The Tard Next Door: Drunknard vs Good Taste

the tard’s out in my yard
he’s having a good time
he laughs and jokes and smiles a lot
i wish that he was mine

the tard lives right next door
and sometimes he gets out
i get up most days well past noon
woke by his tardly shout

he likes to ride in cars
he likes to honk the horn
he likes to sit and eat up chips
while watching softcore porn

i take him to the store
his mom says that’s okay
we look at tampons and at pads
and laugh and laugh all day

i laugh with him each time
he greets me in my yard
and then i think how great it is
to live next to a tard

if some day he moves out
my life would be the pits
unless his mom can sell their house
to chicks with awesome tits

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Published in: on March 8, 2010 at 12:39 am  Leave a Comment  

Chicken Fluffer

Karellen: I’ve got a bit of sensitive request for you, my Overbrethren. Last night, Mrs. Karellen and I set up the boudoir video cam to capture a little rumpy-pumpy for posterity’s sake, and when I watched the playback, I have to confess that I wearied of waiting for myself to reach full tumescence. I’m thinking that I might need to hire a fluffer. Someone to wait in the wings, as it were, to prime the pump, so that once Mrs. Karellen cries “action,” I’m ready for the fleshy swordplay right away. Can any of you recommend a good fluffer?

Mustapha Mond: I’d be happy to recommend and share my fluffer, Napoleon Boner Pirate. He’s an excellent fluffer. Very professional. He’s fluffed for Space Chubby and Commissioner Gordon Haskell as well, plus many others. He’s friendly and courteous, and always senses when it’s time to get in there and get to work. A real self-starter. He doesn’t need anyone pushing or holding his hand while he works through complex tasks. I’ve got his resume here, in fact. It says: “Highly organized and motivated; exceptionally reliable, conscientious and thorough; excellent written, oral and interpersonal communication skills; familiar with all Microsoft Office applications, bass guitar, and ikebana.” Let me get him on the line for you . . .

Karellen: Hmm . . . he seems like he might be a bit over-qualified for my needs. Plus that name sounds French, and I’m not so sure I want his type lurking around the mothership.

Napoleon Boner Pirate: No no no! I’d be perfect for the job! That’s an old resume, actually. I’m no longer pretending to be familiar with Microsoft Office Applications now that my fluffing career has started to take off! Give me a chance. I’ve got the drive and determination to see any situation through. At least watch me fluff before you make a decision.

Karellen: Let’s not be too hasty, there, good fellow. How about a little conversation first, hmm? Tell me: what’s the biggest challenge you’ve faced as a fluffer, and how did you handle it?

Napoleon Boner Pirate: Well, let’s see. If I understand your question correctly, the biggest challenge would have to have been Drunknard in the early days of Space Chubby. I simply couldn’t get a rise out of the guy. Then one time we were in Montreal and saw a porno film with women acting like chickens, pecking up corn, clucking, etc. Drunky pretended not to be interested but I saw a funny look in his eye. From then on I would bring a couple of hens to band practice and everything was, ya know, cock-a-doodle-can-do.

Mustapha Mond: That shows you’ve got some gumption, kid. The world would be a better place if all fluffers were as goal-oriented.

Napoleon Boner Pirate: The first rule of fluffing is that if you’re not goal-oriented, then maybe you need to find another line of work.

Drunknard: It’s true. Before Napoleon, I didn’t really know that I liked chickens. Now I keep a coop in my basement, and I bring chickens to every show. Thanks, Napoleon. You’re in a league of your own.

Gassy Veal Kitten Randy: I can vouch for the chicken thing. Me and High Function Downs Boy tried to practice in Drunknard’s basement a couple of times but we were up to our elbows in chicken shit. I must admit, however, the sound of our awful music was veritably enhanced by the inclusion of the murderous clucking of consistently molested chickens.

Drunknard: Molested? You make what I do with chickens sound so scandalous. The chickens and I make love. Where’s the harm in that?

Gassy Veal Kitten Randy: That’s not the way the chickens squawk it, dude.

Drunknard: You wouldn’t know an ee-yawk from a ree-ikkk, my uncouth young friend. And besides, their language by nature is crude and violent to untrained ears. What you hear is simply their begging for my attention.

Sandy Twistedpanties: Begging for your attention? Oh please. The truth of the matter is that a chicken can never say yes. After all, despite your ostensible comprehension of squawk, the poultry language has yet to be mapped out by the best of our scientists. However, the most commonly uttered phrase among chickens as derived at laboratories and through publications I am familiar with is “rape!” Even when chickens are being violated by roosters, they have no choice in the matter. While PETA refuses to go this far, I must insist that all sexual acts involving chicken are by nature forced and therefore morally wrong. Please consider in depth what you are doing, Drunknard, and release the hens. Otherwise, I’ll make a stink so big my local district assemblyman may hear about it!

Karellen: What’s that smell? Yuck!

Sandy Twistedpanties: You know exactly what that smell is, little man. But you clearly aren’t accustomed to the smell of empowered vagina. Just the mention of that word—“vagina”—makes some small-minded, little men uncomfortable. Grow up. Learn to appreciate the way a real woman smells. Like strength.

Karellen: You have to admit . . . it’s a bit musky . . .

Drunknard: What I have with the chickens goes beyond language. It’s called love.

Sandy Twistedpanties: Okay, Drunknard, I thought maybe you were a reasonable man. But now, once again, I am forced to realize the truth that the only good man is a dead man. Prepare for the stink.

Napoleon Boner Pirate: Sandy, are you trying to make my job more difficult? Do I have to find another vice for Drunknard that doesn’t involve chickens or other animals? I’m tellin’ ya, before I happened onto the chicken thing the guy was like a deflated balloon. Cut a fluffer some slack, namsain?

Sandy Twistedpanties: Typical male perspective, Napoleon. As if everyone has the same voracious sex drive that must be satisfied. Why don’t you just leave him alone, and not expose all those helpless chickens to psychological devastation in the process?

Guy Who Blocks the Flow: I had a dream that David Bowie was telling me what a wonderful artist I am. I told him he was wrong and to fuck off. “Shut up, David Bowie, you’re full of shit.”

David Bowie: You insult me in a dream, you’d better wake up and apologize.

Record Review: “Nice Cans, Chunky Dumpster” by Space Chubby

Nice Cans, Chunky Dumpster by Space Chubby
(ARISTA Records, Copyright: 2010)

Track Listing:
1. “Cuter With Her Tits Out” (3:17)
2. “Egging the Single Dooders on to Their Demise” (4:22)
3. “Get This Motherfuckin’ Snake Out of My Motherfuckin’ Ass” (2:53)
4. “Watch Out for the Cranked-Up Little Anklebiters” (0:42)
5. “Mrs. Cheese Heiney is Endearing” (4:19)
6. “Escape from the Island of Bloated Fat Liv” (13:27)
7. “I’m Comin’ to Sting the Fuck Out of You” (2:45)
8. “After You Left Last Night, Well, You Know, Staph Came Over (3:02)
9. “Yarrr! Yarrr! Yarrrrrr! YAAAAAAARRRRRRR!!!!!” (6:16)

Credits:
Gassy Veal Kitten Randy: Vocal Stylings, Rhythm Guitar, Songwriting
High Function Downs Boy: Bass Guitard, Special Happy Good Fun Boy Hugs
Roosevelt Franklin: Drums, Knives, Threats
Nice Guy Chad: Lead Guitar, Good Vibes
Pretentious Arthaus Klown: Beeps, Bloops, Laptops, Flashing Lights, Withering Scorn
Rilla the Real Gorilla: Oop, Ooop, Ooop, OOOOOOOPP!!!
Drunknard: Lyrics, Visions, Tin Foil Hats, Vomit

Engineered by The Analog Kid.
Produced by Clive Davis and Frank Farian.

Space Chubby’s harrowing new long-player, Nice Cans, Chunky Dumpster (their third album) begins thusly: thirty-six hammered monotonic bass- and-drum beats connected by an insistent mosquito-whine guitar line followed by a malevolently emotionless voice intoning “Gretchen Mol is always cute, but she’s cuter with her tits out!” Brrrrr! Up go your hackles in response to the overwhelming menace emanating from the stereo, and you suddenly find yourself frozen to the floor, quivering like a deer in the headlights of an oncoming eighteen-wheeler, recognizing that horror, pain and nothingness are upon you now. White noise, black out, red mist, and then the next song begins.

2008’s full-length disk, I Am Ze Onion, Loved By All!, marked a musical adolescence of sorts for the band, as the Chubbies managed to link the childish sounds oozing from their horrible analog noise-makers to a more adult-oriented thunder emitted by a crackling new rhythm section (Roosevelt Franklin and High Function Downs Boy). Nice Cans, Chunky Dumpster now finds Space Chubby grown to full artistic adulthood. Mind you, they haven’t become the kinds of adults with whom you’d want to leave your kids, but they are extraordinarily adept at doing what they do, and they’ve certainly got those grown-up concerns down pat, as evidenced by songs like their Steve Irwin tribute, “I’m Comin’ to Sting the Fuck Out of You”, “Mrs. Cheese Heiney is Endearing”, “Egging the Single Dooders on to Their Demise” and (gulp!) “After You Left Last Night, Well, You Know, Staph Came Over.”

Nice Cans, Chunky Dumpster is, in general, an awfully ugly record filled with awfully mean songs written by an awfully menacing band, though there are a couple of crucial lighter moments that give the disc balance and make it easier to get through it in a single spin. “Watch Out for the Cranked-Up Little Anklebiters” provides the perfect antidote for when you’ve got a big hankering for Scandinavian musical sweets, but neither the ABBA reissues nor the Ace of Base regurgitations are snapping your suspenders the way they used to. It’s got a great hook, great rhythm, hilarious English as a not-quite-second language lyrics and monumentally off-kilter subject matter. It could almost be bottled as Essential Oil of Swedepop, boiled down into a concise, 42-second blur.

At the other end of the spectrum, “Escape from the Island of Bloated Fat Liv” is a long suite that allows you to appreciate the many varieties of slowness that quasi-ambient music can offer; 40 beats per minute sounds surprisingly lively when you’ve crawled along at 25 for a while. This lovely ‘ludecore workout left me wondering why none of our other supposedly clever ambient artists ever realized that the best way to evocatively, but unobtrusively, fill aural space is with actual songs. Rilla the Real Gorilla’s Oop Oop OOOPs are really given a chance to shine here. Bravura performance, big primate!

In summary, while Nice Cans, Chunky Dumpster may be a hard record to love, with a little patience and lot of awfulness in your heart, you’ll find it’s an even harder record to ignore. Space Chubby will be supporting the new album with a North Country tour of VFW Halls, strip clubs and parking lots, co-billed with Stake Knife and Wheel Dio. Highly recommended!

Another Viewpoint: Space Chubby Goes Prog