If you and I were stranded on a desert island, what one thing would you want
to take with us? One hundred and thirty-three kegs of beer. Brand wouldn't
matter, but it'd better be dark, by God. And we'd need <bro> there, too.
You, me, and <bro> with one hundred and thirty-three kegs to knock back.
We'd be fucking the local monkeys by the end of number thirteen! Around
fifty, we'd discover our inner beauty. We'd fuck that inner beauty around
the sixtieth keg. That's because we'd have gotten tired of the island
monkeys always telling us no, not tonight, I'm tired, my ass hurts, I have
lice, can't you see the lice! Around seventy, we'd construct crude topless
dancers out of palm leaves and coconuts.
You and I would give them all our money, but they'd go back to our cave with
<bro>. Go figure.
Kegs eighty through one hundred would be a naked blur. After the century
keg, one hundred, we'd take a day or two to sober up while we lashed the
empty kegs together with vines and what's left of our underwear, forming a
seaworthy raft. You'd try to smuggle on a couple of monkeys; you'd say they
were for the trip home, but <bro> and I would say we're tired of the
monkey-loving, leave them. Taking the leftover thirty-three kegs, we'd make
a long trip around the southern tip of South America (I assume we started
out in the southern Pacific, around Hawaii, maybe stranded on Maui or
something), land in New Orleans in time for Mardi Gras, sell the monkeys you
stowed on board anyway, and use the money to pay for some real strippers.
All the girls would go back with <bro>, but what the hell -- it beats
coconuts!
- Saul Mighty
> - Saul Mighty
You've been listening to Tom Waits again, haven't you?
(p.s., THAT was a nice piece of writing--thanks for sharing)
>saulgoode wrote:
>
>> - Saul Mighty
>
>You've been listening to Tom Waits again, haven't you?
>
And here I'd been thinking that I'm the only one around here old
enough to remember (and appreciate) Tom Waits...
rj
Oh, it gets worse. It about floored me last year when I heard my
grade-school-aged kids walking around singing "Uncle Vernon, Uncle
Vernon, independent as a hog on ice..." Apparently they'd found this
little flash video on Albino Blacksheep and gotten quite enthralled by it:
http://www.albinoblacksheep.com/flash/cemetery
It never quite reached the popularity in our household as "The Guinea
Pig Waaaaay," though:
http://www.albinoblacksheep.com/flash/guineapig
(Rest in Peace, Mr. Wumbo)
That's *one* nice thing about havind kids into Hip-Hop,
I never had to worry about losing my Rory Gallagher or John Prine.
...although I did get caught red handed "borrowing" Cypress Hill.
--
Posted via a free Usenet account from http://www.teranews.com
There are no more strippers in N'awlins.