EPIC BAD TASTE ISSUE
1. OSWALD ACTED ALONE Patsy Records
A FAR MEAN STREAK OF INDEPENCE 12 Songs
Although some of the rockin’ tuneage here, like “Storm
Sewer Head Shot” and “Sinister Masonic Ritual” is spot
on, and “Il Fucile Maledetto” is strangely touching, I
take exception to some of the songs, like the rather
pompously operatic “Livarsi na pietra di la scarpa!
(Take the stone from my shoe!),” the somewhat
inappropriately cheery “Three Little Tramps (Who’ve
Lost Their Way),” and the dull “Umbrella Man.” One
instrumental, the ominous “Z331/Z332 (transposed)” is
reminiscent of Varese; the other, “C2766 (Iron Sight)”
is oddly tuneful. This is a manful effort; however,
overall, I am not convinced that this disc will prove
of lasting interest to any but the most diehard fans.
Evil fiend (portrayed by Christopher Walken–who else?) breaks into
Hollywood mausoleum and steals celebrity body parts to create an
undead creature with the ski-slope nose of Bob Hope, the sad cow-eyes
of Carol Burnett, the hideous rictus grin of war-whore Martha Raye,
the manic laugh of Richard Widmark, the chin of Rondo Hatton, the brow
and hairline of Peter Lorre, the arms of Steve Reeves, the torso of
Johnny Weissmuller, the crazy dancin’ feet of Fred Astaire, and, of
course, the brain and voice of the sinister Frank Sinatra. The
creature wreaks havoc among the still-living celebs the vindictive
Frank believes had “done him dirt”, including former wife Mia Farrow’s
hapless former spouse Woody Allen. Directed by John Waters. B&W and
Only in Arabia
Can a man without dinar
Go to sleep and wake up for sale in a slave bazaar!
I’ve not been long upon the world
To know of all the wonders of the earth
But I must offer up a question
Consider it for what it’s worth.
The voice of those who rob us of our birthright
The thoughtless words of men of ill-repute;
Why do we fail to put them in their places?
Why no philosophies to offer and refute?
Why do we cheer the cant of blowhards
And thus entice the bastards on?
This question begs but one precise solution:
5. THE LATEST CONSPIRACY
I hear a crook stole a shoebox with a woman’s dead cat
inside, only, actually, the way I heard the story, it
was a bat, and the bat was Dracula, and he sucked the
blood out of the crook’s neck, but the crook was a
rummy, and so Dracula got drunk and became Drunkula
and then he met Jesus in a bar–also drunk, because
his blood is made of wine–and Drac said “Let’s step
outside” and the Messiah kicked his ass. And then I
heard that Jesus got upset and went to an AA meeting
and made the following speech: “My name is Jesus the
Nazarene and I am an alcoholic. It has been 3 months,
7 days, and 1,974 years since my last drink–a sponge
soaked in vinegar. I have apologized to the wedding
party at Cana, and admitted that I enabled them to
drink by turning water into wine. And finally, I would
like to say that after making a fearless moral
inventory of my past habits, I have decided to look to
a higher power–myself–to overcome my alcoholism.”
Death, or “Deathie” to his friends is the funniest thing going. It’s the ultimate banana peel on the road to all your foolish good intentions. Only think–you spent your whole life doing good and helping others and learning new stuff and providing warm, loving caring mentoring relationships and rescuing sick dogs from the animal rescue league and patting furry bunnies and eating a sensible diet and staying out of smoke-filled rooms and yet, no matter how good and kind you’ve been, death comes, and not only that, death is not kind…oh, no, my friend, death is not kind. Death is nothing at all. And you are nothing. And that’s all there is!
Every time I watch an old movie and see a dog I say to my wife, see that dog? That dog’s dead now. And then we’re both sad for a minute. And then we fuck. But it still doesn’t change the fact that THE DOG IS DEAD!!! Or perhaps we change the channel to PBS and watch a ballet. See that dancer? Pretty ballerina, right? GUESS WHAT!!!! SHE’S DEAD TOO, NOW! GAW HAW HAW!!!Death is funny. Everything about it is a barrel of laughs. I wish more people could see that. Like, what’s with the maggots that feast on your putrifying flesh when you’re supposedly “at rest” in your coffin? “At rest”, ah hah hah, that’s a good one. Yeah, I always take a quick 40 winks and wake up refreshed ONLY TO DISCOVER MAGGOTS ARE OOZING OUT OF MY JELLIED EYE SOCKETS! AAARGH! GET EM OFF! GET EM OFF!
Hey, and another thing that bothers me about death is the organ harvesting–I don’t mind donating my fingers for science or whatchamacallit, but why should I give up my pristine liver and kidneys for some blotchy-skinned coma bum who boozed it up for 40 years and now expects my poor body parts to carry their weight for another 20 years of whoop-de-doo. WHY CAN’T I DECIDE WHO GETS MY ORGANS?? And for that matter, I WANT THE MONEY UP FRONT, SCHMUCKO!!
(This one’s for my British friends.) Oi! …and another thing about death that’s got my goat–anaerobic microbes! I say that if the wee daft fuckers don’t have the courage to attack me when I’m in a position to fend them off, they ought to have the bollocks not to fester in my guts after I’ve croaked and it’s no go the white blood cell count. Cor!
Oh, death, where is they sting? or grave thy victory? Isn’t it funny that our bodies are 70 per cent water and yet we’re afraid to get wet? And isn’t it downright hilarious that death is all around us and yet we’re afraid of the one thing which is powerless against us once it has finally claimed us and we go back to where we came from, free at last?
Thank you. You’ve been wonderful.
7. THE PEPPERMINT TWIST
I was busy setting my cat on fire in order to dry my sheets, which I
had just wet for the 10,234th time. Mama, who is really a very good
looking woman by the way, says that at the age of 38 I should have
stopped wetting the bed by now, but I told her I didn’t want to get up
and go to the bathroom.
Besides, I ENJOY rubbing the warm spot with my–no, I won’t say it–it’s a SIN!
OK, Nursie, yes I DO read comic books but I only read kids’ comics
like Heroman so it’s OK.
So anyway, Nursie, after putting the fish hooks in the gelatin
capsules and resealing the package, I walked to the health food store
and planted it on the shelf where I knew some old lady would buy it
and die a horrible death. This thought made me terribly excited so I
left in a hurry and walked down the street muttering “Me no sin me no
sin” as I rubbed a clove of garlic I had hanging around my neck
between my fingers.
Tomorrow I would be 39. No job, no apartment, forced to live in a
basement, and Mama (did I mention she is very good looking) about to
cut off my internet access after that call from the FBI. I couldn’t go
to the public library–I was banned for lurking too conspicuously in
the childrens’ section.
Life was tough when you were a geneyuss.
I know I am a geneyuss because my English teacher (who I would love to
dress up in a leather cat suit and listen to her screams as I take big
bites out of her thighs no I must not think bad thoughts me no sin me
no sin me NO SIN) said I was in the “bright normal” range.
But the world does not appreciate my talents. That stupid community
college had the nerve to throw me out, and that job as a security
guard took time away from my model trains so I wasn’t fired but I
actually quit and just because I’m almost 40 and work part time as a
bag boy is no reason to laugh at me and say “Go out with YOU? Oh ha ha
Dada’s been in prison ever since they found the blood on his clown
suit, but how did that make ME a likely suspect when all the
neighborhood cats began vanishing? The police all know I haven’t been
in trouble since getting out of the…quiet place at the end of the
path in the woods.
Sure, Mama likes a drink as well as, if not much more than the next
person….did I mention she’s very attractive? I love her but I hate
her because she whipped me with a coat hanger when she found the
toilet paper tube stuffed with “toilet people” and wouldn’t believe me
when I told her I was building a castle for my trains. I WAS! And I
really liked the wrestling magazines…the ones with men who have
blood streaming down their faces…but one day she found them and
burned them in the fire right in front of me and ever since that day
whenever I light a match I stare at it for awhile and thing, “Let it
burn…let it burn…eh eh eh….”
But I’ll show her. Fishhooks in her gelatin capsules is only the
beginning….And then I’ll steal a helicopter and break Dad out of
prison and we’ll go see wrestling…and we’ll even get ringside
seats! What do women know?
Like Dada said, they’re Devils.
Dada was a geneyuss too.
What I can’t figure out, Nursie, is why Dada keeps sending me all
those pictures of hot buttered English muffins? What’s he trying to
I’ll never forget how he laughed when I stuck the flaming arrow up
Rover’s poop-chute. That night, when he beat me with the belt he
didn’t even use the buckle!
Dada was always a riot when he got to drinking. “Black monkey…you
fucked my circus dog! Fuckn zigaboos all belong in prison….”
Good old Dada has placed last in life’s contest. And is bitter.
He ate Mac and Cheese from the pot, considered himself
Godlike because he let Rover lick out the remnants, prayed daily to
God that a rich sailor would smile at him. His happiest day was when
he fished half an order of french fries from a trash can. His saddest
day was when he got caught stealing groceries from the food bank box
but when they saw how raggedy-assed his trousers were and noticed that
he smelled of piss and vomit, they let him go.
I remember how he used to like to calling talk radio sports shows and
rant about “the Bilderbergers”.
But living with Dada was still better than living in the special
house……the quiet place at the end of the path in the woods. It
beat eating thorazine like gumdrops and playing pocket billiards and
hide the weiner with the guards and most of all it beat playing
handball with my own shit.
Why me? Why couldn’t I have normal parents? It it any wonder the
jailbirds call me “Martha Raye”, the soldier’s joy; master of the
caked joy-rag, chief inhabitant of the land of sly innuendo, the
poison pen, the anonymous phone call, the hustling, pushing, shoving
land of smash and grab and anything to win? Is it any wonder that to
them I’m Pogo alias Assy McGee, the devil’s spooge-rag, satan’s
felch-monkey, hell’s jackweed, often seen
nibbling the edges of tricycle seats in playgrounds, near schools, and
in the parking lot of Chuck E. Cheese; an ornery nine ball eternally
questing for the holy grail: a magical bleach that will wash clean the
black stains from my sin-black soul?
Oh, father forsaken forgive thy child!
What would Dad think, Nursie, if he knew about my special secret place
under the bridge, my “Tool Shed”, where I keep my pictures of
wrestlers with bloody faces and Nazis marching in regalia and people
in concentration camps and old Jews being tormented by Storm Troopers
and animals devouring their prey? He’d probably just laugh and laugh,
just like he did when I made the bullfrog swallow the lit firecracker
and damn near blew my own finger off.
Dada sure did like his LSD. Also enjoyed giving it to his only
begotten son, whom he called Tool.
Dada should die.
No, ME NO SIN ME NO SIN me no sin….
Save me, Heroman!