Bursting with news

Last night I dropped in on my local pub to pick up a loaf of bread and a cucumber. Although the prices are a bit steep (I must order a dozen sandwiches and then retrieve the bread and cucumber from them), I find it is much more convenient than turning out of my way to visit a grocer's establishment.

In any event, while distractedly picking apart a sandwich and refreshing myself with a pint or two, I struck up a conversation with a rather shopworn-looking individual further down the bar. What caught my eye at first was the pile of fag ends in front of him, the tip of each smeared a bright crimson.

"It's me bleedin' lips" he said, when I enquired. And sure enough, his lips were bleeding profusely. It seems he had just had his teeth filed to sharp points earlier that day and was having a difficult time of it.

To make a long story short, he was a professional musician. I did not (and still do not) understand all of his terpsichorean lingo, but I am used to that when I converse with strangers in pubs. He told me that he had recently "lost his gig" with what he identified as a "Green Day tribute band" that had disbanded because "we lost our nerve." (Or perhaps he said "we lost our nerd" - the pub was rather buzzing, so I cannot say for sure.)

As a result of this, he was forming another band, what he called a "thrash metal outfit" to be called Badd Herr. This is an inaccurate rendition of the name (sadly, I do not know the requisite HTML). He showed me on a bar napkin and there should be an umlaut over each of the vowels in the band's name. I take it the filed teeth were to be part of the band's costumery.

He informed me that he had already signed up a bass guitarist with two prosthetic arms and a drummer with a metal plate in his skull that, in a pinch, could be played like the type of cymbals called a "high hat". It was a crowd pleasing manuever, he told me, and I can well believe it.

Before I forget, he said his (stage) name was Rex Harrison. And indeed, he was something of a dead ringer for that old trouper. In view of his sagging dewlaps and deep wrinkles, I was rather shocked when he said he was 28 years old.

Which brings me at last to the point of my story.

In the course of the evening he revealed that his troupe of musicians were in the process of gathering their songbook and were still rather short of material. What with one thing and another, I committed myself to supplying Rex (to avoid confusion with another Rex, I shall call him young Rex) with lyrics which he might set to appropriate "thrash metal" melodies. Since I know that Askadrunkites have proven talents in the lyrical direction, I thought I would solicit contributions to be duly forwarded to young Rex and his stalwarts.

I am afraid that no pay is contemplated for this service. Your only reward shall be the satisfaction of your art. I leave the rest in all your capable hands.

-- Aimless (aimless@national_raffle_association.org), October 07, 2002

Answers

In case it might be of assistance, young Rex suggested several titles to which the lyric content might be appended. They included:

Barking Mad
My Wardrobe Is Shite
Bringing Down The House (Screw The Landlord)
Drink. Kiss. Drink. Piss.
Keep Your Fucking Hands Off Her
Moonlight and Mad Dog
I Could Puke
The Dole Killed Daddy
Wozzat?
Claire De Lune

-- Aimless (aimless@national_raffle_association.org), October 07, 2002.

Drink. Kiss. Drink. Piss. Where's the bar? Over there!
No that's a bloke called Big Ted!
My God he looks big I just walked into him!
Now he's wailing on my head With his fists with his feet
With his knives and with his kosh
But when I look into his eyes I see the face of an angel Oh one day I am going to marry that man!
One day I'm going to bear him fifteen kids
One day we're going to be man and wife
Drink. Kiss. Drink. Piss. This is how I see our future world So I look into his mean old eyes
And say "stop hitting me, I love you, Teddy"
His face goes even redder, and then redder still
When I suggest gruesomely experimental sex play with erotic toys He brings out his flail and his baseball bat
And all his friends join in and I feel my spine snap
But when I look in his eyes I see the face of an angel Oh one day I am going to marry that man!
One day I'm going to bear him fifteen kids
One day we're going to be man and wife
Drink. Kiss. Drink. Piss. This is how I see our future world

-- Lynskey (paul@daymaker.freeserve.co.uk), October 08, 2002.

Keep Your Fucking Hands Off Her (She's Mine)

Keep your fucking hands off her - she's mine.
If you don't get your fucking hands off, I'll break your spine.
I don't care how fucking big you are mate.
Touch my woman and you're tempting fate.
No. We won't "let the lady decide"
I'm gonna have to ask you outside.
Keep your fucking hands off her, she's mine.

I don't care how many fucking mates you've got.
I'm gonna leave you bleedin' in a pool of snot.
Yeah? So what if your dad owns the bar?
I'm gonna leave you with a fuckin' great scar.
Come on then, let's see what you've got.
Cos I reckon you're just a big tosspot.
And keep your fucking hands off her, she's mine.

If your fuckin' bouncer wasn't holding me back, I'd smack yer.
Oi! Don't fucking walk away while I'm talkin' at yer.
Dolores, where are you goin my darlin'?
I'll 'ave this gorilla soon as 'e stops snarlin'.
No don't go Babes! Don't go off in that stuck up twat's limo.
OK. Be like that, you bleedin' two-timing bimbo.
You can take your fucking hands off me now pal - she's gone.

-- Sue Denim (s.denim@aol.net), October 08, 2002.

I Could Puke (in bad imitation of G.M. Hopkins, S.J.)

Gob smacked, whacked, whirled earthward
Down driven, dark dirt neath knee hard touched
Crutch wanting to bear me up eye high
No more the bare bar before, knowing not but God's rebuke.
I could puke.

Ears ringing, singing, banshee-like, off key
I grope the foot rail, baleful blind worm I,
Sighing, rat's taste my toungue's taste, aye
Rising awkward, as prayer gummed or a great whale's fluke.
I could puke.

Gone all slack, wracked, drooping hopelessly
Hard bit, smitten with draughts quaffed, pub grub
Unbidden seeks release, as I kneel, a reeking snot tub
Rubber-legged, bent, penitent and wretched as a straitened duke.
I could puke.

-- Aimless (aimless@national_raffle_association.org), October 08, 2002.

"He's Barking Mad"

He's filed his teeth and he's barking mad. He's lost the only girl he had... she left him flat an' took up with his dad.

He's pissed on Schnapps he's chased with gin an' the constable's commin' to take him in an' 'e stands there and grins with that bloody-mouthed grin "I DEFY YOU FUCKERS TO GET CLOSE TO ME!"

He's filed his teeth and he's barking mad

The constable comes in all swagger and starch an' tips a cool Ginness, eyebrow in an arch, an' faces the madman, up close...eye to eye... And says, "Lost a loved one? Well so have I."

"So you've filed your teeth and you're barking mad? Well I've got a story that's just as sad. See, I lost my lover, just like you, calm down, stand fast, it ain't that bad. My lost lover's none other than your dear Dad!"

Chorus.....

-- Zen Clown (MartyS@iland.net), October 08, 2002.

My post sucks! Would anyone be willing to coach me as to how to post with some decent syntax? martys@iland.net

-- Zen Clown (MartyS@iland.net), October 08, 2002.

Probably not actually...now you come to mention it.

-- Robin (robin@rjmhome.freeserve.co.uk), October 09, 2002.

Repent Synners, or you'll be taxed!

-- Sue Denim (s.denim@aol.net), October 09, 2002.

Mr. Clown, perhaps your browser has a feature allowing you to view the HTML source text. If so, you may use it to learn the occult mysteries of formatting herein displayed.

-- Aimless (aimless@national_raffle_association.org), October 09, 2002.

But you probably wont....now he comes to mention it.

-- Robin (robin@rjmhome.freeserve.co.uk), October 10, 2002.