In My Dotage

Alright, here's the plan- when I'm old I'm going to travel like my ma does, except instead of like going and learning Shaker architecture or doing archaeology in Burma I'm going to just move from town to town KICKING ASS.

I'll travel around and I'll be all ass-kicking with the jiu-kwan-do and shit and I'll just work evildoers right and fucking left.

Instead of going to Machu Picchu and learning about stuff I'll go to like Cali and smuggle a million bucks worth of prime uncut Medellin Cartel fucking blow into like Afghanistan. No one will suspect a long-in-the-tooth old fool of anything like that. The will Seek My Wisdom, in fact.

And I won't go to the Grand Canyon and shit. I'll fly to god damn Sweden and just work my way down the west coast of Sweden, just kicking ass and taking names. all the swedes'll be wondering what this flaming burst of asskickingness is doing in their midst, taking their names. They'll think I'm a dick but they'll have a grudging respect for me.

Then, when I'm done kicking unholy buttock in Scandinavia I'll play drums for a Shlash band. Shlash will be thie asskicking metalcore of the day; it'll be like Arabic metal with mutilations and whatever it is that shit will have to have 30 years from now to still be all 15-year old and "shocking". I'll get my whole face tattooed and I'll have genital piercings that have chains going through them that chain me to the drum throne.

then, it'll be on to Southeast Asia and there. In India I'll take like 8 hits of windowpane and I'll levitate. All the fucking yogis will be hanging out saying stuff and I'll be like, "hey, look you fucking yogis!" And they'll all freak and we'll play smoking games.

the yogis will be so lit on hashish that they won't even notice when I take their toothbrushes and shove them up my ass. Then I'll take a bigass digital picture of that and I'll put their toothbrushes back and leave a copy of a picture on the kitchen table late at night. That'll be funny. Those hash-addled god damned yogis will be so fucked up over this. Fucking yogis. Making Mia Farrow's sister take hash and all that. When the Maharishi murdered Brian Epstein, that was fucked up.

Those yogis are like a christing plague, man. Can't trust 'em. They're like God's Oompa-Loompas, man. I shit you not. God's fucking Oompa Loompas. Except they're all blasted on hashish and they're porking out on mango lhassis and chicken vindaloo. With Naan bread. Got to have the Naan.

So, then I'll fucking find Osama and make him listen to Grunge. I'll sit him down in a cave and get mangled on joints and not give him any and basically start at the top. Osama'll get all of Pearl Jam and Soundgarden. He'll be pissing himself. I'll be eating microwave burritos. It'll be ugly. Then Osama gets that awful Alice In Chains. Oh, my god- who blessed that crap with non-crap status? OH, it HURTS. Then I'll hit him with that Candlebox. Oh, my god. Remember that fucking band? Gracious. Who on god's green earth is fucking WORSE than CANDLEBOX? Except for CREED or fucking jerferson STARFISH?

Yeah, so it'll be Candlebox and then you know what Osama gets? That's right-

COLLECTIVE SOUL. ALL of collective soul. And all the dude's bedroom 4-tracks. Years of bedroom 4-tracks. Oh, that is white-hot hate right there, brethren and sistren. Oh, the pain. He'll expire HORRIBLY. Trust me, my American brothers and sisters, the deaths of '01 will be avenged, and avenged well.

And that is when I will stuff him and sell him to FX. It'll rock. They'll do a reality show with him.

So, after I stuff and sell Osama I will come home and, yet again as I've been forced to do many times already, I will Save Music.


That's Why I Can't Come To Work Tomorrow.






So, I can't do another bligg until i finish a new song because i keep blagging instead of writing music because if i leach all my hatred into here then the song can be yielding and pretty like it should be. I need to balance it out for my anthology so THAT that's all set to be released by the time I


off a


aND INTO aNN coulter's many-toothed pretrimberance.

(I don't know what it is either but it's profoundly creepy)



there's proof, dad gum it.
see, there was this scientist that proved there
are aliens and crop trapezoids.

he took this alien detector thing and went to a
field with a crop hair circle and after a while it
showed aliens. fucking everywhere. the alien detector thing got fucked up and then wouldn't you know it disappeared.

but this guy, this god damn bertrand russell goes and messes up the whole deal when he finds the alien detector and gets in touch with Clarence Thomas and the whole thing was buried deeper than jimmy hoffa's great great grandfather.

no fucking shit. this shit goes on all the time. don't tell me all this crap, this massive Iraq thing, isn't just a CGI extravaganza that's going on while Bush and his evil cronies are making like concentration camp capos and fixing to sell us for mulch to the fucking Procroatons on Xenon Nebula 6. Oh, the deceit. It's like Battlestar Galactica and Julius Caesar all mixed up into one. It's just the god damnedest motherfucking piece of shittest thing.

but what those prickos don't know, like all those that went before them down the millenia, is that they'll be the last into the cosmic mulcher.

wouldn't it almost be a relief to know that the eventual fate of humankind was to be mulched by the Procroatons on Xenon Nebula 6? mulched and used to raise god-knows what monstrous alien vegetation in the alkaline soil of Farm Planet X 333? Oh, my dear heavens. It's horrendous. Horrendous what I see for us.

The god damn hounds are baying.

What happens to us? we just keep buying and buying until everything's bought and then we just sit there and fart. like fat kids with their parents lying murdered in bed and a kitchen full of twinkies. Oh, my sweet fucking christ. Oh, it's unspeakable. Oh, oh, oh.

And I feel burdened by the knowledge. Burdened beyond name.

And that's why I can't come to work tomorrow.


I'm Going To Go Ahead And Give Myself The Lightfoot Award This Month If That's O.K.

Because of that thing where Carl Rove is fumbling it into some hapless and (blessedly) fictional female and he says "Oh, I'd be good for you, prissie missy".

Oh, my sweet everlovin' left ovary is that funny. Oh, man. When Sisiphus heard that shit the rock went right over his skinny helenic ass. Pol Pot got in the room with that fucking crap and he only killed like 8 thousand people that day he was laughing so hard.

"Prissie Missy". "Prissie Missy??" With that 'ie'?

That is just unctuous.

Yeah, I'm taking the 'Foot Award home this week and that's great because this time we're awarding the winner this.


I Wonder What The Name Of My Psychosis Is.

I had this thing where I couldn't stand if the door-open chime in my truck went off an odd amount of times. Didn't matter if it was 21 or 33. It would bug me and I'd have to wait for an even number to close the door.

I didn't even realize I was doing that for a few days and I couldn't figure out why until I realized my psyche was sort of hard-wired by music to be listening for a count-in. And a count-in in 4/4 is always, always even. Apparently my subconscious can become focused on a repetitive noise like that, buffer backward to count the total since it has realized the pattern and then count the repeats.

It wasn't a big deal to break once I became aware of it.

I'm still going to rip that fucking little piece of shit out of the fucking ceiling with my fucking teeth, though.


At Least That Fascist Shitstain Westmoreland is Dead.

At least that shit went down. What was he, like a hundred and twenty eleven?

Fuck me. See, I'm not surprised anymore by the injustice. I continue to rail against it because if I don't I'll punch myself in th' eye. Round about my mid thirties I'd seen enough dicksmears live the life of Reilly while good people and innocent children grew tumors and got hit by buses.

I don't say it for myself that much because I truly hope I don't stink off about my own lot too much. I got two arms, two legs and the ticker of a Olympic shit chucker. And if I got a big god damn lump in my fucking brain it sure ain't going to keep me from enjoying my next burger or the one after that. So fuck that.

It's just, this fucking guy, oh, fuck. I don't know. How many children did he send to the fucking jungle to sob their last breath and cry for their mommy while they tried to keep their fucking guts in? God damn it. Oh, fucking god damn it.

And he fucking lives to 92 and is heralded and huzzahed like a Ceasar.

Yeah, yeah, I know- he fought valiantly in Korea and WWII. At least those fucking guys had a god damn enemy. At least there was a god damn purpose. In WWII.

Being a professional soldier means you have to have a war to ply your trade. Think on that shit.

You know what? I don't have to be circumspect. I don't have to present this or that fucking side and be reasoned. It's my fucking blog, god damn it.

I don't even have to be right.


Go ahead, tell me I'm wrong. I don't give a toss. Go ahead and tell me that crap about how if it wasn't for Westdickland I'd be speaking German. I already speak that shit.

No, I woulda done the big II, you know? But it would've been for the Jewish thing. Far too many cool Jews in my life, you know? I would've stepped up if Fred Epstein from th' Hot Fire Band or Wayne my college pal or that delectable Mindy Berman were suffering at the hands of those buttweed Nazi Republicans.

I was going to link to a good Neddie post on this fucking assblaster from a few months back but he already done did.

The Most Useless Thing In The World Right Now: The Fucking Space Shittle.

Oh, the hubris. The this. The that. Ouch.

The Space Shuttle SUCKS. I hate the stupid god damn shuttle. Oh, my god.

It's Star Trek that did this, isn't it? It's fucking Star Trek. You've gotta be able to quote every episode of every season of that crap to like or see the point of the Space fucking Shuttle.

Every time one of those wanks with the Spock ears presses the gas pedal on this piece of shit, this Ford Escort of Outer Space (actually I take that back- Escort's a fine fuckin' ride) IT'S LIKE THE GOD DAMN GNP OF SWEDEN FOR A FUCKING YEAR. It's like, 5000 people's fucking retirement. It's like 6000 orphans that will die now of starvation on the streets of Bangladesh. Fuck you, NASA. How do YOU FUCKING SLEEP WITH THIS SHIT?

God DAMN it. It's like a couple that never fucks tryin' to spice up their pointless existence by trying Bungee Jumping. It's like some guy with AIDS trying to ease his cold symptoms. It's like...it's like some fucking country that is in BIG fucking trouble PISSING MONEY DOWN THE TUBES because there aren't enough Star Trek Conventions to keep these fucking geeks occupied.

Oh, if the drugs were just a little more readily available. Oh, god. Sob.

I remember some article in th' early 80's when I was in high school writing a paper on how much the Shuttle SUCKS. The writer referred to it as "The Spruce Goose Of Outer Space". That's great. That was great back then. Now, it's like, I'd like to call it the "this" of outer space or the "that" of outer space but see, it has to go into outer space for it to be called the "anything" of outer space. Now it's like, "The Spruce Goose of the Middle Atmosphere". Now it's like "The Flying Moneysucking Coffin Of Doom".

Stupid god damn shittle. Fucking NASA. What the fuck are they thinking?

When you were a cub scout did you get to be a boy scout right away? No, you had to be a fucking WEBELOE which sucked because it sounds gay as shit. Nobody wanted to be a fucking WEBELOE. Gimme a break. We all wanted to start tying fucking knots and saving drowning people and calling the authorities when our parents got stoned or expressed solidarity for Jews. But hey, there's no shortcut, you know?

Why don't we look at SOLVING OUR HORRIBLE, HORRIBLE GOD DAMN PROBLEMS as a sort of "Webeloehood". Like, if we get a million people out of starvations way, hey, we can put a new fucking wing on the shuttle, you know? Like a reward system.


Hey- then we can call Mopar and GET A NEW FUCKING FUEL GAUGE.

Christ, I hate the shuttle. Big, ugly, useless moneypit piecea shit. Fuck you, shuttle. Just one of your Christing heat tiles would probably feed me for six years. It's like being a French peasant and watching Marie Fucking Anoinette wipe her ass with a thousand franc note.

The Space Shuttle: The Most Useless Thing In The World Right Now.


I played piano for Tiny Tim's '88 Comeback.

Andy Partridge calls my brother.

I opened for "The Ventures" once.

Andy Partridge calls my brother.

I Ran Sound For Corey Feldman's Band Once.

Andy Partridge Calls My Brother.

Hello I'm Andy Partridge In 1979.

I just hopped along to lighten the mood a little because Bobby's going to some dark, smelly places today and I just wanted everyone to unwind and cleanse your mental pallet a while.

Just remember, folks- next time you feel like the world makes you want to shower and wash your hands to excess- there was a 1979. If you were there, you know how good it was.

I wouldn't judge Bobby too harshly for making fun of Ann Coulter's frigidity or talking about autoerotic whatever and making you picture getting waylaid by Carl Rove's crispy pigtail (AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH HA HA HA HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA). Just remember the guy's gotta deal with the fact that "Brass In Pocket" will never be in heavy rotation again, that Elvis Costello will never insult Ray Charles again, that the Stranglers are dead and gone and no one even remembers "Golden Brown". Bobby has to toil through his days knowing that "Black Sea" will never come out again and that he'll never crack the wrapper on a new Pistols disc. Actually that was already true then.

So just remember, it was bitchin' and we toured with Talking Heads the yr. before. Isn't it funny to hear me say things Andy Partridge would never say? Like "bitchin'"? It sounds funny when I say it.

Check it out- Whazzap, dog- what's the 4-1-1 yo?

Doesn't that sound funny when I say it? Andy Partridge would never say that shit. Ha. I'd never talk like that at all.

Anyway, thanks-

Andy Partridge

Hello, Ladies. I'm Karl Rove And I Want You To Picture Me Fucking You.

That's right, angel cakes. Just you and me and some late-period Journey. "Don't stop believin'..."
Oh, I'd be good for you, prissie missie. I got some fat, bald, hairy flappy-assed love for you, li'l saddlepal. That's right, saddlelpal. Check it-

I'm hovering over you in the candlelight, my fat gross paunch nestled against your stomach. I've got that white gunk at the corners of my mouth and my glasses are on cockeyed. I'm all red with exertion and I keep saying, "yeah, babe-uh, yeah, babe-uh..." just like that. Not "baby": "Bay-buh."

I feel like a stale Twizzler inside you, ain't it good, bay-buh? You like that white lic'rish, don't ya, punkin? You like what Little Carl is teaching you. Don't act like you don't. I know you're my little girl, punkin. I know that fwumping 230 pounds against you sort of overshadows any motion in th' ocean if you know what ah'm sayin', but I can tell you love, love, love it. Been a while since you had a REAL man, ain'tent it?

My tits are bigger than yours and a lot sweatier. Don't the piercings make 'em sexy? Tug 'em with your teeth. Oh, yeah, you hussy. Yeah, that's it bay-buh. Kiss me. Kiss me Kate. Have some of that white mouth-corner gunk. Uncle Karl's gonna tell you aaaall his secrets tonite, sugar cookie. Fwap fwap fwap. It's all you, bay-buh. It's aaall about you tonight.

Boy, I bet you feel a lot more well disposed towards your husband right now.

A Public Service from Bobby Lightfoot registered trademark.


GlaxoSmith Welcome

Kaiser Permanente


Hi! : ) : ) Ann Coulter Here : ) : )

I KNEW Sting and I had something in common.


Hullo Everyone It's Me Sting.

And I just wanted to clear things up while we're on a similar topic.

I never said I could fuck for ten hours without coming.

What I said was, "fuck doing tours without money". They were trying to get me on one of those fucking Amnesty benefit things. Fuck that. If there's one thing you know about me it's that I ain't stupid.

I can't fuck anymore anyway. Only Pakistani boys in nun habits do anything for me, and they're goddamn expensive.

I Actually Don't Get The Whole Autoerotic Asphyxiation Thing.

I tried it, but no matter how hard I squeezed I could still breathe just fine.

Hi I'm Michael Hutchence And Now I'm Dead 'Cause I Hung Myself By My Belt with My Wang Out a While Back.

So now I'm looking down from Autoerotic Asphyxiation Accident Heaven. Me and Brian Epstein and Ronald Reagan are looking down (and Frank Sinatra and Olaf Palme) and chuckling at this new show in th' States where they have like these American Idol pusses trying to win the spot as lead singer of INXS (and Julia Child and Michael Landon).

Imagine if you were all fucking dead like my ass and you had to look down from Autoerotic Asphyxiation Accident Heaven at this shit. And you had NO ONE TO FUCKING HANG OUT WITH EXCEPT A BUNCHA PRIESTS AND FUCKING POLITICIANS THAT OFFED THEYSELVES WHACKING OFF WITH A BAGGIE OVER THEIR HEAD.

Can you imagine what (copy-paste) Autoerotic Asphyxiation Accident HELL looks like?

You know who's going to (copy-paste) Autoerotic Asphyxiation Accident HELL, HUH?



Actually, if I was alive it might not be happening, huh? 'Cause INXS wouldn't need a new singer. 'Course, they could have a contest and whoever won would get to spend a night in a big Baggie with MY skinny ass. WOOOO HOOOO.

Hey, Ron- get yer hand off mine arse.

Jonathan Richman: From This Day Forward the Universal Lightfoot Symbol for Apathy and General Do-Nothingness.

Once my pal Mike tol' me he went to a PIL show and at a signing or something he yelled to John Lydon, "DON'T EVER GET COMPLACENT!!"

John replied, "ME??? NEVER!!!"

When Mike posed the same question to Richman in a similar setting, the reply was "Huh?"

Look at that weenie.

Um, nobody likes Jonathan Richman anymore, right?

"Roadrunner" is O.K. I guess.

He's no Bono, running around and CHANGING PEOPLES MOTHERFUCKING MINDS.

I Say To You That Next Monday is the Motherfucking Day.

Today wasn't good for Bryan. And Scott's not good 'til midweek. Also, sounds like CawnDawg is working on something incisive.


I Say To You That Tomorrow Is The Motherfucking Day.

Yeah, man. Tomorrow- that's July 18, 2005. What are you gonna do with it, people?

Are you gonna walk right back into the welcoming arms of The Man for yer handful of dimes so you can watch Magnificent Housewifes in 3 foot Living Surround?
Oh, goodness gracious me. It's ours to call, fuckers. Ours to call.

What's Bono gonna do when he wakes up in the morning on the god damn July 18 2005, sister- he's going to shave, he's going to eke one out, he's gonna have some nice caffee and THEN HE'S GOING TO UNLEASH UNHOLY HELL ON THE POWERS THAT OPPRESS YOU AND ME, FUCKERS.


Bono is going to OPEN HIS EYES when that alarm goes off and he's going to gently disentangle himself from Yoko's sleepy embrace. And he's going to move on from that moment forward with HIS EYES WIDE OPEN. WIDE OPEN TO THE POVERTY IN MONTANA. WIDE OPEN TO THE VAGARIES OF THE NATION STATE. WIDE GOD DAMN FUCKING OPEN TO THE STRIFE AND THE STRESS AND WHAT THE LITTLE MAN DOES TO EARN A CRUST FOR HIS AND HERS.

Bono is going to climb into the cramped cockpit of the Asskick 458Z, with Edge next to him and Adam Molino Jr. on the tailgun and together they will fly across the sky making mincemeat of the derigibles of Injustice and Oppression that stymie their ever-forward progress into the days of the Good and the True. And it's ALL of our progress, man. It's not just Bono, Ono and Mulano. It's you and it's me, man. It's the guy in the street who's just lookin' around, his eyes open for the first time after like a Live 8 concert with like Simple Minds telling it like it is.

That's right, people. I say to you that tomorrow is the motherfucking day. The day to make a difference. The day to take a chance. Because together we can get lawn ornaments at Walmart. And with our Walmart lawn ornaments we can LOAD THE CANNONS OF TRUTH AND BLAST THE EVILDOER AND THE CONNIVER AND THE WHISPERER OF NOTHINGS WHENCE HE CAME. MONSANTO.

Anybody'll tell you that I'm a peaceloving guy. I go with the flow, man. I do unto as I'd have done, you know? Somebody lends me their Night Ranger I lend 'em my Survivor. But I've recently come awake to the realization that people are suffering and I can't just lie around in this filthy bathrobe doing piles of coke and practicing dilrouba.

I've got to get off my ass and I think tomorrow might just be Ground Zero for this shit. Are you with me on this? Oh, fuckin' man alive, this shit has got to go down the way we've talked and talked and talked about it.

Maybe I'll just start by putting out a little fire, you know? Maybe I'll just rabbit-punch a recruiter or burn an SUV. Oh, hell. Maybe I'll just buy local produce. I don't know. How the fucking christ would I know? I play 'em where they fall. I rise late and keep a stiff upper Isle of Langerhans. You with me on this?

Saran wrap the toilets in the executive crapper, man. Make a pass at your boss and when they respond scream unholy murder. Drive into a police car and then act like no English. Before long you're going to live in a world where driving into a police car is gonna be a big legal problem and you'll get all your rights revoxed. And then where will you be? Not even


You'll be all "I should have kicked that politician in the cock before I got my unconscionable right to do so REVOKED LIKE A GOD DAMN GULAGER".

Let's do this thing. Let's all man the christ up and do this. Because you can only have like so many Live 8's because they're expensive. If we could have like, a Live 8 every weekend we could probably solve all the world's problems in like a couple of years. But we can't so it's up to you and me, brothers and sisters. It's up to you and me to GET IN THERE AND GIVE AS GOOD AS WE'RE GETTING. BANG. CRASH.

Freedom isn't free. Piss on a tree, man. Go to your local town hall and demand that they legalize abortion. Because there was a time when that was a man's god given god damn fucking right before the lunatics took over the asylum. Before the green states yielded a shrubbery. Before all this apocalipstick shit went over.

It's like living in a god damn capitalist state, is what it is. Man can't get a decent wage. It's the same old story. I mean, what kind of god damn country is it where a man has to sing in clubs three nights a week just to eke out some kind of a living? All that god damn applause and liquor.

We could do this, man. We could turn this shit on it's head if we all move together. In synchrony. As One. As ONE WITH BONO.

Because I Say To You That Tomorrow is the Motherfucking Day.