“I don’t even know why Yellofs even bother with women, most of the time, other than for the pokey-pokey, and the perpetuation of the race. Zooks have absolutely nothing in common with us, or with any of our interests. We like the smell of the tavern; they fawn on the aroma of the tea parlor. We grow hair all over our arms and legs; they just as assiduously shave it off. We reek of manly scents like sweat and horseflesh, while they slap themselves all over with perfumy water that makes them stink like the denizens of an International Whorehouse, or the inner courtyard of a despicable Seraglio. We like to eat steaks and sausages and whole chickens, while they confine themselves to watercress sandwiches and other rabbit food. We drink from buckets brimming over with good reeb straight from the barrel, while they sip on sickly-sweet sherry and other bastardized concoctions. We men will eat most anything when we’re hungry; the womenfolk, however, are picky, and nothing will do other than some gigolo furriner with a fancy white hat be put to work making them exotic dishes–rubbish which no self-respecting he-man would touch with a barge pole.
“All women care about—all they really want to do—is to spend our money. The more of our ooftish they can get their diggers on, the happier they be. And it’s not like they ever put a penny or two aside for a rainy day, like most Yobs who have any sense at all are inclined to do. No! They spend it on getting their hair snipped, scorched and dressed by some poufter in a fancy-ass ‘shoppe,’ or they blow it on cheap, worthless costume jewelry, or fancy dresses that they wear once and bury in a closet, or on carriage rides which suit no need other than their desire to expose their vanity to the admiration of rude yahoos and other low-born Yellofs.
“And God help you if you scorn them! Hell hath no fury like a woman thwarted. Once they figure they got you twisted right around their little finger—and, believe it or not, Yob, but there actually are men like that—weak sisters, the lot of ‘em—I wouldn’t piss on ‘em if they were on fire—once they figure you’re a slave to what they got between their legs—some call it ‘The Wound that Never Heals’—why, then you’re just as good as completely sunk. You might as well give up all your fancy schemes and dreams of making something of yourself. Because that there is the very last thing she wants for you to do. If you become an esteemed citizen, then where’s the room for her? What’s the need?
“Because, you see, once you ‘Make It’, all the womenfolk will be throwin’ themselves at you. They will not be able to resist your charms. You’ll be the subject of admiring glances wherever you go. When you are a big man in the estimation of the world, you can try out all kinds of experiments. You will say that you will be showing up at the Scandahoovian Embassy at 8 sharp to feast on a smorgasbord of Kottbuller and Lutefisk, and, by the Neddy Jingo, you will meet up there with a crowd of loochers all in their fancy dress proclaiming the merits of smoked salmon and marinated herring! And, the very next day, there will be a Scandanavian ‘craze,’ and all the stores will experience a run on rutabagas and lingonberry jam!
“But that’s only if you’re famous. That’s why your average women with whom you have an affair will want you to be a workaday drudge so that forever ever after you will be shackled to her ever-loving apron strings. Once she knows you’ll do anything to please her, if only to keep the peace, she’ll have you precisely where she wants you. Then the nagging will begin. Trust me, Yob—I know whereof I speak.
“‘O, you brute male! How dare you fart in my presence!’ That’s the kind of song you’ll hear from the likes of Dolly Birds, p’ticularly when they think they’ve got the upper hand. ‘How dare you belch? Don’t you have any manners? Where is your napkin! Don’t be so rough with the baby!’ It’s never ‘Congratulations on your big score, O Lord and Master.’ It’s always, ‘You need to earn more money.’ Note the operative word: ‘You’.
“Not all women are so blatant. But I’ve known more than a few who were. ‘I don’t want to go with you. You ain’t got no money. I thought you were a man—but you’re just a boy.’ There’s nothing like a woman, Yob, for twisting the knife. A man can insult you, and that’s all well and good. If it’s worth your while, you always have the option of pummeling him, or, at the very least, doing him some dirt when he’s got his back turned. But Lordie help you if you strike a woman! Mind you, I’m not recommending it. But that’s simply because it simply isn’t done. Not in perlite society.
“’The hand that rocks the cradle rules the world.’ No truer words were ever spoken! But that’s only true if you allow yourself to be led around by the nose by a Zook. Need a shoulder to cry on? Get a dog. That’s my advice. A dog won’t spend your money; nor will he fuck your best friend or get drunk and hurl dishes at your head.
“It’s like Mark Twain says: ‘A dog will not bite you if you make him prosperous.’ Would that you could say the same about a woman—any woman—any woman–other than me own sainted Mother.
“Of course, certain dogs–like certain women—are known to attack and not stand down—not even if commanded to by God. And that is why you have got to be careful. My advice? When you go amongst women–go by more than one name!”
Ugga Ugga Boo Ugga Boo Boo Ugga
Somebody Should’ve Knocked Bill O’Reilly on His Ass Years Ago
20TH CENTURY’S MOST FAVORABLY CRITICIZED ROCK ALBUMS
Louis CK: Donald Trump Is a ‘Lying Sack of S–t’
ugh ugh duh duh / duh duh / I dunno * laughs* the words / I dunno how it starts I’ve forgotten it / old on stop a second / stop stop stop / shout out how it starts whats the first line / Cook shouts 123456 / alright can you start at the begining we are / Roadrunner Roadrunner not half / I cant ear yer Paul / Roadrunner Roadrunner / Go one thousand mile an hour / er lala lala lah / with the radio on / Roadrunner Roadrunner / Go one thousand mile an hour / oh gawd I dunno it / I drove past the stop n shop / and I walk by the stop n shop / and I fed her past the stop shop / had the radio on / in touch with the modern world / I fell in love with the modern world / fell in love with London Glasgow / had the radio on / Roadrunner Roadrunner / Go one thousand miles an hour / felt in touch with the modern world / in love with the modern world / here we go now / im gonna walk twenty eight miles of barbed wire / so cold there darlin / fifty thousand watts of power / we go one thousand miles an hour / with the radio on / Roadrunner Roadrunner / oh gawd I dunno it / its far kin ridicu-larse / wish I had the words / Roadrunner Roadrunner / notice how Cook and Jones pick up the excitement here – fantastic / I go one thousand miles an hour / I felt in touch with the modern world / I felt love in the modern world / I love the sound of the pass around I know / Roadrunner I run one thousand miles an hour / running a charge an Im radio on / I dont breathe your world / Roadrunner Roadrunner / er get her get her her /jones solo / do we know any other people’s songs / oi brrrrrrrrr / oi do we know / oi do we know any other far kin songs that we could do
HOLIDAYS IN THE SUN
I gotta go over the wall,
I don’t understand this bit at all
Please don’t be waiting for me.
Marie Callender’s dinners are made with “scratch gravy”.
I thought that was a 1960s garage band from Petaluma.
Perhaps you have heard the sales pitch for Always Elvis Wine: “The wine that Elvis would have drank–if He drank wine.”
Alternately: “Elvis never drank wine, but if he did, this is the wine he would have ordered.”–Colonel Parker