Damn dem dogs
Currently groovin' to the latest speculation of the A-Dogs. A happy lil' number we call "Birthday Song." I believe Brother Rob said it best when he said in no uncertain terms "Who does stuff like this?"
And I turn to the audience, take one of them dramatic all-get-out pauses, and say, "Just us. Score one for the quirk-minded socios."
Feels like preachin' to the tired. The hapless, hopeless, dopeless mass of memory-depleted, who so dim with their ADD turn old friends into brief conspiracies. In such circumstances, one might hear: "Don't start the revolution without me--oh, I missed it? Shame. What's on the tube?"
Leave it to the current powers-that-be to set the course. Once again our videos are filled with bubbly boobs and asking asses. Remember the eighties? As the world turns. History depletes itself. Our ragtime mags are juiced with jugglies that make a man feel like all his little milk-white lovelies are ready to PROcreate. As if anyone were ever ANTIcreation.
Breed us some soldiers, babe. I'll post this pic of perky silicone on my magic headboard and make for the next war.
But I stray, to my dismay. I may be sayin' that sex ed don't breed sergeants, that abortion kills off those who will one day aspire to make their own abortions twenty-one years too late, that a lack of class may prove that jingoists cain't exist. Dream a little dream with me, boys and girls.
Keep the boys free to stare at what imagination lacks, and they will fight until the cows come home.
All I'm sayin'.
Z.
And I turn to the audience, take one of them dramatic all-get-out pauses, and say, "Just us. Score one for the quirk-minded socios."
Feels like preachin' to the tired. The hapless, hopeless, dopeless mass of memory-depleted, who so dim with their ADD turn old friends into brief conspiracies. In such circumstances, one might hear: "Don't start the revolution without me--oh, I missed it? Shame. What's on the tube?"
Leave it to the current powers-that-be to set the course. Once again our videos are filled with bubbly boobs and asking asses. Remember the eighties? As the world turns. History depletes itself. Our ragtime mags are juiced with jugglies that make a man feel like all his little milk-white lovelies are ready to PROcreate. As if anyone were ever ANTIcreation.
Breed us some soldiers, babe. I'll post this pic of perky silicone on my magic headboard and make for the next war.
But I stray, to my dismay. I may be sayin' that sex ed don't breed sergeants, that abortion kills off those who will one day aspire to make their own abortions twenty-one years too late, that a lack of class may prove that jingoists cain't exist. Dream a little dream with me, boys and girls.
Keep the boys free to stare at what imagination lacks, and they will fight until the cows come home.
All I'm sayin'.
Z.
posted by Zodi at 4:19 AM
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