Cock Island Line

Now, this here's a story about the Cock Island Line 

Well, the Cock Island Line, she runs down into Pussy Town 

There's a big gal gate down there, and you know 

If you got certain things on board when you come to the gal gate 

Well, you ain't gonna get yourself no gal 

Well, a pile driver, he pulled up to the gal gate 

And the gal pouted and asked him what all he had on board, and he said 

I'm a snowflake 

I'm a snowflake 

I got Marx 

I got blacks 

I got masks 

I got rules 

I got all feminist 

Well, she said, you're alright boy, you are gonna get this gal 

You can just go right on through, so he went on through the gal gate 

And as he went through, he started pickin' up a little bit of speed 

Pickin' up a little bit of steam 

He got on through, he turned, and looked up at the gal, he said 

Well, I fooled you 

I fooled you 

I'm a Trump man 

I'm a Trump man 

I got all MAGA 

Down the Cock Island Line, she's a mighty good road 

Cock Island Line, it's the road to ride 

Cock Island Line, it's a mighty good road 

Well, if you ride it, you got to ride it like you find it 

Get your ticket in a blue state for the Cock Island Line 

The Battle Hymn of the God Emperor

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord;
He is trampling out the idiots where the democrats are stored;
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword:
His truth is marching on.

(Chorus)
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
His truth is marching on.

I have seen Him in the pictures of a myriad memic clone,
They have builded Him an altar in The Donald Reddit zone;
I can read His righteous sentence on a dim and flick'ring phone:
His day is marching on.

(Chorus)
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
His day is marching on.

I have read his fiery gospel writ in burnished rows of steel:
"As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my tweets shall deal";
Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the leftoids with His heel,
Since Trump is marching on.

(Chorus)
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
Since Trump is marching on.

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;
He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment-seat;
Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him! Be quick to like His tweet!
Our God is marching on.

(Chorus)
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
Our God is marching on.

In the beauty of the lilies Trump was born across the lea,
With a courage in His bosom that transfigures you and me.
Like He lives to drive cucks crazy, let us live to make men free,
While Trump is marching on.

(Chorus)
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
While Trump is marching on.

He is coming like the glory of the morning on the wave,
He is Sanction to producers, He is Succor to the brave,
So Europe shall be His footstool, Angela Merkel His slave,
Our God is marching on.

(Chorus)
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
Our God is marching on!

Happy Birthday, God Emperor Donald J. Trump!

"I can't spare this man — he fights."

— Abraham Lincoln

Happy Flag Day, one and all!

Praise Kek!

Shadilay, my friends!

Hilly and the Great Man

(With apologies to Tanya Tucker.)

He came ridin' in on the sunrise on a hot West New York day
A fancy man in a golden limo with some fancy things to say
Looks like you folks need some greatness, well, greatness is my game
And if you folks can raise some one trillion dollars, I betcha I can make you great

Step back, nonbelievers, or the great will never come
Someone start them crosses a-burning, somebody stroke my bum
He said, some may think I'm crazy for making all these claims
But I swear before this year is over you folks are gonna be so great

They all just stood there a-staring, trying to believe
But there was one named Hilly Clinton who said he was a lying cheat
She said, you call yourself a great man, well, you oughta be ashamed
Starting all these people dreamin', thinking you can make 'em great

Step back, nonbelievers, or the great will never come
Someone keep them crosses a-burning, somebody stroke my bum
He said, some may think I'm crazy for making all these claims
But I swear before this year is over you folks are gonna be so great

Hey, Hilly, well, a man's got to have a dream
And if you will come on inside with me, I'll grope you in between
Oh, come with me, Hilly, and the arse will write your name
And if you still think I'm lying to you, look yonder, there comes the great

Step back, nonbelievers, or the great will never come
Someone keep them crosses a-burning, somebody stroke my bum
He said, some may think I'm crazy for making all these claims
But I swear before this year is over you folks are gonna be so great

[Repeat and fade]

Happy 2015!

Happy New Year! Happy 2015!

Merry Christmas from Satan Claus

Drunken Bums, or Merry Christmas from Satan Claus, or Christmas in the Ghetto

Ghetto sidewalks, dirty sidewalks dressed in vomit and bile,

In the air there's a feeling like dry rot

Children brawling, people passing, picking fight after fight

And on every street corner you hear — drunken bums

(Drunken bums, drunken bums)

Drunken bums

(Drunken bums)

It's Christmas time in the ghetto

Ring-a-ling

(Ring-a-ling, ring-a-ling)

Hear them sing

Soon it will be judgment day

Broken street lights although cop lights blink a bright red and blue

As the pigs rush by to commit murder

Hear the shots speed, see the kids bleed

This is Satan's big scene

And above all this carnage you hear

Drunken bums

(Drunken bums, drunken bums)

Drunken bums

(Drunken bums)

It's Christmas time in the ghetto

Ring-a-ling

(Ring-a-ling, ring-a-ling)

Hear them sing

Soon it will be judgment day

Drunken bums

(Drunken bums, drunken bums)

Drunken bums

(Drunken bums)

It's Christmas time in the ghetto

Ring-a-ling

(Ring-a-ling, ring-a-ling)

Hear them sing

Soon it will be — judgment day

Surfin' NSA

(With apologies to the Bitch Boys Beach Boys.)

If everybody was like Snowden

Across the USA

Then everybody'd be surfin'

Phreakin' the CIA

You'd see 'em breakin' out netbooks

Anarchic vandals, too,

With tablets, smart phones, and dumb Nooks

Surfin' NSA

You'd catch 'em surfin' at Langley (inside, outside USA),

Anne Arundel County line (inside, outside USA),

At the ports and bases (inside, outside USA)

Mediterranean (inside, outside USA),

All over Manhattan (inside, outside USA),

And on Doheny Drive (inside, outside USA)

Everybody's gone surfin'

Surfin' NSA

We'll all be crackin' us a router

We're gonna take real soon

We're bringin' down their networks

We can't wait for June

We'll all be gone for the summer

We're on safari to stay

Tell Obama we're surfin'

Surfin' NSA

At Feinstein's and Schumer's (inside, outside USA),

Pacific carriers base (inside, outside USA),

Foggy Bottom and Georgetown (inside, outside USA),

Outside the Pentagon (inside, outside USA),

All over the Beltway (inside, outside USA),

At Waimea Bay (inside, outside USA)

Everybody's gone surfin'

Surfin' NSA

Everybody's gone surfin'

Surfin' NSA

Everybody's gone surfin'

Surfin' NSA

Everybody's gone surfin'

Surfin' NSA

Yeah, everybody's gone surfin'

Surfin' NSA

Yeah, everybody's gone surfin'

Surfin' NSA

GTA

(With apologies to Lead Belly and Credence Clearwater Revival.)

When I was a little bitty baby

My mama put Rockstar in my cradle,

Oh, the old GTA back home;

It was down in Coral Gables,

Just about a mile from Thompson's stables,

With the old GTA back home.

Oh, when Hillary's pigs come rootin'

You can't do very much shootin',

In the old GTA back home.

It was down in Coral Gables,

Just about a mile from Thompson's stables,

With the old GTA back home.

When I was a little bitty baby

My mama put Rockstar in my cradle,

Oh, the old GTA back home;

It was down in Coral Gables,

Just about a mile from Thompson's stables,

With the old GTA back home.

Oh, when Jack the jackass starts brayin'

You can't do very much slayin',

In the old GTA back home.

It was down in Coral Gables,

Just about a mile from Thompson's stables,

With the old GTA back home.

(Instrumental bridge)

When I was a little bitty baby

My mama put Rockstar in my cradle,

Oh, the old GTA back home;

It was down in Coral Gables,

Just about a mile from Thompson's stables,

With the old GTA back home,

With the old GTA back home.

The Night They Drove My Business Down

This is for you, Resident O'Bama. No, you didn't build that.

Virgil McCain is the name, and I saved in the GM vein

Till Bama's bankruptcy came and tore up contracts again

In the winter of 2012, we were hungry, just barely alive

By May the tenth, Dow Jones had fell

It's a time I remember oh so well

The night they drove my business down

Exchange bells were ringing

The night they drove my business down

And the people were singing

They went, "La, la, la, we live in La-La Land"

Back then my girlfriend watched TV, when one day she called me in

"Virgil, quick, come see, there goes Edward Saverin"

Now, I don't mind choppin' wood, and I don't care if the money's no good

Ya take what ya need, and ya leave the rest

But they should never have taken the very best

The night they drove my business down

Exchange bells were ringing

The night they drove my business down

And all the people were singing

They went, "La, la, la, we live in La-La Land"

Like my father before me, I'm a workin' man

And like my brother above me, who took a rebel stand

He was just eighteen, proud and brave, but the ATF laid him in his grave

I swear by the mud below my feet

You can't raise McCain back up when he's in defeat

The night they drove my business down

Exchange bells were ringing

The night they drove my business down

And all the people were singing

They went, "Na, na, na, you didn't build that"

The night they drove my business down

All exchange bells were ringing

The night they drove my business down

And the people were singing

They went, "Na, na, na, you didn't build that"

Satan Claus Is Coming to Town

A song of Satan Claus, Santa's sexy but earthbound brother.

You better watch out
You better not cry
You better not pout
I'm telling you why
Satan Claus is coming to town
Satan Claus is coming to town
Satan Claus is coming to town

He's making a list,
Checking it twice;
Gonna find out who's naughty, how nice.
Satan Claus is coming to town
Satan Claus is coming to town
Satan Claus is coming to town

He sees with whom you're sleeping
He knows you're on the make
He knows if you've been bad or worse
So be good at it, you rake!

With little red horns and plastic toy bums
Rooty toot toots and rummy tum tums
Satan Claus is coming to town
Satan Claus is coming to town
Satan Claus is coming to town

He sees with whom you're sleeping
He knows you're on the make
He knows if you've been bad or worse
So be good at it, you rake!

You better watch out
You better not cry
You better not pout
I'm telling you why
Satan Claus is coming to town
Satan Claus is coming to town
Satan Claus is coming to town

Satan's a busy man, he has no time to play
He's got millions of stockings to nick on Christmas day
Satan Claus is coming to town
Coming to town
Satan Claus is coming to town
Coming to town

He sees with whom you're sleeping
He knows you're on the make
He knows if you've been bad or worse
So be good at it, you rake!

You better watch out
You better not cry
You better not pout
I'm telling you why
Satan Claus is coming to town
Satan Claus is coming to town
Satan Claus is coming to town

The kids in girl and boyland
Will have a jubilee
They're gonna build a toyland
All around the Christmas tree
Satan Claus is coming to town
Coming to town
Satan Claus is coming in town
Coming in town

The Ayn Rand Curse

(Today we'll take a well-deserved breather from reason.)

Don't fuck with The Fountainhead. Ever since the movie Dirty Dancing smeared The Fountainhead in 1987, the cast and crew of the former has been dying premature deaths. The curse has been observed before, but to my knowledge, its cause has never before been identified.

Let's keep track of the cast here:

Max Cantor (Robbie Gould) died of heroin overdose in 1991, aged 32.

Cantor's character was the one that mischaracterized The Fountainhead as a Nietzschean affair that teaches "Some people count, some people don't." Coincidence that he was the first to die?

Anyway, the Dirty Dancing curse didn't stop there. For the curse, guilt by association is sufficient for a death sentence.

Jack Weston (Max Kellerman) died of lymphoma in 1996, aged 71.

Jerry Orbach (Jake Houseman) died of prostate cancer in 2004, aged 69.

Patrick Swayze (Johnny Castle) died of pancreatic cancer in 2009, aged 57.

In 2010, Jennifer Grey (Frances "Baby" Houseman) survived a bout with thyroid cancer only because she happened to get a medical checkup for Dancing with the Stars.

Director Emile Ardolino died of complications from AIDS in 1993, aged 50.

Executive producer Steven Reuther died in 2010, aged 58.

The studio, Vestron, went bankrupt in 1990.

Honorable mentions:

Charles Coles (Tito Suarez) died in 1992, aged 81.

Paula Trueman (Mrs. Schumacher) died in 1994, aged 93.

Alvin Myerovich (Mr. Schumacher) died in 1996, aged 89.

However, those can't be called premature deaths, given their ages.

Ayn Rand herself had died of heart failure in 1982, after a bout with lung cancer years before. Is it a coincidence that so many of the curse's victims died of cancer?

In any event, thanks to the curse and the fact that its origin has now been discovered, you can pretend you can cheat death by simply not insulting The Fountainhead while keeping your bad habits, like smoking.

Are you a believer in the curse now?

Year of the Yat

(With apologies to Al Stewart.)

On a morning from a Wyler movie
In a city where they turn back time
You go strolling through the crowd like Henry Fonda
Contemplating a mime

She comes out of that fun in a soaked dress sweating
Like the water cooler on the train
Don't bother asking for explanations
She'll just tell you that she came
In the year of the yat

She doesn't give you time for questions
As she locks up your arm in hers
And you follow till your sense of which direction
Completely disappears

Midst the disrepair down near Congo Square
There's a hidden door she leads you to
These days, she says, I feel my life
Just like the river running through
The year of the yat

Why she looks at you so cruelly?
And her eyes shine like the moon in Dupre
She comes with gumbo and etouffee
So you take her, to find what's waiting inside
The year of the yat

Well, morning comes and you're still with her
And the boat and the Yankees are gone
And you've thrown away your choice and lost your ticket
So you have to stay on

But the drumbeat strains of the night remain
In the rhythm of the new-born day
You know sometime you're bound to leave her
But for now you're going to stay
In the year of the yat
Year of the yat

Huge Pair of Jug Ears

AKA An Ode to Emperor Barrack I on the Occasion of the Fiftieth Anniversary of the Unfortunate Event of His Birth

(Without apologies to Jimmy Buffett.)

Now they make new riots on old black and white
No happy endings, everybody fights
So if you are looking at that nostalgic rage
Sheeple, jump right up and break your cage

I wish I had a pencil thin mustache
The Henry Waxman kind
A two toned Barrack Obama hairdo
And an autographed T-Bill from Benny the swine

I remember bein' happy and wealthy
Back when the economy was healthy
Oh, I wish I had a huge pair of jug ears
Then I could print some money, too

Then it's bailout, stimulus, blowin' up fast
Spendin' on a crank idea
Yeah, Obama of the bungle is every bat's bwana
But only Billy Clinton was smokin' marijuana
Yeah, I wish I had a huge pair of jug ears
Then I could print some money, too

Now it's flat broke, dirty job, cops lend a heel
Grindin' you into the livin' room floor
Yeah, they sent him off to college, try to gain a little knowledge,
But all he learned to do is how to cry fore

Yeah, but now he's gettin' old, on the emperor
You don't find no clothes, and he don't dye his hair
But you can go to movies and see it all there
Just the wealth that there used to be

That's why I wish I had a pencil thin mustache
The Henry Waxman kind
A two toned Barrack Obama hairdo
And an autographed T-Bill from Benny the swine

Oh, I could see anyone I wanted to see
Kidnap suave Errol Flynns, shoot the Sheiks of Araby
If I only had a huge pair of jug ears
I'd send Tomahawks cruisin', too

Yeah, Brylcreem, a little dab'll dye yah
I'd send Tomahawks cruisin', too

Bahama Republics

AKA Banana Republics (John Galt Edition)

(With apologies to Jimmy Buffett.)

Down to the Bahama Republics,
Down to the tropical sun
Go the ex-patriotic Americans,
Hopin' to find some fun
None of them go for the sailing,
Caught by the lure of the sea
They know too well what is ailing
Livin' in the land of the "free"

Some of them are running from ex-wives,
Leaving no forward address
Some of them are running from their drug terms
Most are running from the IRS

Late at night you will find them
In Freeport hotels and bars
Hustling the blond turistas
While they dance beneath the stars
Spending those renegade pesos
On a bottle of rum and a line
Singin', "Give me some purpose to live for
"Or another chick to wine."

First you learn to lie to customs
Soon to dodge a tax law or two
You know that you cannot trust Sam
As Sam knows he can't trust you
Ex-patriotic Americans
Feelin' disgust for Sam
Telling them sheep the same lies
That they told before the lam

Back from the Bahama Republics
Things aren't as free as they seem
None of the looters is getting
Any second-hand American dreams

In Detroit you will find them
With el cheapo meth dubbed malt
Hustling the two-bit hookers
While they ask, "Who is John Galt?"
Spending those renegade pesos
On a bottle of rum and a line
Singin', "Give me some purpose to live for
"Or another chick to wine."

Down to the Bahama Republics
Down to the tropical sun
Go the ex-patriotic Americans
Hopin' to find some fun

Happy Birthday America!

Happy 235th, and long may you wave, in spite of the shrubs and Obamas!

Tags: Independence Day, Martina McBride, Martina McBride Videos

Now I ain't sayin' it's right or it's wrong
But maybe it's the only way
Talk about your revolution
It's Independence Day

Let Freedom ring, let the white dove sing
Let the whole world know that today is a
Day of reckoning
Let the weak be strong,
Let the right be wrong
Roll the stone away,
Let the guilty pay,
It's Independence Day

Ramble, Christian Soldiers

Andre the Giant may have a posse, but Sarah Palin has a new campaign hymen hymn:

1. Ramble, Christian soldiers, murder as in war,
Bomb abortion clinics like we done before.
Faith, the ancient horror, fights against the mind;
Forward into battle, see our jackboots grind!
Refrain:
Ramble, Christian soldiers, murder as in war,
Bomb abortion clinics like we done before.

2. At the sign of Sarah sanity doth flee;
Ramble, Christian soldiers, on to lunacy!
East and West Coast quiver at our web of lies;
Mortify your brain cells, belt your moron cries.
(Refrain)

3. Like a zombie army moves the church of god;
Brothers, we are treading where fascists have trod.
We are not gratified, all no body we,
Only desperate doctrine and insanity.
(Refrain)

4. Crowns and thrones may perish, kingdoms rise and wane,
But the state's guns do the status quo maintain.
The real world can never 'gainst that church prevail;
We have Sarah's promise, and that cannot fail.
(Refrain)

5. Onward then, ye people, join our moron throng,
Blend with ours your voices in our insane song.
Glory, laud, and honor unto god the king,
This through countless ages fools and killers sing.
(Refrain)



"When fascism comes to America, it will come wrapped in the Flag and waving a cross."

— Attributed to Sinclair Lewis

That's Chutzpah

When the mail hits your eye like a slap from blue sky
That's chutzpah
When the world seems to honk like something's gonna plonk
That's chutzpah

Certain friend of a friend snubbed me on Facebook, but put my email on his business email list.

There isn't even an unsubscribe link in that spam mail.

Plonk!

Hippie Valley Hypocrites

(Without any apologies whatsoever to Fundie C. Riley.)

Hippie Valley EPA

I wanna tell you all a story 'bout a Hippie Valley single dad
Who had a teenager adopted who attended Hippie Valley Junior High
Well, this young man came home one afternoon and didn't even stop to play
And he said, Kev, I got a note here from the Hippie Valley EPA
Well, the note said, Mr. Traynor, you're flyin' your Gulfstream way too high
And it's reported you've been pollutin' and a drivin' round with girls and burnin' fuel
And we don't believe you oughta be a bringin' up your little boy this way
And it was signed by The Secretary, Hippie Valley EPA
Well, it happened that the EPA was gonna meet that very afternoon
And they were sure surprised when Mr. Traynor wore his .45 into the room
And as he walked up to the lectern I can still recall the words he had to say
He said, I'd like to address this meeting of the Hippie Valley EPA
Well, there's Gillian Anderson sittin' there and seven times she flew across the lake
And St. Obama sure seems to melt a lotta ice whenever he's away
And Philip D. Jones, can you tell us why your secretaries had to leave this town?
And shouldn't Hippie Gore be told to keep his thermostats all turned completely down?
James Cameron couldn't be here 'cause he played too long with his dirt bikes again
And if you watch Franny Armstrong's spot you'll find she's lost her little bit of brain
And then you have the nerve to tell me you think that as a father I'm not fit
Well, this is just a concentration camp and you're all Hippie Valley hypocrites
No, I wouldn't put you on because it really did, it happened just this way
When Kevin Traynor socked it to the Hippie Valley EPA

Quote of the Day

"If you're gonna play the Game Boy, you gotta learn to play it right."

— Kenny Rogers, "The Gambler."

The Couch-Surfing Song

(With apologies to Enya.)

Let me sail, let me fail, let me see the world for free,
Let me reach, let me beach on the shores of luxury.
Let me sail, let me fail, let me crash upon your couch,
Let me reach, let me beach on both sides of the great sea.

Surf the couch, surf the couch, surf the couch…
Surf the couch, surf the couch, surf the couch…
Surf the couch, surf the couch, surf the couch…
Surf the couch, surf the couch, surf the couch…

From Nassau to Trump Tower — in the shade of ESB,
No Fiji, no Tiree, just one isle of NYC,
No Peru, no Cebu, fuck the power of Babylon,
From Bali and Cali — pay with lines that bring pigs on.

Turn it up, turn it up, turn it up.
Ah-ah-adieu… No.
Turn it up, turn it up, turn it up.
Ah-ah-adieu… No.
Turn it up, turn it up, turn it up.
Ah-ah-adieu… Yeah!

Surf the couch, surf the couch, surf the couch…
Surf the couch, surf the couch, surf the couch…
Surf the couch, surf the couch, surf the couch…
Surf the couch, surf the couch, surf the couch…

From New York to London, Turtle Bay to the Docklands,
From the deep clouds of weed to a loss north of ten grand,
Carry me on the waves to the lands I've never been,
Shelter me on the couches of the lands I've never seen.

We can surf, we can surf, we can see the world for free.
We can surf, we can surf…
Surf the couch, surf the couch, surf the couch…
We can cock, we can block, we can cock block with all chicks,
In return, you can stay at our armpit in the sticks.

We can surf, we can surf…
Surf the couch, surf the couch, surf the couch…
We can reach, we can beach on the shores of luxury.

We can surf, we can surf…
Surf the couch, surf the couch, surf the couch…
From Bali and Cali — pay with lines that bring pigs on.

We can surf, we can surf…
Surf the couch, surf the couch, surf the couch…
From Nassau to Trump Tower — in the shade of ESB.

We can surf, we can surf…
Surf the couch, surf the couch, surf the couch…
We can reach, we can beach on the shores of luxury.

We can surf, we can surf…
Surf the couch, surf the couch, surf the couch…
No Peru, no Cebu, fuck the power of Babylon.

We can surf, we can surf…
Surf the couch, surf the couch, surf the couch…

We can surf, we can surf…
Surf the couch, surf the couch, surf the couch…
Surf the couch, surf the couch, surf the couch…
Surf the couch, surf the couch, surf the couch…
Surf the couch, surf the couch, surf the couch…
Surf the couch, surf the couch, surf the couch…

Argh… Argh… Argh!

All My Taxes Go to Ex's

(With apologies to George Strait.)

All my taxes go to ex's:
Yeah, Stateside is a place I'd dearly love to be.
But all my taxes go to ex's:
Might just as well hang myself in Tennessee.

IRS makes me pay towards the health insurance of each one,
Local taxes pay for pigs so chicks don't have to own a gun,
Alimony for monotony makes me lose m' sanity,
Child support for brats I didn't want
Got the law lookin' for me.

All my taxes go to ex's:
Yeah, Stateside is a place I'd dearly love to be.
But all my taxes go to ex's:
Might just as well hang myself in Tennessee.

I remember that old Frio River where I learned to swim.
And it brings to mind another time where I wore my welcome thin.
By transcendental meditation, I go there each night,
But I always come back to Freeport
Long before daylight.

All my ex's died in Texas,
For Freeport is a place I dearly love to be.
So all my ex's died in Texas,
And that's 'cause they hanged themselves in penury.

Some folks think I'm hidin',
It's been rumored that I died,
But I'm alive and well in Bahama.