Thankee Kindly, Neighbor
It's nine o'clock on a Saturday, and I'm stuck at the office again. But before I get down to doing the work that needs to be done but that can't be done during business hours because of the tireless interference of my boss, Cap'n Queeg, I must bung down the latest ditty.
From the moment I rose this morning, I knew I'd be bizzy, bizzy, bizzy, as Billy De Wolfe used to say. So when my next-door neighbor called this morning and offered me three free tickets to the revival of A Chorus Line, I had to decline. The agenda simply wouldn't permit it.
He was sorry, he said, because my daughter and I might have had "fun." In my courteous way, I refrained from pointing out that A Chorus Line is the Abie's Irish Rose of my generation: no worse than a bad cold, as someone said of the latter (Harpo, was it?), but perennially popular with ticket-buyers. I've only seen bits of A Chorus Line, mind you; but of all the self-important, self-indulgent, self-pitying, self-obsessed, self-congratulatory piles of masturbatory crap—!!
(That sentence doesn't make much sense, does it? And yet it does.)
One thing that drives me right up the wall is that lyric in One: For the girl is second-best to none. What in hell does that mean? Either she's not second-best, or she's second to none. But second-best to none?!
I may vomit.
So, naturally, One rattled around in my head all day. The song clings to the brain like the theme to Jeopardy! And, bit by bit, words began to form . . .
Fun
(Not that I'm against it;
Everybody needs a break)—
Fun:
After you've condensed it,
How much dam' fun can you take?!
Three times you sit through A Chorus Line:
Boom. Boom. Boom.
(You know, it technic'lly ought to be
"You-know-whom.")
"Fun"
Acted out in lockstep
Turns me to a malcontent—
Someone tell me where I rent
A stun gun.
Rent—buy;
Either one is peachy.
Gents, my
Sympathy's with Nietzsche:
WE HATE FUN.
Lyric © 2006 Nathaniel DesH. Petrikov
Yeah, I know: Rent/Gents is sloppy. But the thought flowed from Someone and wouldn't be denied.
From the moment I rose this morning, I knew I'd be bizzy, bizzy, bizzy, as Billy De Wolfe used to say. So when my next-door neighbor called this morning and offered me three free tickets to the revival of A Chorus Line, I had to decline. The agenda simply wouldn't permit it.
He was sorry, he said, because my daughter and I might have had "fun." In my courteous way, I refrained from pointing out that A Chorus Line is the Abie's Irish Rose of my generation: no worse than a bad cold, as someone said of the latter (Harpo, was it?), but perennially popular with ticket-buyers. I've only seen bits of A Chorus Line, mind you; but of all the self-important, self-indulgent, self-pitying, self-obsessed, self-congratulatory piles of masturbatory crap—!!
(That sentence doesn't make much sense, does it? And yet it does.)
One thing that drives me right up the wall is that lyric in One: For the girl is second-best to none. What in hell does that mean? Either she's not second-best, or she's second to none. But second-best to none?!
I may vomit.
So, naturally, One rattled around in my head all day. The song clings to the brain like the theme to Jeopardy! And, bit by bit, words began to form . . .
Fun
(Not that I'm against it;
Everybody needs a break)—
Fun:
After you've condensed it,
How much dam' fun can you take?!
Three times you sit through A Chorus Line:
Boom. Boom. Boom.
(You know, it technic'lly ought to be
"You-know-whom.")
"Fun"
Acted out in lockstep
Turns me to a malcontent—
Someone tell me where I rent
A stun gun.
Rent—buy;
Either one is peachy.
Gents, my
Sympathy's with Nietzsche:
WE HATE FUN.
Lyric © 2006 Nathaniel DesH. Petrikov
Yeah, I know: Rent/Gents is sloppy. But the thought flowed from Someone and wouldn't be denied.
posted by npetrikov at 9:18 PM
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