Thursday, June 29, 2006

The Letter F Is Dirty!

The dentist said, "I'm gonna' give your mouth a good flossing!"
OR
The dentist said, "I'm gonna give your mouth a good effing!"
"Could you fix that?" she said, pointing to the hole in her pants.
OR
"Could you eff that?" she said, pointing to the hole in her pants.
Carl forgot his neighbor's son at the Easter Egg hunt.
OR
Carl effed his neighbor's son at the Easter Egg hunt.
Paul fisted the hobo's useless rectum.
OR
Paul effed the hobo's useless rectum.
Please refrain from using the letter "f", unless you are married or have been baptized (full immersion, NOT sprinkled).
Sincerely,
The Major Briggs Trio

Wednesday, June 28, 2006

Who Did The Major Briggs Trio Meet Today?

-- two old-fashioned chauvinists from the Carolinas. They still exist, apparently. Sorry ladies!

-- the waitstaff of Far East, a new Chinese food joint near my new store in Rogers. I have to walk through the parking lots of a tattoo parlor and a vet clinic to get there. The attentive nature and slight nervousness of the crew was relaxing and charming. Hang in there!

-- a transient that smelled like that one mugshot of Glen Campbell looked.

-- a pretty girl named Alisha behing the counter of a Pilot gas station. She knew that I was going to dump my Sugar Free Red Bull into the Gatorade. Good call.

-- the ghost of the time I tried to cut my own lips with my pocket knife. Hang in there!

Monday, June 26, 2006

Curtis Live! Kentis Undead!


Stare and stare. . .

Review A Random Song From My Computer Day!

"Bow Tie Daddy", from The Mothers Of Invention's We're Only In It For The Money

We had this whole album re-conceptualized, with different members of the music faculty of the university we attended doing different tracks (for those considering college, imagine thinking up things like that last sentence; getting crushes on blossoming lesbians; and poisoning every organ of your body, including your skin, with clear alcohols mixed with Welch's Strawberry soda. Sault.). I can't remember who was picked for this little ditty, but my current choice would be Henry Runkles. He'd be in a white dinner jacket with a blue silk shirt, one lit Winston in his hand, nineteen more bulging out his breast pocket. This is probably how he'll look in his coffin, too (Good Lord, did I write that? ).

What makes this song work, if not the whole album, is it's sincerity. Yes, the whole album is a parody of the different cultures co-existing in California. Yes, Zappa probably despised Tin Pan Alley-type wooing tunes. Zappa had, however, 1)broad influences throughout his youth, and 2)musical ability to pull the essence of those types into his own style.

The prelude to this track, "Telephone Conversation", involves someone, apparently a father, ready to "bump off" Zappa. Two paranoid ladies chat about him, trying not to get too freaked out. And then "daddy"'s music comes on, with the appropriate timbre but lyrics that paint the "bow tie daddy" as out of touch and somewhat hypocritical. Also an out-of-place guitar part doubles along with the vocals, nearly drowning out the more suited backing track. Poor daddy, perhaps, but mommy gets hers next, with "Harry, You're A Beast", a song about out of touch and hypocritical women (Zappa loved this song so much, he would later fill his catalogue with about twenty billion more tunes about out of touch, hypocritical women).

In conclusion: Daddy is a beast. Mommy is a beast. Harry is a beast. Harry Runkles, however, is a saint. He was going to play piano on an arrangement I was going to do of "Duke of Prunes". He even sang a bit of it! He would have been perfect.

Sunday, June 25, 2006

Gay Kafkaesque Short Short Story Day!

The Toilet Crows

It was a Friday, and Brother Samuel, along the cool wrought iron fencing outside the synogauge, finally succumed to the visions his aunt was having. Having circled his birthmark with a poultice and fancy ladies rouge from a Turkish merchant ship he frequented made no difference.

As the dense black wave of feathers rent him clothesless and comfortably molested, he shouted out, that his echoes might reach that open window on Lymon Street.

"My crows! My salvation! My stinkhorn of blood!" Samuel lamented.

"The stuff! The stuff!" demanded the crows, full of flesh and ball oil.