and who presenteth a round thing unto thine visage, thou become sprung.

 

 

 

I doth want to pull up tough. Hark, thou believeth that the butt is stuffed. Deep in yon jeans she’s wearing, I am desirous and cannot help but to cast my visage upon them.

 

 

 

Oh, baby I doth desire to lay with thou
And cast thou image
Mine companions tried to warneth me
But alas, that butt thou possess
Maketh me desirous for the pleasures of the flesh.

 

 

Hark, lay hands upon that smooth skin.
Thou desires to ride upon my oxcart?
Then, useth me. Yea, useth me.
Because thou art no mongrel disciple.

 

I hath lain in witness of their gyrations
And it hath rendered me impervious to the notion of romance
She’s sweat,wet, hath it goin like a turbo chariot

 

 

I grow weary of those scribes
That say flat butts are of divine importance.
Take the ordinary Egyptian and inquire thus, and verily he shall speak:
“The maiden most possess an abundance of back.”

 

 

So apostles(amen), apostles(amen),
Testify if thine betrothed hath the butt (hallelujah).
Well shakest it, shakest it, shakest it, shakest it, shakest thine most glorious posterior.
Maiden hath back.

 


I preferest them as the apple and grand

And whence I deliverest a sermon

I cannot avoid temptation

I am but a lowly beast

Alas, I present my sins

 

I desire to lay with thou

Not once, but two-fold

I speaketh not of Grecian statues

Granite be reserved for idols

I preferest them sturdy and heavily laden

 



So discovereth that heavily laden rear

The Prophet Mixalot is in peril

His pleas rise for of piece of that posterior




As I observe the drama unfolding upon the stage

Disavow these maidens parading as for sale

Thou mayest retain those maidens

I shalt keepeth mine more the Hitite



I speaketh now to the Egyptians

I doth desire to lay with thee

I shalt not peak poorly or strike thee



I shalt not lie, I wish to lay with thee

Until the sun reappears in the East

Maiden hath it in plentitude



A lot of Pharisees shalt care not for this platitude

For they desire no more than to lay with thee and then return to the field

Nay!  I shalt remain with thee, as I am strong of loin, and I wisheth lay my seed in thee

So maidens (amen), maidens (amen)

Doth thou desire to ride upon mine oxcart?

If thou dost, simply display thine grandeur.

And, Lo!

Even the Romans shalt exclaim

Maiden hath back

Verily, maiden

Upon reference to the female form

Ecclesiastes hath nought to do with mine decision

36-24-36?

Only if she’s 3 cubits tall.




Alas, your betrothed throws a fruit cart

Observing the ways of Mary of Magdalen

But Mary hath no oxen in your cart




Mine river asp waneth none unless thou possess buns, hun.

Thou may take great care of thine physique, but, if it please the Lord, do not loseth that butt.

Some Pharisees wisheth to harden themselves

And preach that thine butt is not valuable

Whence they discard it

I shalt be there with most haste to recover it.



Though the scribes may callest thou corpulent

Alas, I cannot abide by this

For thine belly is like that of an urchin

And thine remaining proportions enticeful

I am of a mind to lay with thou.



And now I address the waifs

Thine conceit is misplaced

Bestow upon me a disciple

Figs and grapes did miss her



A heretic did ponder to dismiss

And, lo, his maids were brought before me

The heretic did raise his hand to them

And I rescueth them from his bile



So, maidens, should thine hind quarters be bulbous

And thou desireth to lay with someone with great vigor



Search out the prophet Mixalot and lose thineself in the pleasures of the flesh

Maiden hath back

Maiden hath back

A dearth in her mid-section but she hath much back

Oh my god Becky, look at her butt
It’s so big.  She looks like one of those rap guys girlfriends


Who understands those rap guys
They only talk to her because she looks like a total prostitute


I mean her butt
It’s just so big
I can’t believe it’s so round
It’s just out there
I mean, it’s gross
Look, she’s just so black


I like big butts and I can not lie
You other brothers can’t deny


That when a girl walks in with an itty bitty waist
And a round thing in your face
You get sprung


Wanna pull up tough
’cause you notice that butt was stuffed
Deep in the jeans she’s wearing
I’m hooked and I can’t stop staring



Oh, baby I wanna get with ya
And take your picture
My homeboys tried to warn me
But that butt you got
Make Me so horney


Ooh, rump of smooth skin
You say you wanna get in my benz
Well use me use me ’cause you aint that average groupy

I’ve seen them dancin’
To hell with romancin’
She’s Sweat,Wet, got it goin like a turbo vette

 

I’m tired of magazines
Saying flat butts are the thing
Take the average black man and ask him that
She gotta pack much back

 

So Fellas (yeah) Fellas(yeah)
Has your girlfriend got the butt (hell yeah)
Well shake it, shake it, shake it, shake it, shake that healthy butt
Baby got back

I like’em round and big
And when I’m throwin a gig
I just can’t help myself
I’m actin like an animal
Now here’s my scandal

I wanna get you home
And UH, double up UH UH
I aint talkin bout playboy
’cause silicone parts were made for toys
I wannem real thick and juicy


So find that juicy double
Mixalot’s in trouble
Beggin for a piece of that bubble


So I’m lookin’ at rock videos
Knockin these bimbos walkin like hoes
You can have them bimbos
I’ll keep my women like Flo Jo

A word to the thick soul sistas
I wanna get with ya
I won’t cus or hit ya

But I gotta be straight when I say I wanna —
Til the break of dawn
Baby Got it goin on

Alot of pimps won’t like this song
’cause them punks lie to hit it and quit it

But I’d rather stay and play
’cause I’m long and I’m strong
And I’m down to get the friction on

So ladies (yeah), Ladies (yeah)
Do you wanna roll in my Mercedes (yeah)
Then turn around
Stick it out
Even white boys got to shout
Baby got back

Yeah baby
When it comes to females
Cosmo ain’t got nothin to do with my selection
36-24-36
Only if she’s 5’3″

So your girlfriend throws a Honda
Playin workout tapes by Fonda
But Fonda ain’t got a motor in the back of her Honda


My anaconda don’t want none unless you’ve got buns hun
You can do side bends or sit-ups, but please don’t lose that butt
Some brothers wanna play that hard role
And tell you that the butt ain’t gold
So they toss it and leave it
And I pull up quick to retrieve it



So cosmo says you’re fat
Well I ain’t down with that
’cause your waist is small and your curves are kickin
And I’m thinkin bout stickin

To the beanpole dames in the magazines
You aint it miss thing
Give me a sista I can’t resist her
Red beans and rice did miss her

Some knucklehead tried to dis
’cause his girls were on my list
He had game but he chose to hit ’em
And I pulled up quick to get with ’em

So ladies if the butt is round
And you wanna triple X throw down

 

Dial 1-900-MIXALOT and kick them nasty thoughts
Baby got back
Baby got back
Little in tha middle but she got much back

Y’all Be Trippin’

See, the thing about religion is that’s it’s usually a small journey from, “Hey, that’s a good idea!” (see, “be nice to everybody) to “Wow! You just may be batshit crazy!” (lots of examples about this, am I right?).  Well, guess which one I’m here to talk about.

A friend of mine was recently trapped in a conversation with a man who felt she needed some saving.  This despite the fact that she is in fact a church-going Christian and informed him as much.  He could tell by looking at her that she wasn’t religious enough.  A handy, I suppose, super-power, if perhaps a little boring.  Her short-coming, as evidenced by his 2 PAGE DIAGRAM, was in the field of chastity (she’s married, by the way).  According to his rant, “Chastity (a Virtue (capitalization his, not mine)) means to see everyone as made in the image and likeness of GOD” (again, his capitalization).

Except, that’s not what chastity means.  Even a little.  There’s probably a thing that does meant that.  But it’s not chastity.

For him, and whatever weird little church he belongs to that doesn’t have a good grasp of vocabulary, being Chaste involves something called SPICE.  One then has to assume the Spice Girls are necessarily Chaste.  Except Ginger Spice, of course, as gingers have no souls.

What is SPICE you ask?  Well, it’s an acronym unsurprisingly.  It’s an acronym where each word makes up one of the five petals of a flower (aside – he misspelled “petal” though he did draw a diagram of the SPICE flower – the center of which, the pistil, is labelled “love,” which is nice).  The five petals of the SPICE flower are:

Spiritual

Physical

Intellectual

Creative

Emotions

I’m gonna go ahead and assume he meant “Emotional.”  Anyway, the important thing for chastity is that all five petals are in balance like a “beautiful flower” and not like one of those jacked-up flowers that you find in the bottom of the flower fridge at the grocery store at 6pm on Mother’s Day.  If they’re not, you have to focus on developing the ones that are out of balance.  (Duh.)  For instance, he writes, “Women that are not dressed appropriately have an extreme Physical petal…”  I’m gonna stop here and take a guess that he could tell she needed this info because she was wearing yoga pants (in public! gasp!), or as the internet calls them, whore pants.  Then he adds, “they actually don’t show enough.”

Wait, what?  Now maybe he explained this during his rant, but on paper, this makes no sense.

Then, all of the sudden, we’re done with the SPICE flower and have moved on to answer the question, “What is the Mass?”  Apparently, and I’m just gonna put the entire quote in it’s entirety, it’s a marriage ceremony where “God is marrying his bride the Church.  We are the Body of Christ here on earth.  And at the consummation of the Mass he shares his real Body Blood, Soul and Divinity (sounds familiar, doesn’t it?).  *This is called the Theology of the Body!”

Okay, let me take a breath and go through this one item at a time.  “God is marrying his bride the Church.”  I’m guessing he means “congregation” not Church, so I’ won’t pick on this.  But then we get into “We are the Body of Christ here on earth” which doesn’t even follow from his previous sentence, so I don’t know what he means.  And then, “And at the consummation of the Mass he shares his real Body Blood, Soul and Divinity (sounds familiar, doesn’t it?)”

Phew.

I’d like to assume that by “consummation” he means “completion” and not, you know, what everybody else means by consummation.  But you never know with crazy.

“He shares his real Body Blood, Soul, and Divinity…”  That’s a lot of sharing.

“(Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”)  No, It doesn’t sound familiar.  Not even a little fucking bit.  Familiar to what?  To whom?

“This is called the Theology of the Body!”  The only reason I bring this sentence up is that when I Googled “the Theology of the Body,” Google auto-filled with “the Theology of Yoga Pants” which I thought was frigging hysterical.

Then he says that “the reason women can’t be priests is because the priest must be an Icon of God/Jesus who is male and he gives to the bride….hence the bridegroom and the bride.”  Hence the bridegroom and the bride?  What?  How is that a “hence”?  Does “hence” mean something I don’t know?

That’s followed by a diagram of the trinity of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, with the Father at the top, as usual.  Then there’s an arrow pointing to the next diagram labelled “at Home” which is the trinity of the Husband, Wife and “Child that shows their love.”  Though he misspelled “their” as “there” but then wrote over it.  Maybe it was the other way around though.  And of course, the Husband is at the top of the pyramid.  No explanation as to why this is included at all.

After that, he writes “Catholics are supernatural and have multiple dimensions!”

Wait, this is supposed to be Catholicism?!  Sweet damn.  I did 13 years in Catholic school and not once did “supernatural” come up.  And neither did “multiple dimensions” but that was probably just because the word “multiple” would maybe make us think about “multiple orgasms” and that’s not just not okay.  I mean, I heard a lot of crazy shit come out of the place.  (One nun told us all that masturbation is a sin because it is homosexual in nature since you are performing a sex act on someone of your own gender.  That messed my head up so bad, I couldn’t masturbate for almost 3 hours.  Almost.  I suppose I could have argued that I was trying desperately not to masturbate, but that I was having trouble find someone to do it for me, though I doubt that was her point.)  If I’d known I was supernatural, I’d have at least tried to pick up girls with that line.  Thanks, Obama!

What’s left is the word “worry” in huge print with an arrow pointing toward the word “devil.”  Under that, just as big, “suffering” with an arrow pointing to “God.”

I guess that worrying leads to the devil, but suffering leads to God?  No, that doesn’t sound right.  Worry is caused by the devil, but suffering is caused by God?  Hmmm….that’s probably not it either.  Worry equals devil?  Suffering equals God?  Worry made the devil and suffering made God?  I really got nothing on this one.

As my friend was relating this encounter to me, all I could think was, “Lucky!”  I love meeting crazy people.  They’re so much more interesting than normal people, and sadly, as I grow older, my ability to attract the crazies seems to have diminished, much to my chagrin.  She did not match my enthusiasm.

Still.  Lucky.

Bust A Move

Listen up, Clydes, I gotta real nice tale for ya, hear.   I spent too much time trying to give the dames what they say they want, and I’m here to tell, they don’t know what they want.  None of ’em.  They’ll tell ya one thing, and soon as ya give it to ’em, Boom! they’re out!  While I’m jumpin’ and pawin’ like a puppy going after a chew toy, she’s trying to find the cat who just pissed on the bed.

I get a call from Chicago Tim,.  He’s not from Chicago.  We call him that on account of how much time he spends with Big Lou’s wife.  Big Lou IS from Chicago and we all reckon that’ll be where Tim’s body gets found if Big Lou catches wind.  Seems ole Tim has whipped up a shindig at some dive down by the docks.  What the Hell, it’s not like I got clients beating down the door to give me money.  Bill collector’s the only man comes ’round anymore.  I get down there toot sweet and the place is just lousy with hoochie-coochers.  One walks by me with a set of gams on her that’d make Chuck Lindbergh park that plane of his for good just to get a peek.  Which is what I’m doing.  But I don’t even make it up to her knees before she gets scooped up by some GI home on leave.

The next day I get called in to see the big cheese.  I’m not worried, not this time.   He owes me for not ratting him out to his wife when she hired me to tail him.  She suspected he was out on the town with that floozy from Mac’s Tavern.  She was right, but I ain’t got no death wish.  So now he throws me a bone whenever his old lady goes to visit a friend in Chicago.  Thankfully, it’s not the same bone he throws the floozy.  This bone’s an open bar at his latest soiree.  I like that bone.  Six drinks in and I decide a bite is in order.  Eight drinks in and I’m on my third trip down the buffet line.  The band starts up and people are swinging.  Not me, I’ve eaten enough grub to make my belt re-think its career choice.  It’s just then I see a dame making her way across the room, as blonde as a field of sunflowers and twice as pretty.  Something told me if went traipsing through that field, I’d find plenty of bees waiting to sting me.  She pulls up next to me and asks if I’d like to cut a rug.  Before I can answer, she takes the plate out of my hand.  “Come on, fatso,” she says as she pats my overstuffed belly

I’ve tracked down a hundred a dames in my time.  I’ve never failed to find one for a client.  For me, though, that’s not in the cards.  My last bender had me telling Chicago Tim maybe I should just ship out, find a mountain top like one of them Dolly Llamas.  Tim slurred something about a light at the end of the tunnel.  Least, I think that’s what he said.  With my luck, that light’s attached to something big, ugly and belching.  Like the dame sitting by me at Mac’s.  I should go around to Tim’s, haven’t seen him since before the soiree at Big Lou’s.



I figure I better get out of here before the steam engine next to me starts looking good.  The theater down the street has a show about to start.  Might be a gas, and the darkness will be good for the hangover that’s creeping up on me like cheetah stalking an injured gazelle at the watering hole.  I plop down at the end of row like a sack of flour dropped by a baker at the end of a long day.  That’s when I see her.  She was six feet of gorgeous and wore that yellow dress like an over-filled sausage plumping in all the right places.  Kosher or not, I think the rabbi would understand.  She says, “Hello, come sit next to me you fine fellow.”  And up I go.  I’ll look for Chicago Tim tomorrow.  If I had to guess, he’d be just as dead then as he is right now.



This whole berg is crawling with dames, for what that’s worth.  Every Joe on every corner thinkin’ they’re Morey Amsterdam, as if that’s gonna get ’em somewhere.  And for everyone one of them, there’s a dozen Betty’s turning ’em away.  Ain’t none of them lookin’ to walk on a date.  No money, no car, living off Uncle Sam’s pension from the war.  That’s no way to pull a bird.  Not these birds, anyway.  They’re all searching for a way out of here, waiting for opportunity to start knocking, and opportunity damn sure don’t look like any of these bums.  Maybe ya used to be something, before you shipped back from the Philippines, where you could stroll own the beach with a C-note and dames’d be on you like dung beetles on a fresh pile.



The phone call was from Harry Blackwell.  Did two tours in the South Pacific with that crazy bastard.  His brother’s getting hitched up and I’m invited.  Anything to get out of Dodge for a few.  Days here drag by like a cockroach pulling a ham biscuit across the diner floor. 




I couldn’t be more out of place in this monkey suit.  You can take the neanderthal out of the saber-toothed tiger skin, but he’s still a neanderthal.  The bride walks past, nine kinds of brunette trouble, with legs that go all the way up, just like I like ’em, swishing down the aisle like a koi making its away across the pond.  But this fish is already on the hook, and tonight, she’ll be in someone else’s frying pan.  I shake the thought and blink the dame out of my head.  A bridesmaid, red, long, and dangerous, gives me the eye.  I smile back.  I’m not stupid.  At the reception, she slinks up to me.  I like it when they slink.  I ask if she wants to dance, she smiles and drops her room key in my drink before slinking back off.  The drink’s ruined, but this time, I don’t mind so much.



I could move here, I think on the elevator ride.  Nothin’ keeping me back home.  ‘Cept maybe Tim.   And there’s no way he survived that last trip to Chicago with the big cheese’s lady.
This here’s a jam for all the fellas
Tryin to do what those ladies tell us
Get shot down cause ya over-zealous
Play hard to get females get jealous








Okay smarty go to a party

Girls are scantily clad and showin body
A chick walks by you wish you could sex her But you’re standing on the wall like you was Poindexter













Next day’s function high class luncheon

Food is served, and you’re stone-cold munchin
Music comes on people start to dance

But then you ate so much you nearly split your pants

A girl starts walking guys start gawking
Sits down next to you and starts talking
Says she wants to dance cause she likes to groove

So come on fatso and just bust a move













You’re on a mission and your wishin
Someone could cure your lonely condition Lookin for love in all the wrong places
No fine girls just ugly faces

Some frustration first inclination Is to become a monk and leave the situation
But every dark tunnel has a light of hope

So don’t hang yourself with a celibate rope








Your movie’s showin, so you’re goin

Could care less about the five you’re blowin Theater gets dark just to start the show
Then ya spot a fine woman sittin in your row
She’s dressed in yellow, she says “Hello, Come sit next to me you fine fellow.”
You run over there without a second to lose
And what comes next hey bust a move











In this city ladies look pretty

Guys tell jokes so they can seem witty

Tell a funny joke just to get some play

Then you try to make a move and she says, “No way” Girls are fakin goodness sakin They want a man who brings home the bacon Got no money and you got no car
Then you got no woman and there you are
Some girls are sadistic, materialistic
Lookin for a man makes them opportunistic They’re lyin on a beach perpetrating a tan
So that a brother with the money can be their man
So on the beach you’re strollin real high rollin
Everything you have is yours and not stolen
A girl runs up with somethin to prove

So don’t just stand there bust a move




Your best friend Harry has a brother Larry

In five days from now he’s gonna marry

He’s hopin you can make it there if you can Cause in the ceremony you’ll be the best man






You say neat-o, check your libido

And roll to the church in your new tuxedo

The bride walks down just to start the wedding
And there’s one more girl you won’t be getting
So you start thinkin then you start blinking
A bridesmaid looks and thinks that you’re winking

She thinks your kinda cute so she winks back And now your feelin really fine cause the girl is stacked
Reception’s jumpin bass is pumpin
Look at the girl and your heart starts thumpin
Says she wants to dance to a different groove Now you know what to do G bust a move

Bunch of Damn Pervs…

After 230,000 miles my old Pathfinder finally gave up on me.  Its demise necessitated the purchase of a new car which is in the midst of its 90-day free trial of satellite radio.  What I’ve learned about satellite radio is there’s no reason for me to renew it when the trial is over.  All I do is hit the seek button a hundred times an hour.  I’m wearing out my arm.

But they do have an all 50s station that I have started paying attention to, and I’ve realized that the 50s were not the puppies and rainbows decade they’d have us believe.  If you read through the line of these 50s love songs, it paints a pretty bleak picture.  Of course, part of that is due to the fact that teenagers are, have always been, and will always be a bunch of horn-balls.  The 50s maybe just tried a little harder to cover it up.

Let’s start with “Silhouettes” by The Rays(1957).  It’s a lovely little number about a guy standing outside his girl’s window when he sees two people about to go at it.  He understandably gets upset and begins pounding on the door, eventually threatening to beat it down if she doesn’t answer.  (Yikes!)  The door finally opens and our intrepid peeping Tom discovers he is at the wrong house.  At this point, he runs to the correct house and, to paraphrase, “loves her like he’s never loved her before.”  I can only assume that means Reverse Cowgirl.

How about “Poison Ivy” by The Coasters(1959).  If this song’s not about a girl with STDs, I’ll punch a kitten in the face.  “Now you can look but you better not touch,” mm-hmmm.  And, “Late at night while you’re sleepin’ poison ivy comes a’creepin,'”  that’s the infection spreading.  How about, “But poison ivy, Lord’ll make you itch!!”  They’re not even being subtle anymore.  But then, “You’re gonna need an ocean of calamine lotion” shows how much they didn’t know about STDs in the 50s.  “You’ll be scratchin’ like a hound
The minute you start to mess around.”  Do they mean crabs,maybe?  Well, that’s not so bad.

“Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?” by The Shirelles (1960) is pretty obvious.  I know that 1960 is not the 1950s, but it is really close, so I’ll allow it.  Plus, I’m afraid if I don’t, I will run out of reference material before you have been sufficiently entertained.

And Gene McDaniels’ oh-so-understated “Point of No Return.”  “You just can’t get off a train that’s movin’ down the track.  I’m at the point of no return and for me there’ll be no turning back.”  Come on!  There’s even a train comparison.  I can only imagine him actually singing the song to warn the poor girl of his impending…expulsion.  I think that just made it creepier.  Aaaand….now I can’t stop imagining that.  Great.  Thanks, Gene.  Dick.  Son-of-a-bitch.  I just found out this song is from 1962.  What the fuck, Sirius XM?  You’re making me look like an asshole here.

Moving on.

“Sixty-Minute Man” by The Dominoes(1951).  I’m including this one for obvious reasons, but I want to concentrate on this lyric: “And 15 minutes of blowing my top.”  15.  Minutes.  The man is talking about a 15 minute orgasm.  That’s ridiculous.  And to quote the internet, “Ain’t nobody got time for that.”  I will give full props to The Dominoes on the name of the song, which, if nothing else, has a great deal more panache than my song, “Eight and Half Minute Man (And That Includes The Foreplay.)”

Or Bobby Darrin’s “Plain Jane”(1958) about a not-so-attractive girl that he wants to go out with but won’t tell us why.  “I could never, never tell you why I love her like I do, but if you took her out for one fine night you’d feel the same way too.”  I think it’s pretty clear “Plain Jane” does anal.

And let’s not forget “Tutti Frutti” by Little Richard(1955).  Little Richard himself has said the original lyrics were “If it’s tight, it’s alright.  If it’s greasy, it makes it easy.”  Sounds like Little Richard spent some quality time with “Plain Jane.”

Now for some generalities.

The word “tenderness” comes up with an astonishing frequency in 1950s songs.  My research has revealed that over half (*figure not based on actual data) of all 50s songs include lyrics about missing “your tenderness” and needing “your tenderness”.  We can only surmise that “tenderness” was 1950’s teen code for “genitalia.”

And last but not least, we need to look at the prevalence of songs either about, or dedicated to, 16-year-old girls.  There is a preponderance of them.  In the 1950s, singing about “loving” a 16-year-old, and in some cases, rejoicing that she had finally turned 16, was perfectly okay.  But try that shit today and it’s all, “Sir, we’ve already called the police,” and “That’s VERY inappropriate!” and suddenly I’m banned from Hot Topic “like, permanently!”

Man, times sure have changed.

 

Hoping for better luck moving forword

Sorry for the delay in updating this.  Here are a bevy of excuses:

1.  I was furiously editing my novel “Dwight of the Living Dead” to meet the deadline for Quirk Books “Looking For Love” contest on October 1st.  I made it, so now comes the finger crossing.

2.  In the midst of all that, I had serious computer issues that cost me almost a week of productivity, eventually resulting in me having to buy a new computer.  Yay!

3.  WordPress issues galore!!

Anyway, I’ll try to do better from now on.

Thanks,

Grumpy

NOT INTERNATIONALLY KNOWN: The unauthorized biography of Rob Base if it were written by a hopelessly caucasian historian with only the lyrics to “It Takes Two” as his source material and Holy Crap did this title get out of control and sweet dammit why won’t I stop typing!

 

 

 

 

 

Rob Base, born Robert Base, was a man of few desires: to rock right now1, to be an M.C.2, to keep you in step3 (an ideal he believed to a “real funky concept”4), and respect5 (thematically common to the demogrpahic). While he never believed himself to have achieved worldwide acclaim6, he was able to eek out a modicum of notoriety in his ability to “rock the microphone,”7 a colloquialism oft used in reference to “rap” or “hip-hop,” musical expressions consisting of lyrical poetry set to a beat usually bass and/or percussion-heavy and predominantly urban in nature.

 

He was oft times the object of the amorous advances of women8, though he himself was not quite sure which of his attribtes was responsible for said reaction.9

 

Though not a trained medical professional10, he found himself possessing the skill to alter, positively, the moods of those around him11. In addition, he relied heavily on his abilty to out wit his competition12. And while this may have proven problematic for some of his peers, it is important to note to Rob was in fact no one to be trifled with13, but despite his bravado, he felt no need for any extraordinary measures regarding personal safety14,15.

 

Mr. Base was a self-proclaimed frugal man16, at least with regards to his intellectual property17. But he was quite giving of himself and his energies, willing to step up18 and assist anyone who might need it19. He concerned himself with fashion20,26, the youths of the world21, and “dissin’”22 (reference unavailable).

 

He was a strong and solitary man23 who valued honesty and trustworthiness above all else24. He was not concerned with matters as trivial as praise25. Nor was he afflicted by any of the more common speech impediments27,28. He also held firm beliefs about dietary questions prevalent during the era29.

 

And while he confessed to be egotistical in nature30, he was approachable31 and felt content to let each man or woman find his or her own way32.

I wanna rock right now1
I’m Rob Base and I came to get down
I’m not internationally known
6
But I’m known to rock the microphone
7

Because I get stupid, I mean outrageous
Stay away from me if you’re contagious
‘Cause I’m the winner, no, I’m not the loser
To be an M.C. is what I choose ‘a2

Ladies love me, girls adore me
I mean even the ones who never saw me8
Like the way that I rhyme at a show
The reason why, man, I don’t know
9
So let’s go, ’cause

My name is Rob, I gotta real funky concept4
Listen up ’cause I’m gonna keep you in step
3
I got an idea that I wanna share
You don’t like it? So what, I don’t care

I’m number one, the uno, I like comp
Bring all the suckers ’cause all them I’ll stomp
Bold and black but I won’t protect
All of my followers ’cause all I want is respect5

I’m not a doctor10, put them in rapture11
A slick brother that can easy outfox ya
12
‘Cause I’m Rob, the last name Base, yeah
And on the mike, I’m known to be the freshest

So let’s start, it shouldn’t be too hard
I’m not a sucker13 so I don’t need a bodyguard14
I won’t fess, wear a bulletproof vest
15
Don’t smoke Buddha, can’t stand sees, yes

The situation that the Base is in
I’m kinda stingy that’s why I don’t wanna lend16
A funky rhyme
17 to a foe or a good friend
But listen up ’cause I want you to comprehend

‘Cause I’m the leader, the man superior18
I take care of ya
19 and then ya get wearier
So just sit, my rhymes are not counterfeit
The record sells which makes this one a hit

It won’t hurt to listen to Red Alert
Take off your shirt make sure it don’t hit the dirt20
I like the kids, the guys, the girls
21
I want the ducats ’cause this is Rob Base’s world

I’m on a mission, ya better just listen
To my rhymes ’cause I’m all about dissin’22
‘Cause

I stand alone, don’t need anyone23
‘Cause I’m Rob, just came to have fun
Don’t need friends that act like foes
24
‘Cause I’m Rob Base, the one who knows

About things that make ya get weary
Don’t cheer me25, just hear me
Out ’cause I got the clout shout
(Ho)

Before I turn the party out
I won’t stutter27
Project my voice, speak clearly
28
So you can be my choice

On stage or on record
Go to the Wiz and select it
Take it off the rack, if it’s wack put it back26
I like the Whopper, fuck the Big Mac
29

If you want static, so let’s go
So, throw up your hands
Go for what you know32
Bro’, I got an ego
30
Yo, talkin’ to me? No

Oh, ’cause Rob is in the front
EZ Rock is on the Back up
We’re not soft, so you better just slack up
‘Cause I’m cool, calm just like a breeze31

Rock the mike with the help of EZ
Rock on the set, the music plays
Only cuts the records that I say

All right, now, EZ Rock
Now, when I count to three
I want you to get busy, you ready now?
One, two, three, get loose now ‘, I got an ego
Yo, talkin’ to me? No

Oh, ’cause Rob is in the front
EZ Rock is on the Back up
We’re not soft, so you better just slack up
‘Cause I’m cool, calm just like a breeze

Rock the mike with the help of EZ
Rock on the set, the music plays
Only cuts the records that I say

All right, now, EZ Rock
Now, when I count to three
I want you to get busy, you ready now?
One, two, three, get loose now

My Cheating Wife

I’ve droned on before about how immature I am.  I’m neither ashamed of it nor proud of it.  It is what it is.  And as near as I can tell, all guys are immature, stopping the personal growth schtick around age 13.  The smart ones simply embrace and move on.  I know I have.  I’m 43 and I like playing video games, drinking in parking lots for three hours before a sporting event, fart jokes (good ones), and “That’s what she said.”

Luckily, my wife seems enamored (that means “tolerates,” yes?) most of my shenanigans.  Whether this is in her nature or simply a “If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em” situation, I cannot say.

However, one part I know she’s on board with is our family game of “Punch Buggy.”  Our motto is: It’s not domestic violence if it happens during Punch Buggy.  It’s quaint but we like.  I’m considering translating it into Latin and putting it on a coat of arms.  So she loves her some Punch Buggy, but…she kinda cheats at it.

Here are the rules to our version of Punch Buggy:

1. You have to call out the color of the Bug, then punch

2. You get one punch for a modern bug

3. You get 3 punches for a classic bug

4. You get 5 punches for a Volkswagen bus.

It’s pretty simple, right?

I first became aware of her penchant for, shall we say, dishonesty, the first time we drove past a Volkswagen dealership and before I knew it, she screamed, “Dealership!” and began assaulting me about the arm and shoulder area.  She got in six or seven punches before I could stop her and remind her that “Dealership!” is not a color and that what she was doing was cheating and not cool at all and quite frankly hurt.  To her credit, she apologized, the began screaming out colors and resumed punching me.  That was a very long red light.

Her second transgression occurred just recently in a store parking lot.  A Volkswagen turned the corner toward us and she squealed with delight proclaiming it to be an “Old Volkswagen Bus.”  You say it like that so you can deliver a blow with each syllable to make sure you get your 5.

Problem was, it was this:

Not this:

A brief, um, discussion arose as I pointed out the error of her ways (because I’m a good guy like that, you see).  She disagreed (and to this day insists that she sees no difference between the two).  All of this was rendered moot when the DRIVER OF THE VAN pulls to a stop to back me up.  He wagged his finger at her through the windshield as we approached and then informed her that she was in the wrong and that his van was too new to count, giving a incredibly detailed breakdown of the model years that legal counted in Punch Buggy.

I don’t know why, but this stranger’s intervention delighted me no end.  I smiled about it for the rest of the day.

Okay, maybe that story isn’t that interesting to you, but I will cherish it forever.  Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go put some sheets on the couch.  It seems entitling a blog post “My Cheating Wife” isn’t as funny for some people as it is for others.

 

You Know, Like In Second Grade?

When my son was about 5, he had a mohawk.  A glorious mohawk.  Not one of those damnable faux-hawks parents give their kids just to get them to shut up.  I mean a fucking Mohawk.  Dyed bright blue.  When we put it up, it rose over 6 inches off his scalp.  It was brilliant.  One fateful day, he had asked that it be put up in liberty spikes and I of course obliged because I am in fact the coolest dad ever.  We later found ourselves at the mall, which is astonishingly, not the most surprising part of this story.  (I do so hate the mall.)

During our stroll about the mall, we heard the patter of soft-soled feet behind us.  As a matter of course, I simply do not turn around at the sound of sensible shoes, but after a moment, as the sound neared, it was joined by an, “Excuse me?”  The voice was directly behind us and close enough it was clear she was speaking to us.  We stopped and turned to greet to twenty-somethings clad in all black, their hair coiffed beyond all reasonable measure that would be required for a trip to the mall.  The woman and her friend flashed professional-grade smiles.

“His mohawk is great!” the woman said.  She didn’t have an accent, but she spoke with the air of a person who desperately wanted to be from Europe.  You know the type.  She was important, by God, if only to herself.  She drank lattes all day, spending fully a third of her income on them, and while yes, she did go to nightclubs, she only went to the BEST ones and even then would not deign herself to dance as the music was tragically American and all the best dance music was from Europe and why did it have to take so long for anything good to happen here.  I did not like her already.

“Thanks.”

“We,” she gestured to herself and her friend lest I be confused, “work at Mitchells’ Spa…”

Of fucking course you do.

“…and I have a client who has a mohawk.  What do you use to keep his up like that?”

This was a legitimate question.  Once a mohawk gets to a certain length, extra measures have to be taken to get it stay up.  Regular hair gel will simply make it too heavy to stand, and hairspray alone will not always be strong enough.  There are several methods one can use.  We used Elmer’s Glue.  Plain ole Elmer’s Glue.  Works like a charm.

I smiled, because I have explained to people before that we use glue and the reaction is always the same.  A small amount of incredulity, a smile and a “No way!”  The end.

“It’s Elmer’s,” I said.

The girl and her friend nodded.  She bent down and inspected the mohawk a little closer, but said nothing.  I took her silence as apprehension and thought to do her a professional favor and arm her with information to relay to her client.

“It washes out very easily, I promise.  Maybe and extra minute or so under some warm water, then just shampoo it out.  I swear it’s not a problem.”  People often ask about the clean up.

The girl and her friend nodded again.  She was now staring at me.  There was doubt in her eyes, I could see it.  I’m still gonna help this girl, I decided.

“Just try not to get it on the scalp.  It will dry white on the skin, but not in the hair.  Or they make a clear kind now.  That’s what we use.”

She was still nodding.  Still obviously confused about something but I was done trying to guess this girl’s problem, so I shut up.

“Elmer’s, huh?” she said.

“I swear to God,” I said.

“Uh-hmm, uh-hmm,” she said knowingly.  “And where did you get it?”

“Get what?”

“This Elmer’s stuff.”

Sweet merciful public school system.  This chick didn’t know what Elmer’s Glue was.  I looked at her friend to see if he was gong to step in.  He wasn’t.  I couldn’t tell if he didn’t know either or was stifling laughter so hard he had had a stroke.

“I don’t remember, probably Harris Teeter.”  Maybe she would start to get it.

“They carry it at the grocery store?”

Maybe not.  “Sweetie, it’s Elmer’s.  Elmer’s Glue.”

Still nothing.

“You know, like in second grade?”

“Oh, okay!  Thanks!”  They turned and walked away, but I could tell, she still had no idea what I was talking about.

 

alien bubbles wing barbecue bob

Another one of those “use these 5 words” deals.  Got nothing for this one either.  Oh well.

And don’t worry, I’m working on new stuff.  Hopefully I’ll get it posted this week.

 

“Where’s Bob?”

“Can’t make it.  Wife’s pissed.”

“Oh?”

“Caught him with that stripper.”

“Bubbles?”

“Yup.  Had her dressed up a like an alien.”

“Illegal or extra-terrestrial?”

“Extra-terrestrial.”

“Uhh…” Jerry grabbed the tongs and flipped over the chicken wing sizzling on the barbecue.  “That’s pretty messed up.”

“Yup.”