"When I Think Of Christmas..." with Good Bobby and Bad Bobby
Good Bobby: When I think of Christmas I think of having a good time with friends and family alike.
Bad Bobby: When I think of Christmas I think of shoving my ass in an industrial meat grinder and serving the deep-fried results to all th' hungry children of the world.
GB: When I think of Christmas I think of the wonder of childhood and the endless vistas of th' imagination
BB: When I think of Christmas I think of a quintillion-gallon ribbon of napalm descending from the snowy skies and cutting a path of death and devastation from Alaska to fuckin' Kancakee IL.
GB: When I think of Christmas I think of the amazing fortune of having lived another year of challenges and of those little magic moments in life.
BB: When I think of Christmas I think of thin-slicing one of my testicles like a large (freakishly large, actually), ripe garlic clove and serving it pan-seared over a nice chop. Avec le creme fraish, sil-vous-plait, garcon. And then of eating it before retiring in my nightcap to a bed of rancid piss and bedclothes strewn with gore and offal. And of tossing and turning the night through with visions of stockings filled with fetuses and sausage links.
GB: Dude do NOT hit Publish Post.
BB: Fuck you, man. Stick a fork in 'er.
GB: Man, I'm not kidding. That's some sick fuckin' sh
Bad Bobby: When I think of Christmas I think of shoving my ass in an industrial meat grinder and serving the deep-fried results to all th' hungry children of the world.
GB: When I think of Christmas I think of the wonder of childhood and the endless vistas of th' imagination
BB: When I think of Christmas I think of a quintillion-gallon ribbon of napalm descending from the snowy skies and cutting a path of death and devastation from Alaska to fuckin' Kancakee IL.
GB: When I think of Christmas I think of the amazing fortune of having lived another year of challenges and of those little magic moments in life.
BB: When I think of Christmas I think of thin-slicing one of my testicles like a large (freakishly large, actually), ripe garlic clove and serving it pan-seared over a nice chop. Avec le creme fraish, sil-vous-plait, garcon. And then of eating it before retiring in my nightcap to a bed of rancid piss and bedclothes strewn with gore and offal. And of tossing and turning the night through with visions of stockings filled with fetuses and sausage links.
GB: Dude do NOT hit Publish Post.
BB: Fuck you, man. Stick a fork in 'er.
GB: Man, I'm not kidding. That's some sick fuckin' sh
posted by Bobby Lightfoot at 15:44
11 Comments:
Glork!
Maybe there's a song in it for you. My dad always told me: "Write a good Christmas song & you're set for life" (because people will buy it each year as it's played on the radio). Funny, though, he didn't mention thin-slicing one's testicles.
I think the Bad Bobby has been channeling William S.Burroughs again.
It was th' sausage links gave it away, methinks.
Wish I'd spelled it "foetuses". That's funnier.
penis is always funny
Dude you know what they say in th' comedy industry: "can't go wrong with dong."
A good fart joke goes a long way, too.
Every year about this time I get really sick of holiday cheer. This post was the perfect antidote - thanks!
And the spelling 'foetus' is almost too funny. There's a band called Foetus, in fact, and their name always predisposed me in their favor.
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Um... well... at least, living in Louisville, me and mine would be more or less safe from that thousand mile ribbon of napalm.
As to the rest, Bad Bobby needs to understand, all that stuff in the Thomas Harris novels is fiction. Hannibal Lecter? Not real. In real life, real serial killers aren't anywhere near as cool as Hannibal, or that guy Dexter on SHOWTIME, either. In real life, they're fat ass lame-os like John Wayne Gacy. Don't Let This Happen To You.
Malkmus is such a whiny bitch about his image. lighten up, doood !
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