Category Archives: Parody

Mo’ Mondegreens!

As promised almost a year ago, here is installment number two of my collection of mondegreens, i.e., misheard lyrics. Finally! I trust you have been waiting with bated breath for this. You may now, devoted reader, breathe a sigh of relief. I have come to deliver on that promise. Incidentally, Microsoft Word does not recognize the term, so my vision is currently being assaulted with the underlined red squiggle under “mondegreens.” There it is again. How dare these miscreant software developers offend my sensibilities so? Even the paperclip seems to be looking at me disapprovingly. Smug bastard.  

As last time, I am following the same format as in the famous books: misheard lyric; performer; song title; correct lyric.

Tell them all hookah, is smoking character . . . One man on the chessboard . . . and your mind is moving all . . . Have fallen softly dead . . . And the requiem’s offed his head. Remember, what the doormouth said.
Jefferson Airplane “White Rabbit”
Tell ‘em a hookah smoking catepillar . . . When men on the chessboard . . . and your mind is moving slow . . . Have fallen sloppy dead . . . And the Red Queen’s “Off with her head!” Remember, what the dormouse said.  

That’s right. I butchered the crap out of these lyrics. I was reminded of that when I got the urge to sing it in the shower recently. I drew a complete blank on the correct lyrics, so sang what I thought they sounded like. Yes, I read Lewis Carroll’s classic. So, I should know better, right? Besides, I’ve heard it a bazillion times, since Grace Slick’s opus is ubiquitous as a soundtrack to let the audience know that something trippy is going on. Incidentally, I always thought this song was about drugs. “Go Ask Alice” is a famous diary from a drug-user, and there was some kind of mushroom involved. What other conclusion could I draw from that? Besides the time it was released, the lyrics sound like they were inspired by an acid trip. I suppose by association it is about drugs. Do you have a better explanation for how LC came up with that psychedelic imagery? It was like H.R. Pufnstuf in lit-form. Certainly, it wouldn’t pass for children’s fiction today. Oh wait—then how does one explain the Teletubbies? I digress.

Where is my job today?
Paula Cole “Where Have All the Cowboys Gone?”
Where is my John Wayne?

I don’t mean to be such a downer, but in this economy, this one isn’t such a stretch.

Been through the desert on a horse with no brain
America “Horse With no Name”
Been through the desert on a horse with no name

This might have been the product of the listener smoking pot while listening to this song, which, pretty much, is the best way to enjoy this tune.

If the horse had no brain, but did have a name, would he know? I might be able to ponder that philosophically if I wasn’t so baked.

What if I’m a mummy in these jeans of his?
Tori Amos “Crucify”
What if I’m a mermaid in these jeans of his?

Pfft. Mermaids are so 80’s. Mummies are the “it” mythical creature du jour. They are like caterpillars emerging from their cocoons into beautiful . . . zombies.   

Run amok that ill
Kate Bush “Running Up That Hill”
Running up that hill 

This is just stupid. It is beneath my intellect to even formulate a response. Puh!

He got a raisin in his shoe
Jim Croce “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown”
He got a razor in his shoe

What up, bitch? I’m walkin’ on nature’s sunshine fruit. That’s right. I’m bad.

As an aside, is it just me or does the new version of the Sun-Maid girl look like she would spread her legs for anyone who found his or her way into that vineyard? Just curious.

Kiss your soul heart. I’ll take your breast away
Sarah McLachlan “Possession”
Kiss you so hard. I’ll take your breath away

Wow. That is . . . awful. As if the song wasn’t creepy enough, that crosses the line from stalker to serial killer. Thanks for tonight’s nightmare.    

I believe I saw La Bamba (jet planes)
CSN “Woodstock”
I believe I saw the bombers (jet planes) 

It was a passenger plane in which the music died, not to get technical.

Watch the freakers eat Kenneth is your, Benzedrine all wet?
R.E.M. “What’s the Frequency, Kenneth”
What’s the frequency, Kenneth, is your Benzedrine, uh-huh.

Um . . . what? It sounds like their Benzedrine did get all wet, with some unforseen side-effects. Either that, or they got hit harder than Dan Rather did by the lunatic who attacked him screaming that question.

We are the priests of the temple with earrings
Rush “The Temples of Syrinx”
We are the priests of the temples of Syrinx 

Since most priests are closet homosexuals, that doesn’t surprise me. I know I know. It’s wrong. Sick and wrong!

And you steal rat meat in your Jesus Christ pose
Soundgarden “Jesus Christ Pose”
And you stare at me in your Jesus Christ pose

Maybe that’s why communion wafers taste like crap? 

Bunnies on the table, the fire is cooking
Temple of the Dog “Hunger Strike”
But it’s on the table, the fire is cooking

That doesn’t sound like much of a hunger strike to me. Don’t get me started on the fluffy bunnies. 

If there’s a barstool and your head rolls, don’t be alarmed now
Led Zeppelin “Stairway to Heaven”
If there’s a bustle in your hedge row, don’t be alarmed now

No chance of being alarmed, of course, considering my head inexplicably became detached from my body at the mere presence of a barstool. At most, my last sentient thought would be trying to connect the dots on that non sequiter

You can tell by the way that I use my wok, that I’m a wooden man
Bee Gees “Staying Alive”
You can tell by the way that I use my walk, that I’m a woman’s man 

You get a hard-on while making kung pao chicken? Kinky.   

Grab your teeth I’ve come to take you home
Peter Gabriel “Salisbury Hill”
Grab your things I’ve come to take you home 

Said the man to his grandfather in Salisbury Hill nursing home. Totally plausible.  

The pinball wizard’s got such a super ass
The Who “Pinball Wizard”
The pinball wizard got such a supple wrist

I bet Elton John made that very observation.

Leaping lost anus
Sheryl Crow “Leaving Las Vegas”
Leaving Las Vegas 

Since a lot of people have had their asses beaten in Vegas, it is apt, albeit a bizarre way to put it.

My dad lay and poohed on my room below
Pearl Jam “Jeremy”
The dead lay in pools of maroon below

No wonder that kid lost his shit.

Hey Joe, where you goin’ with that gum in your hair?
Jimi Hendrix “Hey Joe”
Hey Joe, where you going with that gun in your hand 

To add insult to injury, the cheating bitch spat her Wrigley Spearmint into Jimi’s fro? Damn right she deserved to get shot!

In Nam’ bodies float
Jimmy Buffet “Margaritaville”
It’s nobody’s fault 

And napalm sticks to kids.

Woman shits on the water, very queer
Crosby, Stills and Nash “Wooden Ships”
Wooden ships on the water, very clear 

A floating version of a Boston plate job; that’s definitely some kinky shit. 

They come to pluck the rooster
Alice in Chains “Rooster”
They come to snuff the rooster 

Is plucking the rooster foreplay for choking the chicken? Me torture you long time, Yankee!

Feelin’ like a ham and mustard shake
Stone Temple Pilots “Interstate Love Song”
Feelin’ like a hand in rusted shame 

Huh. Oddly specific, but I suppose it would suck to feel that way. Or at least you’d feel like Hell after you drank that!

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Flight risk

Back in July of 2005, I spent a month in Florence, Italy to attend art school and live the Bohemian dream. My average day started with a Renaissance drawing class, complete with a break at the local bakery for a café Americano and pastry. After class, either I stopped at an eatery to spend a mere two Euro on a panini (how I miss the ignorance of the exchange rate) or at the grocer for food to prepare a meal in my apartment by the Duomo. After lunch, yawn, it was naptime. A couple hours later, stretch, I’d wake up and head outside to wander around, take in the sights, sketch, and shop. Sometimes I would go back to the art studio to work. When evening rolled around, I connected with my mates for dinner, conversation, and possibly a concert, museum visit, or whatever else struck our fancy. Those were the days. How I yearn for the carefree lifestyle of the unfettered yet dedicated artist.

Being on a tight budget, I was quite frugal with my money. I couldn’t resist, though, the opportunity to purchase made-to-order plaster casts from the school’s sculpting instructor. I selected a skull, as well as a wall-mount head of St. Jerome. I thought 90 Euro was a great deal for the two, considering I didn’t have to pay for shipping or sales tax. Never mind that the U.S. equivalent was about $150. Every bona fide artist has a plaster cast to use for academic study.

 I couldn’t risk my acquisitions getting damaged, so I wrapped them in towels in my carry-on luggage when the time came to return to the States and, alas, to the responsibilities awaiting me there. Unfortunately, that required me to check an extra piece of luggage, costing me 75 euro for exceeding my baggage limit. Okay, the casts weren’t quite so economical anymore, but there was no turning back.

 After a peculiar request from security to see the contents of my bag, I sat down to await boarding. Our flight ended up being delayed several hours due to an impromptu air traffic controller strike. I noticed that the work ethic was a bit more lax than in other countries. That was in stark comparison to Germany, most definitely; we missed our connecting flight when we arrived in Dusseldorf. They didn’t give a scheiße that it wasn’t our fault we were late. Germans are on time no matter what, verdammt! I was stuck there for the night, because the next flight to New York wasn’t until the following morning. Frick

Looking every bit the peace-loving artist in my hand-made, ankle-length flowing, purple skirt, I arrived at the airport after my complimentary stay and meal at the airport hotel. That was nice of them, although it wouldn’t surprise me if they hit Italy up for the tab. I lugged my bag onto the conveyor belt, and moments later an irascible security guard picked up my carry-on. With a guttural demand he indicated for me to follow him off to the side wall, away from the screening area. He dropped the bag onto a table and tersely ordered me to open it. “They are plaster ca . . . “. I couldn’t even finish my explanation as he barked like a German Shepard, “Pull them out!”

 Okay! Jeepers. I even had to remove the casts from their terry-cloth cocoons to prove to him that I wasn’t smuggling something, or whatever he suspected from this yoga-loving hippy. What up? I even listen to Dylan, damn it! And what gives with the harsh treatment of one of his sisters-in-Deutch? (I’m only half German, but it’s a matter of principle.) At least he yelled at me in my native language. How magnanimous of him. The thought did cross my mind that I got a teensy taste right then for what the Jews had to endure. On top of everything else, dealing with those Nazis must have been one serious slice of Hell. I know, that is sick and wrong of me to contemplate. However, those German guards are scary mean, even the ones who don’t pack heat. American cops lose street cred when they use Segways to troll their beat. Put a legion of Germans on them and they’d be fit to blitzkrieg Poland. I’m just saying. Anyway, he was mollified (relatively speaking) after he confirmed what I tried to tell him in the first place. Really, how many terrorists dress like gypsies? I was a bit insulted. Did I get an apology? Nein!

 I all but forgot the shoddy treatment when I boarded the plane, as I was treated to the luxury amenities of a business flight. I got to stretch my legs, nosh on warm nuts, and wash them down with red wine in an actual glass. I stretched my legs and ate a hot lunch while I watched a movie on a personal television. I reclined to my heart’s content when I wanted to sleep.

 My stopover in New York meant that I was required to abandon that sweet ride. I had to go through airport security again in order to change planes. As I went through the same rigmarole, I was emotionally prepared this time and gave the attendants an unsolicited description of what I was carrying. They started laughing as my luggage made its way through the x-ray. I walked through the sensor as I offered to show them the contents, “I can open my bag and remoooo-holy SHIT!” The screen showed what could easily be mistaken for two severed heads suspended in some morbid aqueous humor. No wonder. Although, I doubt traveling executioners are all the rage. If they exist, they wouldn’t be carrying their spoils, and they certainly wouldn’t go through a German airport with them. Still, Occam’s Razor should have been poking Herr Wachmann in the back when he was treating me as if I were channeling Izzy Borden. Ugh, whatever. I shared the laugh as I offered again to prove that I wasn’t an axe murderer. They assured me that it was okay and I could go through to my gate.

 Is there a moral to this story? Well, there is a possible inference that serial killing is a more accepted practice in the good ole US of A. More importantly, when traveling abroad, there are other costs to consider than actual hard dollars expended:

One panini: $3.60 U.S.
Two artistic plaster casts: $150 U.S.
Penalty for exceeding baggage limit: $135 U.S.
The experience of being mistaken for a jet-setting psychopath: Priceless

A Sprinklage of Dinklage Makes Cinema *Sparkle*!

Props must be given to the spouse for that title. If it isn’t obvious whom this is about, I am referring to the recent (and richly deserved) Emmy winner, Peter Dinklage. I had a rant mentally scripted if he didn’t win that award. It involved a fantasy of him storming the stage à la Kanye West, grabbing the statue from the undeserving winner, and whacking him in the knees à la Tanya Harding with it. What am I talking about? Bah! He wouldn’t à la anything, he’s above aping those cretins. A feral, baritone roar would make the arena quake as he came out swinging a mace in a circle of death above his head, barreling towards the idiot judges who deemed him unworthy of such accolades. If you diss the Dink, you enter a world of pain. 

I have seen him in only a half-dozen performances, but every one has been terrific and completely engaging. His intense gaze, strong features, and mellifluous voice, command attention. Unless it is a prominent feature of the character, it is easy to forget that he is actually a dwarf. Just as I don’t focus on the fact that John Lithgow (another favorite), as an example, is a very tall man; I am riveted solely by his acting. Warwick Davis is a fine actor, but I always am aware of his stature. As for the Dinkster, it is no Napoleon Complex; this man is a strong actor with a powerful presence. Without further ado, allow me to bestow upon you a sprinklage of Dinklage:

Look at those penetrating blue eyes. Hmm.

He, um . . . wow. He works out.

Excuse me for a moment. . . . 

*   *   *

 All right! I’m back! Sorry about that momentary interruption. Those hypothetical deserted islands don’t populate themselves. Ahem. Onward.

 Back to my main point: Every show or movie I have seen him in is exponentially more entertaining because of his presence. Ergo, Peter Dinklage makes cinema better. Allow me to present examples to support my claim. 

The Station Agent 

This was the first time I experienced Dinktstacy. It was a subtle movie in ways, and in a lesser actor, the spirit and comedy of it would have been lost on the audience. He didn’t play an immediately likable character; he wanted to be left alone with his thoughts and his trains. Eventually, he became a person with whom the audience could identify. Perhaps it was when he leapt into a ditch to avoid an oncoming vehicle. That scene garnered the biggest laugh, yet, it showed a more fragile side to his stoicism in a very humorous way, and that exterior slowly dissolved as he allowed outsiders into his world. It was completely believable that women were attracted to him. Not only is he handsome, he is also a person we can understand. It took Peter Dinklage to make this movie work as well as it did. Sorry, Warwick. You must stay on your side of the pond. 

Elf  

I had absolutely no idea that the disembodied, menacing voice on the phone was Peter Dinklage. This character was all about his dwarfism and over-compensation, i.e., Napoleon Complex, by being a royal dick. The main character mistaking him for an elf was the ultimate insult that had to be punished with physical violence. This was a very funny movie, but the image of him running with bloodlust vengeance across the conference room table to attack Will Ferrell makes me giggle every time I think about it. That scene pushed the movie to a higher plane for me. 

Game of Thrones 

Really, what needs to be said about this? The series is excellent, but for me, I found myself hoping a Tyrion-less scene would end so that one with him could begin. What better way to introduce such a complex character than showing a close-up of him slovenly swilling wine as he is getting a blowjob from a prostitute? That was a rhetorical question. He upset expectations by revealing the man as the most complex and ethical of the Lannisters. Oh yeah, and his British accent was pitch-perfect. Sorry again, Warwick. You just wouldn’t have been able to pull this one off. 

The Last Rites of Ransom Pride 

I saw this movie on my DVR queue, and was ready to ask the hubby why he recorded that. Then, I saw that Peter Dinklage was in it. No further explanation was needed. It had an interesting supporting cast, but as I got close to halfway into it, I started to wonder why I was watching it. There was nary a Dinker to be found. This movie was a real chin-scratcher, and I felt myself reaching the same level of frustration that I did while I watched Eraserhead. Not even the presence of the two biggest living bad-asses of country music in Dwight Yoakam and Kris Kristofferson could raise me to an acceptable level of enjoyment. I really was ready to hit stop and delete the recording. Then, this appeared:

Okay, we were getting somewhere. He was only in a few scenes, but again, he was my main focus. What a bizarre character he created. I still wasn’t crazy about the movie, but Peter Dinklage did make it worth watching for me. 

Death at a Funeral (American version) 

I haven’t seen the original, British version. I hear it is far better than this one. There really was some funny stuff in it, especially some of the punch lines Chris Rock delivered. However, I see this as a skillful throwaway for Fair Dinkums. His homosexual was not over-the-top. He was very calm as he delivered his blackmail ultimatum. As ridiculous as the premise was, I found myself believing that he would follow through on his threat, albeit in the most genteel fashion. I actually was disappointed when I thought his character croaked. His response as he resurrected while in the coffin made me double over in hysterics. I have to see the original to find out if he played the character the same way. I doubt it; British humor has a different flavor to it. 

I just looked at his IMDB; he has been in a lot of stuff. I want to see everything to further my assertion, thus proving my theory that: A Sprinklage of Dinklage Makes Cinema *Sparkle*. I long for the days of Blockbuster and Hollywood Video. I could walk to the nearest location, whip out my membership and credit cards, and go on a Dinklagian film fest. Sadly, Redbox does not fully appreciate his sublime Dinktacity. I can’t bring myself to order Netflix. Despite his extensive resume, I won’t commit to ordering at least three items every month. Eventually, I will run out of Dinktation. That would be a Dinktastrophe of epic proportions. 

There is a movie currently in production called Knights of Badassdom. Mr. Dinklage’s character is named Hung. Can you think of three more compelling reasons to see that movie? Great title, great character name, and of course, the Dink-o-matic is starring in it. I am so there when it comes to the theaters.

Mondegreen mania

I get such a kick out of misheard song lyrics, otherwise known as mondegreens. I remember years ago when I picked up Gavin Edwards Excuse Me While I Kiss This Guy when I was out of town on business. I went back to my hotel room and laughed until tears streamed down my face while the misinterpretations became more ridiculous, but still plausible, as I turned the pages. The accompanying illustrations only added to my mirth. It is the hardest I have ever laughed without someone else present in the room. I couldn’t wait for the next book to come out, which there were three others. Occasionally, I check the humor section of bookstores, hoping to find a fifth installment in the series. Sadly, Mr. Edwards either tired of the concept, or ran out of material. Nonsense, I say! 

In lieu of that, I will reminisce on a few of my own, as well as ones Mr. Pedant accumulated over the years. I displayed them in the same format as in the books: misheard lyric; performer; song title; correct lyric. 

The wreck of Ella Fitzgerald
Gordon Lightfoot “The Wreck of Edmund Fitzgerald”
The wreck of Edmund Fitzgerald 

What can I say? The queen of scat was the only E. Fitzgerald I knew of when I was a teen. I even had the piano sheet music of the classic folk tune, but for whatever reason, my mind chose to interpret and remember it within the context of its existing knowledge, and stay that way well into adulthood. Good excuse, eh? Years later, I saw part of a documentary about the famous freighter, and the twenty-nine lives that were taken down with it. Hmm, I guess that makes more sense. At least, more than a wrecking ball swinging toward Ella as she breaks glass when she hits her high note. Ah, the warped logic of youth. 

Hey old lady you’re gonna die!
Patty LaBelle “Creole Lady Marmalade”
Creole lady marmalade! 

Really, what is a more logical exclamation, I ask ye? 

I scream my balls off
No Doubt “Spider Webs”
I screen my phone calls 

I actually developed a dislike of this song because I thought it was stupid that a woman would say that she screams her balls off. Women don’t have balls! Anyway, I still can’t shake my disdain. 

I’m a speed travelin’ hombre
Lynyrd Skynyrd “Freebird”
I must be travelin’ on now 

This was my brother-in-law’s creation, and it makes me giggle every time. Oddly, it could fit. 

I wanna be, your clamdigger
Peter Gabriel “Sledgehammer”
I wanna be, your sledgehammer 

“What the hell is a clamdigger?” At the time, I didn’t know it was a real profession. I guess my friend thought clams were an appropriate token of love. I suppose it is just as useful as a gaggle of swans a’simmin, or a bunch of maids a’milking. 

Hail to the flutter kick, same old chicken washed my brain. So I ate a pigeon steak, try to sneeze your blood my way.
Alice in Chains “Would”
Into the flood again, same old trip it was back then. So I made a big mistake, try to see it once my way. 

This was heard in the back of a Bradley armored personnel carrier, in the middle of combat during Desert Storm. The gunner started singing this at the top of his lungs, with a Brooklyn accent, no less. Mr. Pedant, I’ve got nothing to add.   

Turn your feet around
Vickie Sue Robinson “Turn the Beat Around”
Turn the beat around

 A sensible, albeit pointless, request.

 Why do we, cutsie-pie ourselves?
Tori Amos “Crucify”
Why do we, crucify ourselves?

 This was just too funny to omit. Oddly, the misinterpretation is the polar opposite of what Tori asked. The real lyric is more poignant, but the other really gets my imagination brewing. I picture a bunch of furry kittens tied with lilac ribbons to pink crosses, as they mew in harmony to this song. Oh yeah, and bunnies are hopping around them. Why? Because cute spectacles must contain at least one bunny. All together, now. AWWWWW!!! 

A-chin bubbly-bubbly Top Dog
Kula Shaker “Tattva”
Acintya bheda bheda Tattva 

What else is there to say about carbonated dogs with chins that hasn’t already been said? 

You don’t have to sell your potty to the night
The Police “Roxanne”
You don’t have to sell your body to the night 

When you think about it, both lyrics are essentially saying the same thing, one less eloquently than the other. 

Do you need a Wal-Mart to look after you?
Tori Amos “God”
Do you need a woman to look after you? 

Sorry, Tori. I’ll stop picking on you. 

Jesus is just a rat-wheeled freak
Doobie Brothers “Jesus is Just Alright”
Jesus is just alright with me 

It is amazing the things that run through the brain during the descent into the fiery pits of Hell. 

I don’t know, but I’ve been told, a peg leg woman ain’t got to sew
Led Zepplin “Black Dog”
I don’t know, but I’ve been told, a big legged woman ain’t got no soul 

Personally, I’d be too busy trying to move around with a peg-leg to make time for sewing. 

Now I pooh hard eggs
The Police “Every Breath You Take”
How my poor heart aches 

This lyric was misheard and published as “I’m a pool hall ace.” But really, who wouldn’t wail like Sting if he crapped stony eggs, if you let yourself contemplate such an unfortunate ignominy?  

Barefoot ghouls, dancin’ in the moonlight
Credence Clearwater Revival “Green River”
Barefoot girls, dancin’ in the moonlight
 

One is sexy, the other frightening. I’m good with it. 

The beagle flies with the duck
Crosby, Stills, and Nash “Love the One You’re With”
The eagle flies with the dove 

Mr. Stills, I love you, but you’re a mumble-ass. 

Oh, there’s more. But, in an effort to keep this post from getting too long, I must split this up. Tune in later for the second installment.

Useless creations

It occurred to me recently that I am the author of some ideas I share with others that theoretically could be passed on without applying credit where it is due: Me. Of course, there is a strong assumption that any of them are worth repeating. In my humble opinion, they are pretty dang clever. Then again, Emo Phillips said “I used to think the brain was the most fascinating organ, then I realized what was telling me that.”  I heard it first from him as a guest patient on Dr. Katz, and am content believing he thought up that gem, even though ostensibly I could Google it to make sure. The point is twofold. I think my ideas are worth sharing, but then again, look who is leading me to believe that. Second, I find it prudent to document them on the infinitely accessible medium called the Internet blog, lest I become like the poor sap who is banging his head against the wall for being the uncredited author of Emo’s hilarious joke.  

Okay, I admit it. I’m paranoid. It doesn’t mean they aren’t after me. I don’t think Kurt Cobain originated that concept, incidentally, but he is certainly known for the lyric. I think I’ve made my point. Onward.

Original joke

How do accountants practice safe sex? By using tax shelters.

Ba dum, bum.

Original word

ignoranus [ig-nuh-rey-nuhs]—noun, plural – anuses: an asshole who doesn’t know shit. 

Urban Dictionary can SUCK IT!

Original pun

Osama’s burial at sea officially changed his name to Osama been Bobbin’.

What? Too soon? Puh! Let the 72 virgins canonize that evil bastard.

Original idea

I’ll have you know that when I was a kid, I wondered if we would ever be able to see the person we are talking to on the phone. Skype can suck it, too.  

Original observation

In the spirit of this blog post, we all want to be recognized for our work. Even ghostwriters want to be paid for being anonymous.

Original onomatopoeia

Plork!

I guess it can be described as a hybrid of the following actions: gagging; spitting; vomiting.

. . .

Huh. Now that I documented it, I am not as prolific as I thought I was. Still, I can sleep well tonight knowing I protected my intellectual, albeit useless, property. 

Blogs— the electronic poorman’s copyright. Hey! There’s another one.

Rahmmstein is coming to Chi-town!

The future mayor of Chicago’s soul

 My husband created this rather fitting photograph in an unusual campaigning tactic for the man who most likely will be Richard M. Daley’s successor. My husband’s primary intent (outside of a fiefdom for whom may be the most bad-ass politician this side of the Millenium, I suspect) is to make this go viral. So here I am, in my spousal devotion, helping to facilitate his goal. This apparently is what Rahm looks like when viewed through a gem of true seeing.

That said, the constituents of the country’s most corrupt state will reap the whirlwind, let me tell you, when this man builds his empire in City Hall.

It may seem ironic that the German metal band co-opted by the skinheads would be the inspiration for creating his new moniker, but then again, we are talking about Rahmbo. These two Rammstein songs must be played every time Rahmmstein enters a room:

Du Hast (You Hate): You, you hate, you hate me. Really? Tough Jesus’s tits, asshat. Und ich hab nichts gesatgt? Pfft, of course I won’t obey. You’ll obey me, how’s that?”

Bück Dich (Bend Over): “Try making my cold, dead corpse do that! I’ll haunt even your night terrors, fucker! Why don’t you bück dich, Jew-hater, and suffer my Reich?”

While these songs are on a loop, rose petals thrown in his path by dancing Republicans in fairy costumes is mandatory, as well. The petals will blacken and turn to dust in his wake just to reiterate that no one FUCKS with Rahmmstein. No one!

Even the Asian Carp of Lake Michigan acknowledge their minion status as they beach themselves as an offering to any sorry sap who even thinks of crossing Rahmmstein. Did you think that sentence ran on too long? Take it up with Rahmmstein. Go ahead, I dare you.

The only mortal who could even consider standing up to Rahmmstein is Chuck Norris . . . oh wait, he just peed in his gi at the thought of a verbal sparring match with Rahmmstein. Never mind. Pah! What a right-wing wussy boy.

Any questions?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=obsR8h7iUfA

 

 

The Twelve Days of Christmas (As celebrated by Dexter)

I’ve had an interesting conversation with someone who has been forced to listen to holiday music all day at work. He swore that he’d become murderous if he listened to The Twelve Days of Christmas one more time. The inspiration to combine it with America’s favorite serial killer was a natural one, in my opinion.

The quantity of some of these items does not make a whole lot of sense, but really, neither does the original song. What the Hell does one do with maids a milking, and why eight of them? Anyway, ‘tis the season to be stabby!

On the first day of Christmas,
Dexter Morgan gave to me
A drop of blood on a slide.

On the second day of Christmas,
Dexter Morgan gave to me
Two pairs of gloves,
And a drop of blood on a slide.

On the third day of Christmas,
Dexter Morgan gave to me
Three bone saws,
Two pairs of gloves,
And a drop of blood on a slide.

On the fourth day of Christmas,
Dexter Morgan gave to me
Four severed limbs, 
Three bone saws,
Two pairs of gloves,
And a drop of blood on a slide.

On the fifth day of Christmas,
Dexter Morgan gave to me
Five body bags.
Four severed limbs,
Three bone saws,
Two pairs of gloves,
And a drop of blood on a slide.

On the sixth day of Christmas,
Dexter Morgan gave to me
Six cheeks a-slicing,
Five body bags.
Four severed limbs,
Three bone saws,
Two pairs of gloves,
And a drop of blood on a slide.

On the seventh day of Christmas,
Dexter Morgan gave to me
Seven rolls of duct tape,
Six cheeks a-slicing,
Five body bags.
Four severed limbs,
Three bone saws,
Two pairs of gloves,
And a drop of blood on a slide.

On the eighth day of Christmas,
Dexter Morgan gave to me
Eight vivisections,
Seven rolls of duct tape,
Six cheeks a-slicing,
Five body bags.
Four severed limbs,
Three bone saws,
Two pairs of gloves,
And a drop of blood on a slide.

On the ninth day of Christmas,
Dexter Morgan gave to me
Nine knives a-stabbing,
Eight vivisections,
Seven rolls of duct tape,
Six cheeks a-slicing,
Five body bags.
Four severed limbs,
Three bone saws,
Two pairs of gloves,
And a drop of blood on a slide.

On the tenth day of Christmas,
Dexter Morgan gave to me
Ten yards of plastic,
Nine knives a-stabbing,
Eight vivisections,
Seven rolls of duct tape,
Six cheeks a-slicing,
Five body bags.
Four severed limbs,
Three bone saws,
Two pairs of gloves,
And a drop of blood on a slide.

On the eleventh day of Christmas,
Dexter Morgan gave to me
Eleven neck injections,
Ten yards of plastic,
Nine knives a-stabbing,
Eight vivisections,
Seven rolls of duct tape,
Six cheeks a-slicing,
Five body bags.
Four severed limbs,
Three bone saws,
Two pairs of gloves,
And a drop of blood on a slide.

On the twelfth day of Christmas,
Dexter Morgan gave to me
Twelve worthy victims,
Eleven neck injections,
Ten yards of plastic,
Nine knives a-stabbing,
Eight vivisections,
Seven rolls of duct tape,
Six cheeks a-slicing,
Five body bags.
Four severed limbs,
Three bone saws,
Two pairs of gloves,

And a drop of blood on a slide.