The Funnest Products Are The Ones That Go Up Your Ass

I want products NOW. I want a product in EACH of my hands. No, two products. In each hand. I want a product NOW that makes my hair SHINY and my breath DELICIOUS. I want a fucking product that makes my elbows feel well-lubricated and that makes my SOCKS clean. Man, what I'd do with a fine product like that. Fella could do worse than to have a product like that, my friends; one that would ensure both personal cleanliness and a feeling of freshness and health.

Products!

I want a fucking rectal bleaching kit that I can use to clean my fucking spark plugs. Not only will I have one of the more unusually attractive and well-kempt assholes this side of Bangkok, My car will run smoother than pate through a polesmokin' goose. And won't THAT be th' cat's meow? Yesirree it will. I want a fucking PRODUCT that I can apply at night and when I wake up in the morning I'll be FREE of the SHAME. I want to PEEL the SHAME off me like it was dead skin and I was just givin' myself a little loofa-ing with th' ShameMaster 5000. I hope I can find something to PEEL it off because it burns like fire, man. It burns like holy water.

I want a distilled essence of what it feels like to be hopeful that you put in one of those vaporizers and you turn it on full-blast to counteract the cynicism and bitterness that keeps people from wanting to talk to me. You could put it in your house and if you put enough of th' distilled essence of Hope in th' vaperizopr you could maybe minimize the impact of your rage and disappointment on th' children and pets.

There's this other thing that I want but I can't remember. All day with all the wanting it's hard to remember what's what and you have to remind yourself no, that's what Lennie in Cost Analysis wanted. He's th' one who wanted the rectal bleach and Floris from down th' street was th' one that wanted the ShameMaster. That's not what I wanted. What I wanted was...and the you can't remember and that's when they throw your unamerican terrorist fucking ass in gitmo and shove th' key into the center of the polesmoking earth.

I want a large green trampoline that I can go up on the roof and empty all my tears into it. I want two burnished, sequined cocoanut halves that I can clap over my ears when th' talk turns to batik. I want a huge bubbling bong that I can load with my infinite contrition and smoke at until it comes out my ears and then I spill it on th' rug. And I want a sunken room. A sunken room done in tinfoil and Nazareth posters were I can flail away at myself during Ramadan.

I want a jointed tennis racket that I can take to myself as I walk down Pleasant St. with my shirt over my head. I want a peacoat. I want a toaster oven DVD player alarm clock pocket pussy and organizer all 'n' one. But it has to be small enough to SHOVE UP MY ASS. Every product must GO UP MY ASS. What is the use of a product that can't GO UP YOUR ASS? I ask you? Everybody that's fuckin' ANY BODY knows that The Funnest Products Are The Ones That Go Up Your Ass.

Trainspotting

"Fookin' hell!" is what Paul McCartney says at 2:58 of "Hey Jude". He's hit a clam on the piano on an earlier take and the curse makes it onto the drum mics or some other open mic.

At 2:56 some other McCartney-ish imprecation is delivered that sounds like he's singing the right piano part, and then he mutters the immortal words.

Listen to it- isn't that crazy? It's Th' Beatles fookin' "Hey Jude", man. It's not an album track by The Damned, you know?

An earlier take of ad libbing is also audible all over the overheads in the first several bars of the epic outro before the final vocal comes in.


Yeah, I know it's nothing by today's standards but it's like finding a frame of beaver in the original 16 mm print of "Dumbo".

Woah!

"Neoconservatism will go; it will shrink and vanish. Leo Strauss was all right but his disciples are thick and ordinary. Right now th' Beatles are bigger than Leo Strauss."

What The Fucking Christ Do YOU Know About Brian Wilson?

Woah! Compadre! Saddle Pal! What th' flippin' fuck does a butterboy like YOU know about Brian Wilson? Eh? What's that? Can't hear your through the tissues!

Oh, fuck. Already did this post.