Browsed by
Category: music?

I Lift Things Up-Diddly-Up And Put Them Down-Diddly-Down

I Lift Things Up-Diddly-Up And Put Them Down-Diddly-Down

Bob Couch, the love child of Ned Flanders and Arnold Schwarzenegger, has become my favorite recording artist of all time. Not because of his music, or his muscles. Not even because of his dedication to his workout. I love his sweet sense of style. The hair, the porn stache, the short-shorts; he’s got the look down. Every day I get out of bed and I try to live my life as Bob Couch would. I pump iron, I push out another set, and I work up a sweat.

Except I don’t actually work out — or get out of bed for that matter. It’s the thought that counts. I may not be making Bob proud, but I’m getting his sweet style down. I can almost grow a moustache, and I think I own a pair of jorts. Maybe when I grow up I can be just like Bob, but until then I’ll just relax my mind and think about pumping iron.

[Many thanks to Gerard at American Digest who doesn’t need to pump iron to get attention from the opposite sex. He just shows them his massive collection of Bob Couch records.]

Elderly Men In Poofy Pants Frighten The Neighbors

Elderly Men In Poofy Pants Frighten The Neighbors

I feel very uncomfortable. Not quite as uncomfortable as hearing your parents making sweet, sweet love in the other room, but somewhere around there. I can only imagine what seeing Mick Jagger and David Bowie on a dimly lit street would be like. Let alone having them corner you in an alley, menacingly snapping, and shuffling their way down until they’re right on top of you. Toothy, British smiles hanging over you, asking if you’re ready for a brand new beat. Spooky; I’m certainly not ready for that nor will I ever be. That’s enough to traumatize any normal person.

But we at the BSBFB aren’t normal people. A true borderline boy would have a response ready before the question was even asked.

“Yes”, he would reply.

“I am ready.”

One Hears Such Sounds, And What Can One Say But — JIMMY.

One Hears Such Sounds, And What Can One Say But — JIMMY.

This song definitely needs a marimba or two to fill out the mid-range. A nice string section could really add a lot. Nothing says MY PAPA IS A SUPER GIANT like the London Philharmonic blazing away in the background. Throw in a tuba solo for some added suspense and sophistication. Record a theremin part to add some sex appeal. Nothing says sexy like indistinct monotonous wailing. And finally, it needs more cowbell.

Don’t get me wrong, I like the direction he’s taking; very edgy, very raw, very cool. It sounds like a sharp mound of uncooked hamburger in music form. Which is obviously a good thing. And it’s not like you can’t relate to the guy. We all have a papa of some sort. Most of them aren’t super giants, but basketball players have kids, too.

The Organ Has Been Drinking

The Organ Has Been Drinking

The organ has been drinking
My bowtie is asleep
And the in-laws went back to New York
The pastor has to take a leak

And the crucifix needs a haircut
And the confessional looks like a prison break
‘Cause the altar’s out of cigarettes
And the pews are on the make

And the organ has been drinking
The organ has been drinking

And the bibles are all freezing
And the bridesmaid’s blind in one eye
And she can’t see out of the other
And the organ-tuner’s got a hearing aid
And he showed up with his mother

And the organ has been drinking
The organ has been drinking

And you can’t find the caterer
With a geiger counter
And she hates you and your friends
And you can’t get cake without her

And the organ has been drinking
The organ has been drinking

Not me, not me, not me, not me, not me