Trumpty

Stop whatcha doin’
’cause I’m about to ruin
the image and the style that ya used to.
I look funny,
but yo I’m makin’ money, see
so yo world I hope you’re ready for me.

Now gather round
I’m the tweetin’ fool in town
and I like to fly to states that are battlegrounds.
I’m sellin’ dried steaks and gaudy ties off my shelf
so just let me introduce myself…

My name is Trumpty, pronounced with an Umpty.
Yo ladies, oh how I like to hump thee.
And all the GOP candidates – please allow me to bump thee.
I’m steppin’ tall, y’all,
and just like Humpty Dumpty
you’re gonna fall when Fox News pumps me.
I like to scream,
I like my hair funky,
I’m spunky. I like my orange skin lumpy.
I’m sick wit dis, straight Wharton mack
but sometimes I get ridiculous
I’ll eat up all your debate time with my gibberish
hey yo fat girl, c’mere-are ya ticklish?
Yeah, I called ya fat.
Look at me, I’m orange,
It never stopped me from gettin’ busy
I’m a freak
I like the girls with the boom
I once got busy in a private yacht club bathroom
I’m crazy.
Allow me to loudly praise me.
They all say I’m the greatest ever but it just don’t faze me.
I’m still gettin’ in the girls’ pants
and I even got my own locker room parlance.

The Trumpty Dance is your chance to do the Trump.
Do the Trumpty Trump, come on and do the Trumpty Trump.
Do the Trumpty Trump, just watch me do the Trumpty Trump.
Do ya know what I’m doin’, doin’ the Trumpty Trump.
Do the Trumpty Trump, do the Trumpty Trump.

People say “Yo, Trumpty, you’re really funny lookin'”
that’s all right ’cause I get things cookin’
Ya stare, ya glare, ya constantly try to compare me
but ya can’t get near me
I give ’em more, see, and on the floor, B,
all the girls they adore me
Oh yes, ladies, no one respects you more than me
’cause in a 69 my Trumpty nose will tickle ya rear.
My hands are small, uh-uh I’m not ashamed
I talk about my pickle, I’m still gettin’ paid
I get laid by the ladies, ya know I’m in charge,
both how I’m livin’ and my face is orange
I’m verbally abusive, my politics polluted,
I use words that don’t mean nothin’, like really really really great
I like to shout ya fired, and if ya missed it,
I’m the one who said I can just grab ’em in the [biscuits].
My ego is fragile, I need the starlight.
Well, yeah, I guess it’s obvious, I also like to fight.
All ya had to do was give Trumpty a chance
and now I’m gonna do my dance.

The Trumpty Dance is your chance to do the Trump.
Do the Trumpty Trump, come on and do the Trumpty Trump.
Do the Trumpty Trump, just watch me do the Trumpty Trump.

*

White men, do the Trumpty Trump, do the Trumpty Trump.
White men, do the Trumpty Trump, do the Trumpty Trump.
White men, do the Trumpty Trump, just keep on doin’ the hump.
White men, do the Trumpty Trump, do the Trumpty Trump.

Let’s get stoopid!

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Bach’s Lunch

I have an idea. For a lunch place. Called Bach’s Lunch. Where you grab fruits and vegetables and half-sandwiches, a bag of chips, a beverage and put it in a box and go. It’s relatively healthy, moderately affordable and occasionally friendly. A real classical joint (that’s the slogan). We’ll franchise it, and such. The music pumped through the speakers is all Brahms.

Filthy Rap Lyrics

You wanted flirty

But it ain’t me, babe, I’m straight up dirty

Chocolate squirty, herpes, and a case of the scurvy

I live in squalor, holler, [inaudible] dollar

 

My lyrics are real, disarmingly genteel, a touch puerile, like a resplendent stiletto heel slipping on a rotting banana peel

I like my strippers freshly showered

Even though I never bathe (save when it rains) 

So I live with the stains and

Abdominal pains

From the tape worm that trains from my gut 

To my butt 

Also, full disclosure: head lice

The size of basmati rice

I’m not being lewd, just really precise.

Some other rappers are filthy, figuratively

But not me, comparatively, I speak of filth much more literally.

 

[gently places mic on floor]

Mashed Potatoes, Vol. 1

I watched the first half of Pitch Perfect 2 starring Anna Kendrick. It was available on HBO Now, and Game of Thrones‘ season was over, so sue me. In the film, Anna Kendrick’s character is known for her musical mash-ups (taking two disparate songs and finding the perfect blend between them). There’s a scene where she discusses her demo with a top-flight music producer played by Keegan-Michael Key, and he’s disappointed, it’s all mash-ups, nothing original, nothing that’s truly her. Since I have another half of film to watch, my assumption is she’ll seek and ultimately find her personal voice and the success she’s craving. Or maybe she’ll stick with the mash-ups. Who knows? This film can go in thousand different directions.

That being said, mash-ups can be great. The right mash-up at the right time can save the world. I think John Linen, my tailor, told me that.

And I have some mash-ups that I would like to see mashed. For years I’ve been holding on to the thought of them. But they remained locked away in my heart. If I had the talent, technical know-how and tenacity, I would’ve mashed them up myself. But let’s be realistic, that’s not the part I was meant to play. Instead, I’m stuffing these mash-ups in a bottle and tossing it into the great body of internet water (the next best non-water water), forever hoping that someday some stranger will stumble upon it on a sandy shore, open it, receive its contents and discover beauty. Here we go.

Mash-up #1: “I Get Around” by The Beach Boys with “I Get Around” by Tupac

Mash-up #2: “Don’t Bring Me Down” by Electric Light Orchestra with “Bitch, Don’t Kill My Vibe” by Kendrick Lamar

Mash-up #3: “Rich Girl” by Hall & Oates with “Gold Digger” by Kanye West

Note: Yes, all mash-ups must include a rap song.

Death and Dundee

Prince died. So did the female wrestler Chyna. David Bowie died recently. I wrote a thing about that then.

You really can’t go wrong owning a funeral home.

It’s sad, but if we all lived forever we’d never experience loss and, therefore, appreciate life. Only in the transience is there something to yearn for.

I watched Crocodile Dundee, that helped. It has an underrated score. Stirring.

Band Poem

While a The Band cover band played in the bandshell,
I bandied about
with a handful of husbands.
They wore headbands and bandannas
playing the part of bandwagon banditos
in order to stand next to nubile women
wearing bandeaus.
I wished
I had
had
a bandsaw
or a bandolier full of contraband
handy
to disband the bunch without abandon
to the point where they would demand
band-aids and bandages;

but I didn’t.

And The Band band played on.

Death on Earth

David Bowie died yesterday. Otis Clay died last Friday. Roughly 1,073,973 people died in the past 7 days. 106.6 people die every minute. 1.8 per second. Every second I waste thinking what to write next – correcting ‘right’ with ‘write’, etc. – is another couple of dead humans (not to mention the sizable number of insects, mammals, reptiles, fish, birds, other species/lifeforms, all dying simultaneously).

About 255 babies are born every minute. 4.3 per second.

Life is still winning.

Maybe one of those babies will become the next evolution of David Bowie or Otis Clay. Or Otis Redding or David Foster Wallace.

Maybe one of those lives will live on Mars. A real space oddity. Let’s dance, and hope.

 

The (other) dark side of the moon

No one cares for Pink Floyd until they realize that they need to care for Pink Floyd to get those random, pseudo-goth, stoner chicks who wear black and chokers and midriff revealing tops with 70s tight pants, like Katie Holmes in Disturbing Behavior, which was classic, untainted, pre-TC Katie.

Also, the moon looks like a person’s face if that face was blasted with craters and was a huge moon face.