Space Chubby Goes Prog

V. Gina Gnome: Hey everybody, I’m sharing the new Space Chubby album on Soulsuck right now. Jury’s still out, but it’s definitely worth a listen. Don’t let the naysayers steer you wrong. Step right up to and get a fresh hot copy of Nice Cans, Chunky Dumpster, the brand new record by those purveyors of progressively political prog punk: Space Chubby! P.S. It kinda sounds like they’ve been smoking the reefer a lot, ‘cause there’s a lotta prog here. Just saying.

Stoney Stone Stoner: Whoa, dude, I don’t think Space Chubby deserve to be called prog, despite Rilla the Real Gorrilla’s certifiably uncanny vocal resemblance to Geddy Lee. SALESMEN!!! Ooop ooop ooop OOOOP!!!! Heh. Heh heh. Heh. This new record just sorta sounds like trend hopping to me, like they’re trying to spray this week’s flavor onto last week’s stink, namsain? And that just smells like perfumed shit. And not the good kind of shit either. Heh heh. Heh. Heh heh.

V. Gina Gnome: They’re not trend hopping. They’re expanding their musical pallet, and as part of that they’re trying to “go prog” a little. Obviously, they’re going through some growing pains, but it’s not inorganic or obvious.

Stoney Stone Stoner: Well, being that the trend prior to their album has been for indie superstar bands like Mars Volta and Radiohead to “go prog,” I just gotta say that I feel as though Space Chubby’s late arrival on the trend smacks of inauthenticity. Plus even if it is organic, it’s just not their bag, baby. They were a great indie punk noise band. Every effort they’ve made to expand has fallen flat for me. Hey, uh, can you pass me that remote over there? It’s time for Mutual of Omaha’s “Wild Kingdom.” Excellent!! And shit. Heh heh. Heh.

Zorax, Master of the Obvious: Prog is dead. Anyone trying to do anything called “prog” or “neo-prog” today is just looking for an excuse to wank out more than is probably healthy, and they will soon end up on the Dave Matthews Band concert circuit. Prog was part and parcel of an era. Saying “I am prog” today is like saying “I am 1968″ today. It just doesn’t make sense. Bands may make concept albums or incorporate orchestral structures or play mellotrons, but they’re not prog. Except for King Crimson. They birthed the genre and are still entitled to use the term. Even though they don’t.

V. Gina Gnome: Well that’s why I kinda use the term “go prog” kind of tongue-in-cheek, Zorax. Bands like Radiohead and Mars Volta are certainly incorporating prog elements into their music, which is interesting, if not entirely unproblematic artistically.

Zorax, Master of the Obvious: Radiohead and Mars Volta are loathsome and unoriginal. And Flaming Lips, too, for that matter, who are another band who get tagged with the “prog” label. Most bands that are trying to “go prog” these days are trying to tap into an audience that isn’t much interested in anything with that label released after 1978. Ozric Tentacles and Spock’s Beard and Marillion and the like are terrible, terrible bands for the most part. Old Genesis and Yes and such is listenable only because it’s charming in its dated quaintness. But you can’t quaintly date something made in 2005. Plus, the whole charm of prog was that people in ’67-78 were just beginning to figure out that it was possible to merge rock and jazz and classical and such. These days, such mergers are old hat: you already KNOW that you can mix and match just about any styles, so there’s not much novelty there either. Now shut your trap and get with the fluffing! I’m not paying you to upload and critique albums! I’ve got people to do, things to see. Chop chop!

Napoleon Boner Pirate: My favorite prog to fluff to is Yes’s The Yes Album. Part III of “Starship Trooper,” entitled “Wurm” has never failed to get a rise out of a client, with the exception of Drunknard from Space Chubby, ironically enough. I guess Yes needs to do a follow up song called “Chuckun.”

Drunknard: I’ll drink to that.

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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.

Drunknard vs Napoleon Boner Pirate

old napoleon boner pirate
after josephine expired
ate up cake when he was tired
and he cried, he said it, there.
still, his boner parted waters
like the thighs of noble’s daughters
after sexy czechs were slaughtered
in their walrus underwear.

with the hitmen’s halvsies tallied,
all the boner pirates dallied
and the prussian wenches rallied,
throwing head locks on their men,
while the swarthy juden gathered
in their ghetto, cotton mather
held his boner, said i’d rather
flog a witch with this, again.

then cristina ricci’s titties
caused a fluster ‘mongst the biddies
gathered in the fallen cities
that napoleon had sacked.
with his cake and stumpy boner,
he was something of a loner,
and he said that he would phone her,
but he never called her back.

able was he, ere he saw her,
elba, maiden in her drawers,
so he bent her o’er a saw horse
and he hi-ho-silvered off,
but afflicted with the bit rot,
he was left to die on his cot,
as the surgeons sniffed his piss pot
and said ‘turn your head and cough’.

and the boner pirate died then
on the island where he’d tried men,
found them guilty as they cried when
all their sentences were read
marched them straight into the ocean
from his boat, he loved the motion,
rubbed his tuna down with lotion,
rubbed it hard until it bled.

Published in: on January 24, 2010 at 11:47 pm  Comments (1)