Bobby Lightfoot's Greatest Hits #11: All my best posts involve lampooning my own endless and largely-self-constructed despair.

Aw, criminy, Baby Poopus.

I couldn't even face doing my Mea Culpa this Sunday. It's taken me this long to even work up the stones to do it now. Why? Well, nothing new, really. It's just that I'm such a moron that it hurts me to confront it. Ouch, ouch, ouch. The way I go about my life away from music is just painful. It does my self-esteem no good to talk about it or to confront it in any way. Ouch, ouch. I'm like the Three Stooges without the punchline. I'm like Inspector Clouseau but I never get my man and I'm not cute. Sometimes the only way I can get to sleep at night is by convincing myself that I'm a saboteur. I'm here to fuck everything up to lash out at the man. Yeah, that's what it is. That's what it is.

The property damage, expense and general mayhem that I incur is biblical. I'm surprised it doesn't make the paper.

and yet, when I pick up an instrument or sit at a mixing desk, it's like the skies open and a choir from On High sings a massive G major chord with an added ninth that slowly and majestically sweeps through a B minor like the Saint Matthew Passion to resolve on a D major. It's like the last time I did LSD (I was dosed by some bastard at a beer garden in San Diego swear to god) and I kept cold booting and cold booting my Mac over and over just to hear the pretty music. Priiiiinnngggg...priiinnnggg....

why did you do this to me, Poopus? Why did you give me the tools to create the sublime and then array the universe against me that I should be forced to dwell in the ridiculous? I'm like the guy in Confederacy Of Dunces but with self-awareness and it hurts, Baby P. It hurts a lot.

I've been fired from more jobs than most people ever hold, Creepus. I've quit jobs just because I felt sorry for my superiors who couldn't work up the gumption.

Picture Paul McCartney trying to run a Novell network. Picture Keith Richards trying to ship and receive. Picture Elton John trying to sell car parts. Why, baby creepus, why? Why you do this to me? Why you do this to me, Dimi?

I just want to please. I just want things to go smoothly. I don't lack enthusiasm. Maybe that's the problem. A surfeit of enthusiasm. But I stumble and break and crash and fail and fuck up. I'm a musician, Baby C. I can't do this stuff, Baby C. Why can't I just be what you made me to be, huh? I can live on 15 a year, Baby Fuckus. It's not the money. 22-23 would do me, y'know? I don't need much. I just need to have a little pride. I just would like for once to be known as a person of skill and competence instead of a blithering Einstein who couldn't get a physics gig and had to park cars instead.

Ow, ow, ow. It hurts like the clap and the years stretch ahead in an unbroken line of idiocy. I have stood here before inside the pouring rain, with the world turning circles running 'round my brain. I guess I'm always hoping that you'll end this reign; but it's my destiny to be the king of pain.

What am I going to do, Baby Poopus? What's a Lightfoot to do? Is this what Joan of Arc felt like when the voices stopped? but she only had to go on for a li'l while until Cochon toasted her like a marshmallow. I have years and years unabated with no voices. Best case th' Angel o' Death comes swiftly, saving me from years of regret (not sweet) and those who have shortlived faith in me thousands of dollars in property destruction.

I won't stop trying to be a good musician, Creepster. But th' thing is, when I read yer good book it's full of crap like this; here's your brain but don't think with it, here's your dink but don't fuck with it; here's your mouth but don't speak with it.

I guess I'll just soldier on, Fuckster. You mean little rotter. You rapscallion. You bad song. You reality show. You PT Cruiser. You Citronetta. I've visualized and visualized but I ain't realized. I see and I see but I don't be.

Please, Jeebus. Please help me stop breaking everything and bring instead the sublime that is within me to the table. You mean little cock ornament.

Oh- and I take back everything I said this week. Of course. This included.

Love ya and amen,

bobby lightfoot.

P.S. This was really funny. Especially the fucking Police lyric. I'm laughing through the tears and snot. glub blug glub. Hee hee. King of Pain indeed. Earl of Grey is more like it. Marquis de Bad. Duke of Cornhole.

Sheriff of Nothingham (when I do my Rutles of XTC, this will be their comeback single).

Mayor of Pimpleton. Duke of Hurl.


Blogger fgfdsg said...

Could be worse... imagine hearing the sublime in your head and not having the talent to even remotely recreate it, especially when, for just a moment, your hands wander on the keyboard and something that transports you, and you don't know what you did and can't recapture it even a few seconds later.

As for XTC / The Rutles, I wrote a thinly diguised version of "Peter Pumpkinhead" a few weeks after Nonsuch came out that was truly hilarious, but for all the wrong reasons.

Which also reminds me, I was going to do "President Kill" ala "Oliver's Army" for Chalkhill's Children '98 but never got around to it.

Damn, someone destroyed my XTC entry on Uncylopedia... I hadn't even got up to the B-Side that saved their career: "Are You There God? It's me, Andy".

5:57 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Happy Thanksgiving, Canus!

jhxrufkf - Albanian for "gizzard"

2:32 PM  
Blogger teh l4m3 said...

Why harsh on a cornholing, an ancient, noble, and justifiably revered pasttime?

fpjzbp is the sound of spiders barking.

5:29 PM  

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