A Message From Your Local Poultry Council

On my way home yesterday from dropping my issue off at what she affectionately calls Nerd Camp, the following ribaldry suggested itself, to the tune of Whiting's Ain't We Got Fun?:

Every mornin',
Every evenin'
Eat chicken pie!
It's a ritual;
Something which you'll
Be wise to try.

There's nothing moister,
The poets have sung;
So serve that oyster
With plenty of tongue!

Certain fellas
Go for breast meat;
Well, so do I.
I can dig it.
But the best meat
Is near the thigh.

It might surprise her—
The entrée coming with the appetizer.
Understood, boy?
Be a good boy
And eat your pie!

[Return to last eight bars for:]

Try cunnilingus
To tintinnabulate her ring-ding-dingus.
She will wig out,
If you pig out
On chicken pie.

[And for the big finish:]

Here's the lowdown:
Better go down
And eat your pie!
(My, my!)

Lyric © 2006 Nathaniel DesH. Petrikov

I hope that my faithful public know that the two lumps of meat nestled behind the pelvis of a chicken are called the oysters. I mention this, only because I've met some otherwise educated persons who are unacquainted with the term.

I'm unhappy about referring to the subject of the song in haec verba, but I'm all but married to the euphony of tintinnabulate her ring-ding-dingus; and, so far, I've been unable to make any sense of the alternative phrase, honey-wing us.

Utter Nonsense

It came as a surprise to me that the Nat King Cole hit, L-O-V-E, was written by Billy Crystal's Uncle, Milt Gabler, and Bert Kaempfert, whose name I first heard on the lips of a Polish exchange student back in the 1970's. They also wrote Danke Schoen. And what brought L-O-V-E to mind was David Letterman, and what brought David Letterman to mind was—oh, this is getting us nowhere. The point is, I thought that D-A-V-E had possibilities. And here's one of 'em:

“D” is Hello Deli’s plat du jour;
“A” is Sirajul and Mujibur;
“V” is Stupid Pet Tricks—
Dogs that do obstetrics—
“E”—when stars assist
To put across a Top Ten List for
Dave—he's why I stole a T.V. set.
Dave—he's why I’m still not reading yet.
Yet I wouldn’t swap him;
No one else can hope to top him—
With balsamic vinaigrette.

Lyric © 2006 Nathaniel DesH. Petrikov

I told you it was utter nonsense.

That Well-Known Arab, Allova Bar Shoutin

I'm too lazy to link to it, but yesterday, The New York Post quoted the Gummint as calling al-Zarqawi the most dangerous man on the planet and, almost in the same breath, a nobody whom they'd magnified, so as to incite schism among leaders of the Iraqi insurgency.

Hmmmmm.

Still, a tag popped into my head as I read the Post, although it had precious little to do with the Gummint's Newspeak. To the tune of Wrubel's Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah:

Slippery mullahs, slippery ways—
Dog my kittens, but they're pains in the A's!
Snuff al-Zarqawi? Everyone brays,
"Infidel Yankees! Only a phase!"

Will you look at Tora Bora?
They're in nooks and crannies,
Shackin' up with Pakistanis.
Slippery mullahs, slippery ways—
They will exhaust us, one of these days.

Lyric © 2006 Nathaniel DesH. Petrikov

The song has a way of going around and around and around, so there's plenty of room for more releases and endings, if I can think of 'em.

Disney Re Ducks, or Possibly Turkeys

The threatened second verse and chorus of the parody of Dixie Land have manifested themselves, and they smell of the lamp:

Dumb it down, to cater to the Friends Of Mickey;
No big words, and nothin’ tricky
Is the sole freakin’ goal of the ol’ Disney game.
Build a score from Reddi-wip™ and old marshmallow;
Hallmark™ rhymes—and keep it shallow;
Use the whole sugar bowl in the ol’ Disney game.

Is wit reborn with Disney? Hey, hey! No way!
Cole Porter’s dead and Coward’s fled before the tripe of the Disney.
Extol Sir Noel—it cuts no ice with Disney.
Let Cole cajole—it don’t mean squat to Disney.

Lyric © 2006 Nathaniel DesH. Petrikov

Oh, well. Just wait 'til next song!

Tony Time!

When the Tony nominations came out this year, one comment struck my eye: why in the dickens was The Wedding Singer nominated for Best Musical? It being widely considered by all of the citizens up and down Broadway as a dawg of a show. The answer, more or less, was that the Committee had a slate to fill, and there was nothing left to nominate.

In other news, on April 21, 2006, Sam's, a piano bar on 45th Street featuring the stylish fingerings of one Michael Walsh, shut its doors for good and all, because the Disney juggernaut had purchased the real estate (I chipped an incisor as a result of that acquisition, but that's a tedious tale with which I won't bore you).

Of course, the so-called clean-up of Times Square has had me in a snit for years. Goddammit, go peddle yer pablum in Podunk, ya patronizing, paternalistic prigs!

So a couple of days ago, I sang to myself, "I'm fed right up with Disney, okay? Okay?" to the tune of Daniel Decatur Emmett's Dixie Land. At this point, any idea is a good idea, and the upshot follows:

Why are Broadway musicals completely rotten?
Old Times Square is long forgotten.
What a shame! Put the blame on the lame Disney fare.
Whether Disney's nominated for a Tony™—
Win or lose—it's still baloney,
'Cause the name of the game is the same Disney fare.

I've had my fill of Disney, okay? Okay?
If Disneyland seems dull and bland, you ain't seen half of Disney.
No Mame—no Fame—just wholesome pap from Disney.
It's tame. It's lame. In short—it's par for Disney.

Lyric © 2006 Nathaniel DesH. Petrikov

A second verse and chorus are in utero, but don't run out and buy any cigars. The number of stillbirths chez nous is simply staggering.