The New York Post is Fattening

I've decided that part of my problem, circumferentially speaking, is that I've become addicted to the Times crossword puzzle, as published daily (although two weeks late) in the New York Post. I've been commuting as far as possible sitting down, so that I can solve it—er, try to solve it. This is no way to teach the embonpoint how to take a joke. And if marriage to the Immortal Beloved is doable—and at moment of going to press, a remote chance of it does exist—Something Must Be Done.

So this morning, I sidestepped the butterball Latina who squats outside my station hawking rags, disembarked at Ninth Street, and began the trek. Along the way, I eked out the last 25% of the chorus to Surrey with the Fringe on Top:

Ike once drank on th' Eve of Invasion;
Sometimes, hooch can soothe an abrasion;
It's no crime to tope on occasion,
While the boys talk shop:
But you prolly better worry if you binge till you drop.

Lyric © 2008 Nathaniel DesH. Petrikov

A tip o' the hat to Walt Kelly for that prolly.

Th' Eve is dodgy, I know. The three examples of acceptable uses for booze are disjointed. But it's better than what I had before, which was bugger all.

Despite what you may think, the last line didn't come first; Bombed and blitzed and pissed and polluted did, courtesy of the Coffee Lady. It's just good luck that prolly better worry if you binge replicates the sound of the original line while actually making some sense.

Remedying a Defect

About a year and a half ago, I posted a parody of Mademoiselle from Armentieres that's been nettling me ever since, because it had no real ending.

Over the past forty-eight hours, a couple of couplets have come to mind that might remedy this shortcoming (how embarrassing is it that it should take forty-eight hours! Such is the downside of ADHD):

What is the meal that always cheers?
Barbecue!
What is the dish that has no peers?
Barbecue!
Butcher a half a dozen steers
And eat till it’s coming out your ears—
Icky, sticky barbecue!

This is the dining protocol:
Barbecue!
Better for you than vitriol—
Barbecue.
Gobble the bad cholesterol—
And do it with lots of alcohol:
Easy, greasy barbecue!

Brisket of beef and baby back
Barbecue;
Succulent, sweet and carbon black
Barbecue;
Make it a feast, and not a snack,
And eat till you get a heart attack—
Polishing off the bill of fare
Will probably mean Intensive Care—
Not that you'll feel a side effect
That angioplasty can't correct—
Ooey, gooey barbecue!

Lyric © 2006, 2008 Nathaniel DesH. Petrikov

Using angioplasty in a lyric is like using peristalsis. So satisfying!

My Hero

The Last Boy Scout in the World has been exonerated again, according to the Nyok Times. Thank goodness! If someone could only police the PATH and the Subway as John Clifford polices the Long Island Rail Road; just imagine what a lovely world this would be! If Mr. Clifford were here at this moment, I'd offer to buy him a drink.

I find it hilarious that railroad officials treat Mr. Clifford as a threat to the quality of life on the Long Island Rail Road. They have a fucking nerve to pretend that life on the Long Island Rail Road has any quality.

May God's Grace forever shine upon John Clifford; and may He protect us all from those who commence yapping the moment their eyes open in the morning and don't stop yapping until slumber overtakes them at day's end. This we ask, etc., etc.

Half a Parody, Half a Parody, Half a Parody Onward!

How art thou fallen, O Lucifer, son of the morning! That, at any rate, is the gist of what's going through my head these days. The lyrical flow has been so meagre of late, that I'm reduced to posting half-songs and fragments. I suspect that my Muse is jealous; and Hell hath no fury, usw, usf.

But if one doesn't place these fragments on record when they come, one may never finish them. So, to the tune of Surrey With the Fringe on Top, with a tip o' the hat to my chum, the Coffee Lady, who put the idea into my head:

Bombed and blitzed and pissed and polluted:
That's a fact that can't be refuted,
When you take your drink undiluted
And you fail to stop.

When you're crocked, you write with a scribble;
When you're zonked, you speak with a dribble;
When you're fried, you cry, Ish kabibble!
If they call a cop.

Lyric © 2008 Nathaniel DesH. Petrikov

But what to do for the release or bridge or middle eight? One scratches one's head.

Meanwhile, my DAMP and I last night fixed on four more songs to record, and got some ideas on how to present them. So I've a wee bit of work cut out for me.