Hi! This is Steve. Welcome to the Extended Liner Notes for Pardon My French! Once again, I’m excited by the fact that I can write all the liner notes I please in a Word document, and place this document in the “enhanced” portion of your CD for you to read. I am free to express myself in words and phrases without limit, without worrying about printing costs and fancy folding of inserts in jewel cases. What an age we live in! If I could just get my stupid smart phone to work, this would be a great time in history! Pardon My French! is my twenty-third CD of music and comedy. On this CD I return to the part of my creative persona that I fondly call “my ultra-profane self.” As you may know, in my usual collections of songs I sometimes say (or sing) a naughty word or two. But it’s only every fifteen years or so that I come out with a whole collection of wall-to-wall profanity and disgustingness. Not since 1997’s Falling Standards have I gone quite this overboard with the naughty thoughts and harsh language. But hey, I gotta do what I gotta do. Sometimes you have to get in touch with your inner Carlin. Sometimes you have to say “what the f**k.” Sometimes you need to say it several hundred times, and make it all rhyme. Well, maybe that’s just me. This collection comprises songs I wrote in 2011 (for the most part… some of them were started in 2010). A lot was going on the the world while these songs were created. My personal world was rocked by divorce, while the country (and the world, and I) struggled with economic crappiness, global warming, tea partiers, terrorism, the loss of Christopher Hitchens, and the return of Sarah Palin. So all year long I wrote songs, and posted some of them online (at www.thefump.com, for instance). And now that I have a dozen of them, I made an album. Crazy how that works out. If you like these songs, feel free to let me know by visiting www.stevegoodie.com, choosing the Adults’ Section, clicking on “Write To Steve,” and dropping me an e-mail. Thanks for listening… I really appreciate it! SG 12/23/2011 1. Dr. Demento’s Intro The good doctor has been on the air since before I was born, and I am honored to have him kick of this album. His kind words on his show about my song “If You Want To Say F**k, Say ****” were touching and flattering beyond my descriptive abilities. He was further generous in allowing me to include those words here. Thanks Doctor! I feel better already! 2. If You Want To Say F**k, Say F**k This song was inspired directly by the standup comedy of Louis CK, and indirectly by lots of other people and art and stuff. Here’s what I mean by this ridiculously profane song: If you smash your thumb with a hammer, and then you say “goshdarnit!” it is my contention that you are just as guilty as if you had said “goddammit!” out loud, because that is what you were thinking. And if you’re thinking it, and if you’re going to hell for thinking it, then you may as well say it out loud. The song “If You Want To Sing Out, Sing Out” by Cat Stevens came to my mind as I was thinking, “if you want to say goddammit, then say goddammit!” And that led me to think of the movie “Harold And Maude,” for which Cat supplied the songs. Naturally, the video that came from this song became an homage to “Harold And Maude.” And that video is on this disc – you can watch it on your computer! Acoustic guitars: SG Vocals: SG Well, if you want to say damn, say damn And if you want to say hell, say hell Cause if you say darn or H.E. Double-Hockey-Sticks or dang It means the same thang (and we know what you’re thinking, shithead) And if you want to say goddammit, say goddammit (goddammit) And if you want to say motherf**ker, say motherf**ker (motherf**ker) Cause if you say doggonnit or dagnabbit or mary mother of god You know what you are (you’re a dork, at best, or a damn hypocrite, at worst) You can censor yourself And think you won’t go to hell But if intent is a sin You're ****ed before you begin You’re going down anyway You may as well mean what you say Straight down, it’s the thought That’s what counts, dude you’re caught It’s all mind control Well if you want to say f**k, say f**k And if you want to say cunt, say cunt You’re free to say what you want So don’t be a… p-p-p--- birth canal (they actually call it that!) If you want to say poop, say poop But if you want to say sh*t, say sh*t You'll offend someone irregardless You know that you will (with your pathetic stupid grammar, if nothing else) We can say what we want That’s why we live in this cunt-try You’re offended by this song (I can tell) But hey you’ve listened this long And for that you’re going to hell Is that brimstone I smell Oh geez, ah ah ah It's all hooey, ah ah ah Go back to playing farmville (you braindead waste of millions of years of evolution) If you want to say goddam mother****ing sh*t on a stick Then say goddam mother****ing sh*t on a stick You’ll feel better if you just do it You know that you will You know that you will You’re going to hell You know that you will Go to hell So you might as well Say what you ****ing mean Lyrics Ó 2011 Steve Goodie ASCAP Music Ó 1971 Cat Stevens 3. What's In My Hotdog Aaron Raitiere and I got together one day early in 2011 to write three kids' songs in two hours (or something like that). And we actually did come up with three (mostly) completed songs. This one got me so excited that I immediately recorded it and posted it on www.thefump.com, where it got a good response. It's so totally gross (albeit quite non-profane) that I feel it belongs on this collection of adult songs. Ain't that weird? Guitars: SG Banjo: SG Jews harp: SG Piano: SG Bass: SG Drums: SG Tympani and percussion: SG Keyboards: SG Vocals: SG No one seems to know, no one seems to know, no one seems to want to know… But I want to know, I got to know, oh I need to know… what’s in my hotdog What’s in my hotdog, what’s in my hotdog, what’s in my hotdog No one wants to know There’s earlobes eyelids, elbows and fingertips Dog nose, pig glands, frog bits, and chicken lips Hog butts, peanuts, cow guts, brains… Toe jam, turkey spam, vericose veins What’s in my hotdog, what’s in my hotdog, what’s in my hotdog No one wants to know What’s in my hotdog, what’s in my hotdog, what’s in my hotdog No one wants to know There’s moose colon, horse bladder, anything that goes splatter Half ton of puppy tongues, bucketful of camel lungs Big hairy goat tails, dirty donkey toenails Stuffed into an fabulous, edibile, delectable, deep-fried, something died… intestinal shell… Intestinal shell… Now I know… What’s in my hotdog, what’s in my hotdog, what’s in my hotdog I was better off not knowing Now chunks I will be blowing And cookies I’ll be throwing My insides will be showing I guess I really didn’t need to know… What’s in my hotdog What’s in my hotdog What’s in my hotdog I think I got a fever I’m feeling kind of strange My head feels like a whoopie cushion My hands are a little clammy I really want to die Uh, maybe we should take you to the hotdog factory… You could be the secret ingredient… Yeah! Music and lyrics Ó 2011 Steve Goodie ASCAP and Aaron Raitiere ASCAP 4. Before He Tweets When the honorable Congressman Anthony Weiner got carried away with social media in April of 2011, his story screamed for a funny-song treatment. The brilliant M. Spaff Sumsion and I wrote this song via e-mail, and I recorded it and made a simple video for it, all in the space of two days. Funny what time-sensitive subject matter will do for my creative bursts. For those of you who aren't familiar with the original song of which this is a parody, check out Carrie Underwood's "Before He Cheats" on the interwebs. BTW, Spaff and I have never met, or even spoken on the phone. Ain't that intriguing? Guitars: SG Bass: SG Drums: SG Fiddle: Tim Lorsch Piano: SG Keyboards: SG Vocals: SG Right now, the congressman is sending out some pics to some chicks, but there’s collateral damage Right now, constituents are seeing all his sweet little tweets about his stimulus package Right now, he's going deep on the issues with a fine citizen who just happens to shoot porno Like we don't know But now it's looking like Weiner might get the shaft He’s been taking it hard, but the press just laughed Right-wingers, tea-baggers, and the liberal elites They say the beltway bugger got his ego stroked If you friend him on Facebook you might get poked Maybe next time he'll think before he tweets Right now, the whole world is trick-or-tweeting screen grabs of some abs and a tumescent Weiner Right now, he's probably texting that he wants to pat you down like a TSA screener Right now, he says he's never seen 'er, and there ain't no misdemeanor 'cause he didn't Charlie Sheen 'er But now he's gonna come clean (-er) 'Cause he wants to hold your congressional seat He's the other white meat, the kind that can't be beat It's a 21st century Lewinsky legacy He keeps his budgetary tool there in his lap He's ready to bridge your partisan gap Maybe next time he'll think before he tweets Was she a campaign donor, a Seattle Washington-er Seems when he tried to phone 'er, he said, hi, this is John... Boehner (wait wait, don't hang up... hold on... wait! Operator, can you reconnect me... fast! Operator! Hello! Dammit! Hello? God, I was so close! Crap! Come on! Hello?) He'd be a totally rock-solid New York mayor Reaching out to touch, every tax-payer If he can keep it up, between heartfelt apologies Until then he's just hoping they don't indict That'd suck, that'd blow, that'd totally bite Oh, maybe next time he'll think and hit delete, yeah yeah Maybe next time he'll think before he tweets Blah blah blah blah, OMG, what an idiot Lyrics Ó 2011 Steve Goodie ASCAP and M. Spaff Sumsion Music Ó 2007 Josh Kear and Chris Tompkins 5. You Rich Motherf**kers This song literally came to me in my sleep. I awoke with the chorus banging away in my head, and I immediately recorded a rough version of it. This was four months before the CD came out, and it wasn't until just before the release that I finished the recording and added this song to the album. It's the most politically appropos song on here, but I just wasn't sure it was done, or whether it was even remotely funny, or whether all the stuff about the pope even made sense in the middle of such a song. Ultimate, though, I said f**k it, and put it in. And it's become one of my favorites. To me it feels like an old-time union picket-line song, or something. Guitars: SG Vocal: SG Oh oh, you rich motherf**kers Oh oh, you rich motherf**kers Oh oh, you rich motherf**kers You don’t give a sh*t about me If you’ve got a billion dollars Then you’ve got more than you need With all that clout you’re not thinking about A million babies you could feed If you’ve got a billion dollars You got it off of somebody else But you don’t care, you think it’s quite fair To keep it all to yourself Oh oh, you rich motherf**kers Oh oh, you rich motherf**kers Oh oh, you rich motherf**kers You don’t give a sh*t about me… or anybody Oh oh, you rich motherf**kers Oh oh, you rich motherf**kers Oh oh, you rich motherf**kers You don’t give a sh*t about me And speaking of babies… Hey old man in the vatican Have you heard we’re pushing seven billion But you keep telling everybody it’s a sin To use any kind of protection Now the babies are starving and they keep on coming And coming and coming and coming and coming And all this over-population Turns out it’s tied to copulation We’ve been fruitful and multiplied That’s one commandment we’ve satisfied You decided that meat on Friday is fine Can I get a condom, can you change your mind And while you’re helping stem the tide Could we get a little bit of spermicide Or if that’s too much, could you at least Quit covering up for your perverted priests Oh oh, you holy motherf**kers Oh oh, you holy motherf**kers Oh oh, you holy motherf**kers You don’t give a sh*t about me… or anybody Oh oh, you holy motherf**kers Oh oh, you holy motherf**kers Oh oh, you holy motherf**kers You don’t give a sh*t about me Now back to the rich and the money they’re hoardin’ They couldn’t care less what we can’t afford, un- Less they can buy the latest jet They think they just haven’t quite made it yet And they call me socialist they call me queer They say I just don’t belong around here And that’s expected, I’m not surprised But I just can’t believe all the support for these guys Millions and millions of average kids Say it’s un-American to tax these pigs They think someday they might be that fat They want to protect the money they plan to grab Well news-flash kids, you’ll never get that much They guys with the bucks won’t give it up And you’re helping the jerks who are holding you down And they’ll sell you out, cause you don’t count Oh oh, you rich motherf**kers Oh oh, you rich motherf**kers Oh oh, you rich motherf**kers You don’t give a sh*t about me… or anybody Oh oh, you rich motherf**kers Oh oh, you rich motherf**kers Oh oh, you rich motherf**kers You don’t give a sh*t about me Ó 2011 Steve Goodie ASCAP 6. So Weird This song was mostly written and recorded on July 22, 2010. I had this crazy notion to take a 24-hour block of time and see how many songs I could write AND record in just that time. I began at noon on July 22nd, and made it till about 7 am the following day before collapsing in exhaustion. Seven songs came out of it, and this is one of them. I updated it just a little bit in December 2011, and here it is. It's one of two "ballads" on this CD, written for my then-wife, and it really did come from the heart. And I still mean it. Guitars: SG Bass: SG Drums: SG Percussion: SG Piano: SG Vocals: SG Most of your girlfriends have a man with a normal career, or a job And most of your girlfriends have a man who would never even think of shooting a video in a cemetery, like I did I don’t know why I’m so weird, baby Most of your girlfriends have a house that’s the same color outside all the way ‘round outside And most of your girlfriends have a man who doesn’t look at the riding mower as a viable alternate source of transportation Oh, I’m sorry I’m so weird, baby Last week, I was up on the roof at 6 am Making another dumb youtube God I’m weird! Most of your girlfriends have a house that doesn’t even faintly resemble a barn And most of your girlfriends have furniture that matches and doesn’t fall apart when the wind blows the wrong direction Oh, I don’t know why I’m so weird, baby I’m so weird And the whole world can see me on the internet Wearing overalls and a wedding dress at the same time That’s pretty weird Oh, I’m sorry I’m so weird, baby Yeah, I don’t know why I’m so weird Ó 2011 Steve Goodie ASCAP 7. Plumbing Another song from the 24-hour experiment of 2010, this one also got updated just a little bit for 2011. Based on actual events, this is one of the most honest songs I ever wrote. I really do hate hate HATE plumbing. It's always a horrible mess, and I am never quite sure I got it right. I used to wonder why plumbers charge so much. I don't wonder anymore. Guitars: SG Bass: SG Drums: SG Vocal: SG It’s dripping It’s leaking Can’t afford the plumber to come out here in his truck And tell me all the stupid things I’ve done With his router and his wrenches and his calculator I better try to get it fixed on my own It’s dripping It’s leaking I hate plumbing I can’t… quite… reach it… DAMMIT! There’s something in the drain or in the line out to the sewer This crap is coming back and now the place smells like manure So I’m gouging and I’m plunging like a real man’s gotta And I’m taking a bath in nasty black water Oh, it’s nasty! It’s dripping It’s leaking I hate plumbing I can’t… quite… seal it… DAMMIT! My wife likes to watch as I struggle and I swear She says I look cute with all the gunk in my hair Now here come the kids to ask a lot of questions I can barely contain all the cursing I’m repressing No, Daddy don’t need help Yes, Daddy can fix it No, Daddy isn’t mad Yes, Daddy can handle it It’s dripping It’s leaking It’s pouring down on me I hate plumbing I hate plumbing I hate plumbing! Ó 2010 Steve Goodie ASCAP 8. What Do You Get The Girl Who Has Everything I swear this song started out as a normal, sweet song. Rob Wolf and I got together one day with the intent of writing a gentle, sensitive song. And this is what we got. God help us. Please don’t judge Rob (who is a VERY nice guy and would NEVER write anything like this), or anyone else involved with this song. Please blame only me. I’m the one who’s stupid enough to release this abomination. Guitar: Pete Roze Bass: SG Drums: SG Piano: Rob Wolf Saxophone: Bryan Cumming Vocal: SG What do you get the girl who has everything She’s been around the world, there’s nothing she hasn’t seen She’s got all kinds of rings, from all kinds of flings What do you get the girl who has everything She’s got chlamydia, she’s got crabs She’s got scabs on the scabs… on her scabs She’s all sore, ’bout the sore, on her lip….s She’s got five or six simplex-es-es-es And Valentine’s day is just around the corner I need the perfect gift, just what the doctor ordered What do you get the girl who has everything A penicillin sampler, some syringes and vaccines Cause I’m afaid that when she pees I might feel a little sting What do you get the girl who has everything Her mono became stereo and then quad and five-point-one I tried to make her smile with some Azithromycin That gal-o-mine, needs some calamine, and I’m glad to foot the bill Money can’t buy love, but it buys lots and lots of pills What do you get the girl who has everything A vat of boiling water, some ointment and saline I know I shouldn’t go there, but I’m riding on a shwing What do you get the girl who has everything She’s got two or three quarts, of liquified warts What do you get the girl who has everything She’s been around the world, and I like sloppy seventeenths What do you get the girl who has everything I mean everything What do you get the girl who has everything, Jack Ó 2011 Steve Goodie ASCAP and Rob Wolf ASCAP 9. Getting Old I’m old. So very very old. And so is my good friend Tim. In fact, he’s a bit older than I am. HA! Anyway… we decided to write a song about how dreadfully old we are. And here it is. God, I’m old. And where are my pants? Guitars: SG Bass: SG Drums: SG Percussion: SG Piano: SG Vocals: SG Why did I come in here, I really can’t recall I’m in the kitchen, in my boxers, and I got no clue at all My glasses have gone AWOL, I don’t stand a snowball’s chance Cause without them I can’t find them, or my car keys, or my pants This getting old, is getting old These senior years ain’t what I’d call gold Out to pasture, past my prime Sidelined, before my time This getting old, is getting old I never noticed my joints, till they all started aching My old tackle box is full, of all the pills I’m taking I’d like to cap the genius, who invented child-proof caps I used to have a future, hell I used to have some pants This getting old, is getting old My wife and I don’t talk, we yell, our hearing aids don’t work so well When she starts nagging me I take out the battery This getting old, is getting old Every cop and doctor is less than half my age My boss just finished high school, and he just started to shave Our kids never visit, grandkids never write us They’re texting and they’re tweeting, but we’ve got the arthurit-is I can’t touch my toes, hell I can’t see my toes My head of hair’s beyond repair, and it’s coming out my nose It’s all downhill from here, straight into the hole Without my pills I get the shakes, without my pants I’m getting cold This getting old, is getting old We can live without our marbles, but not the remote control Hate to think what might await us now Mr. Johnson’s on hiatus (ow) This getting old, is getting old Oh how I miss… the… pants Ó 2011 Steve Goodie ASCAP and Tim Panyard ASCAP 10. Resolution This year I will not write any more songs about New Year’s resolutions. Guitars: SG Bass: SG Drums: SG Vocals: SG Backup vocals: SG and Barbara D. All right, this year I swear I'm gonna quit smoking, quit drinking, and start freakin exercising! You say you’ve made a resolution, well you know We all want to lose some weight At fat camp you’re an institution, well you know We all know you’ll clean your plate When there’s a box of jelly donuts You won’t be going for the alfalfa sprouts Don’t you know it’s New Year’s Eve, tonight Someone brought some Krispy Kremes, all right Willpower’s gonna leave, at midnight You need a liver substitution, well you know I’m still using mine right now O’Doul’s might be a good solution, well you know You won’t get drunk, but you might drown And even your sponsor, down at the local AA He bet fifty bucks you’ll be plastered on New Year’s Day Don’t you know it’s New Year’s Eve, tonight Someone brought some Irish Creme, all right Moral fiber’s gonna leave, at midnight You know I don't want to be in bad taste or speak out of turn or anything, but I would rather see terminally ill, unable-to-function Dick Clark doing the countdown, than Carson freakin Daly, my God, I miss you Dick Clark! You put the stroke in the stroke of midnight, buddy! You’re sucking down the air pollution, well you know Those filters don’t do crap They’ll stunt you till you’re Lilliputian, well you know Soon you’ll be breathing through a flap (in your freakin neck… have you ever seen Beetlejuice?) Tonight you’re quitting for sure, and you swear you’re done Tomorrow you’re wheezing and hacking and yakking up lungs Don’t you know it’s New Year’s Eve, tonight Have a hit of Ecstasy, all right Intestinal fortitude’s gonna leave, at midnight All right, tonight, get tight, here’s a light Can’t quite, get it right, despite, what your drunken sponsor says, Who do you think you’re kidding? All right! Lyrics Ó 2011 Steve Goodie ASCAP and Tim Panyard ASCAP Music Ó 1968 John Lennon and Paul McCartney 11. My Face Facebook. Myspace. I put them together. You’re welcome. And by the way, the facebook posts that are acted out here are 100% not-made-up. People actually wrote this stuff in a public forum, and they actually wrote MUCH MORE that I didn’t have room to include in this song. Sigh. Guitars: SG Bass: SG Drums: SG Vocals: SG Percussion: SG Voices: Jenny Casey and Lynda Drewry The world is full of idiots, you must agree So glad I’m not one of them, oh no not me You spent three years on your page Pimping out a sweet myspace And you just can’t face Letting all that work go to waste It’s got every song you ever wrote Every jpeg and stupid viral joke You just keep on denyin’ But myspace died in 2009 Now I’m on facebook and you can’t stand How the whole damn world is my new best friend No one comes to your pimped-out page But they’re all over me, all night and day Everything gets obsolete, everything No exceptions, you’re not that special, see I’m on facebook You’re on myspace Let’s get together And get on my face Erica posts: What would cause a recurring yeast infection? Cathey posts: If it's continuous, it's not totally healing. Would grooming cause it? I did douche the last two cycles and bam here I am.. again.. If you have not treated it, Walter could be passing it back to you. You should see a doctor. You can put plain unflavored yogurt on your vagina… Why you gotta go and publicize everything Way more than I ever really need to see I’m on facebook You’re on myspace Let’s get together And get on my face Everything gets obsolete, everything No exceptions, you’re not that special, see I’m on facebook You’re on myspace Let’s get together And get on my face Ó 2010 Steve Goodie ASCAP 12. My Pal The Murray This song is 0% profane, but it still belongs on this CD. You see, there's always been something about "Albuquerque" that made me want to do my own version. Maybe because it's so random and cartoon-y. Maybe because it's so wordy and full of crazy harmonies. Maybe because it's eleven minutes and twenty-two seconds long. Maybe because it would justify some really long-winded commentary [like this]. Hard to say for sure. But it's been awhile since I put together an eleven-minute song. About three years ago I had a lawn-mower-related adventure that simply wouldn't fit into a three-minute song. There were just too many ins and outs and what-have-yous to cram in. You know, now that I think of it, I've never put together an eleven-minute song. I mean, who would? Behold... I have now assembled the opus you are privileged to enjoy. Please note that 94 percent of my version of this song is literally autobiographical, particularly the culminating moment at 7:30 - it's absolutely true. Every now and then I stretched 6 percent of the truth for "entertainment value," hoping to instill a bit of that "humor" everyone seems to like so much. But the vast bulk, the remaining 94 percent is pure, unadorned, humiliating reality. That's right. I'm an idiot. Please also note that the structure of this parody matches Al's song, beat for beat and chord for chord. It would have been really simple to add or remove a bar here and there, in order to make the "lyrics" fit more easily... but no. This parody is true to the original, down to the nanosecond. And there are exactly 682,000,000,000 nanoseconds in this song. So that's a lot of dedication right there, gosh darn it. Guitars: SG Bass: SG Drums: SG Vocal: SG Backup vocals: SG, Barbara D, Walter Cherry, Jace McLain Backup yelling: SG, Jace McLain, and Jesse Smith Way back in 2008, before the economy collapsed and George Carlin died and Sarah Palin became a household word, I lived in a cute little gingerbread house right around the corner from the I Dream Of Weenie hotdog stand. You know the place. Well anyway, everything was swell, with my happy happy family in our gingerbread house, except for the undeniable fact that every single day, 24/7, I made a whole lot of noise playing the drums. Awww – loud freaking drums, every day and night... I was driving everyone crazy... So I got on Craigslist and I typed in “houses with recording studios inside them,” and would you believe it, I found about 150 of ’em. So I said to my sweet wife, how would you like to come househunting with me? And she said, “What??!! I can’t hear you!!” I guess all the drumming had made her a little deaf. Well we took a snare drum and a drumstick and we went from house to house, and inside each house she beat on that snare drum as hard as she could, and if I could hear it outside, we went on to the next house. Until finally we found the perfect home, with finished pine floors and walls that were oh so sound-proof. And I asked the guy what he wanted for it, and he told me, and I said, “okay, but you have to throw in that Murray riding mower I see out back.” And he said, “sure!” Wocka wocka doo doo yeah! Well let me tell you people, that Murray riding mower was my dream come true, and it was about to become my new best friend. Back at the old house, I’d been mowing the lawn with a push mower, and that yard was huge, and I was always miserable. So it was amazing when I realized, after the home loan went through, that I now had a new special friend... My Pal The Murray (riding mower), My Pal The Murray (lawn tractor) See, I’d never even been on a riding mower before. And I gotta tell ya, it was really great. But here’s the thing... the folks who were about to buy our old house, well, they were really excited to live there, and one day before that sale was final, I went by the old house to check the mail, and I found the new owners-to-be in the backyard planting geraniums. I didn’t want to be a jerk, cause it’s not like they were writing on the walls with poop or anything... but still, they didn’t own the house yet. So I said, “hey, no big deal, but if you want to work in the yard, give me a call first, okay?” And they looked kinda embarrassed... you know why? I’ll tell you why... Cause the sale hadn’t closed, so technically they were trespassing No the sale hadn’t closed, so technically they were trespassing No the sale hadn’t closed, so technically they were trespassing Ah ha ha ha, how could that possibly come back and bite me on the butt? So I’m back at our new house, mowing the new lawn with my new best friend Murray. He’s awesome! This new yard has no trees to get in my way, and the property goes all the way around the house, so I can mow in great big circles without stopping for branches or roots or delapidated flower-boxes or bikes or roadside trash or used hypodermic needles or big flaming bottles of psoriasis ointment or anything! A few weeks pass, and the old house is about to sell... the real estate people call it “closing.” You know, I don’t know why they call it “closing.” Why can’t they call it “selling” like any normal halfway intelligent English-speaking carbon-based life-form? Am I wrong here? Am I wrong? Anyway... then I realize I haven’t mowed the lawn at the old house in nearly a month, and it’s about to “close.” I think to myself, “I should mow that lawn for the new owners, cause I can’t call and ask them to mow it, cause I chewed them out for planting flowers.” And then I think, “I don’t have a way to transport Murray (the riding mower) eight miles from the new house to the old house.” And then it hits me... I could drive Murray to the old house! Yeah! Murray goes, what, like five miles an hour? So I should get there in under two hours, mow the lawn in like 45 minutes, and get home in another two hours. What a delightful way to spend a day. Sure beats working. So I get on mapquest and I plan my route, and I’m new to this part of town so I don’t know all the back roads yet, so I get a hat and some sunglasses and a potted fern and some rechargeable batteries and my catcher’s mitt and a bag of raisins and my lucky lucky autographed glow-in-the-dark snorkel and my cell phone... and finally I’m ready to go! Then I realize, I need to plan a gas stop on my route. I’d feel pretty stupid if I ran out of gas on a lawn mower. And AAA wouldn’t help. You know what they’d say? They’d say... If you get yourself a car, we’d be glad to help you out But we can’t send a towtruck out to fix a lawn mower If you get yourself a car, we’d be glad to help you out But we can’t send a towtruck out to fix a lawn mower Even your Pal The Murray, your Pal The Murray So I make sure I’m gonna pass at least one gas station, and I grab my credit card and all that other stuff and at 8 am I hit the road. I’m rolling along, and since it’s probably illegal to drive a lawn mower on public streets, I pretend I’m mowing each lawn I pass. I soon realize, however, that this mower really goes about 3 miles an hour, so this is going to be a longer excursion than I’d planned. No problem...a rockstar like me can take the whole day off if he wants. I make a wrong turn, I have to backtrack, and that costs me about a half an hour. Man, this thing is slow. And loud... I never realized before how loud this mower is. I get a call from my attorney, and stop the mower to talk to him about the closing coming up. Everything’s fine, I’m still a bigshot, and I start the mower and I go on. I come to a busy street, and I take advantage of the sidewalk. I’m mowing the sidewalk, feeling good, and as I go along, a cement wall appears on my right. I’ve got a wall on my right, a curb and a busy street on my left... and suddenly I see, right in the middle of the sidewalk... a mailbox. Some jerk has planted a mailbox in the middle of the sidewalk, and I can’t get around it. I have to back up a block, take Murray out in the street, and drive that block again. And now I notice I have an audience for this part... the cast of King Of The Hill is standing around, staring at me. Hey, don’t any of you guys have a job to go to? Two hours in, I stop for gas. I whip out the credit card, put in two bucks’ worth, and ignoring the laughter and cruel jokes from the other drivers around me, I head back out on the open road. You know, when you’re only going 3 miles an hour on a really loud internal combustion vehicle and pretending to mow lawns, you notice some things that you might ordinarily overlook. Like how there are kids on schoolbuses in the middle of the day, and they are way way higher up than a shmuck on a lawnmower. And they’re waving at me and making really unnecessarily rude gestures with their hands... little things like that. Speaking of school, my route takes me by our kids’ school. I hope to God they’re not looking out the windows as I roar by, 120 decibels at 3 miles an hour. I mean, that’s just what I need. It’s not bad enough that I’ve grossly underestimated the time-commitment involved in this stupid plan, or that I forgot to put on my Old Spice stick deodorant this morning, or that I have a tiny bit of mint dental floss stuck between my upper right molars which is driving me crazy, or that I just remembered that I have hay fever and even though I’m just pretending to mow all these lawns the pollen is way up in my cerebral cortex now, and all I can do is sneeze into the wind and pretend I have a handkerchief the size of a tablecloth at the Sizzler... now I gotta worry about the kids’ friends tormenting them for years to come about their idiot parental unit who is driving by on a really loud lawn mower. In a stupid hat. I’m hot... I’m tired... I’m ready to mow the lawn at the old house and get done what I came to do. I’m getting closer... I can see the old place... it’s right up there... oh man, there it is! And as I arrive, four hours after setting out, I see the new owner-to-be, and he’s just finished mowing the lawn. And I said, “Whoa! What the? Are you kidding me?” And he said, “Uh... I guess I should have called you.” And your Pal The Murray, your Pal The Murray We both felt pretty stupid. We just stared at the newly cut grass... and at the two lawn mowers... and at the twenty-seven eight-by-ten color glossy photographs with the circles and arrows to be used as evidence against us... and at the two lawn mowers... I said, “I have to mow something. He said, “well, I haven’t done that fenced area in the back yet.” I said, “Okay, I’ll get that!” And I drove the mower over there, and I realized that Murray wouldn’t fit through the gate. So I mowed that area with the push-mower. And I thought, I gotta mow something. So I took Murray over to a patch of grass by the alley, and little did I know that, sticking up from the ground through the long grass, was a steel rod. And I hit that steel rod, and the mower stopped. It died with a very unsatisfying crunch. I did get it started again, but the part of the mower that actually cuts grass was no longer working. Now I was driving a very loud go-cart. It was the Mr. Bean moment of my life. And I had a four-hour, really loud trip home ahead of me, another chance for the kids to see me driving a lawn-mower in front of their friends, more schoolbuses full of nasty staring monsters, and the very real possibility of getting lost or running out of gas, and that evil mailbox just waiting for me. Oh man... I hate it when I’m stupid... And now, years later, when I’m driving around with friends in the car, I show them the Route of Ultimate Stupidity. “You see that? There’s where I pretended to mow that fat guy’s lawn. There’s where I had to go down that 45 mph curved stretch with no sidewalk, hoping not to get hit by a truck. There’s that mailbox I wound up setting on fire. There’s where I had heat stroke and threw a rod and accidentally put borscht in the gas tank.” But I guess the whole point I'm tryin' to make here is... I hate geraniums! That's all I'm really tryin' to say And, by the way, if one day you happen to be making some kind of exciting real estate deal, unloading a piece of crap gingerbread house to get a goofy-looking barn-type of a house with a recording studio in it so that you can play the drums all night long, just make sure that your new house is a sweet little home... a little place with a new friend that makes a lot of noise... Like my Pal The Murray, my Pal The Murray My Pal the Murray, Pal the Murray My Pal the Murray, Pal the Murray My Pal the Murray, Pal the Murray My Pal the Murray, Pal the Murray I said "P" (P) "A" (A) "L" (L) "the" (the) "Murray" (Murray) Pal The Murray, Pal The Murray, Pal The Murray, Pal The Murray Pal The Murray, Pal The Murray, Pal The Murray, Pal The Murray Pal The Murray, Pal The Murray, Pal The Murray, Pal The Murray Pal The Murray, Pal The Murray, Pal The Murray, Pal The Murray Pal The Murray Heh heh, I play drums Lyrics Ó 2011 Steve Goodie ASCAP Music Ó 1999 “Weird Al” Yankovic ASCAP 13. Dire Straits This closing song also came from the great 24-hour experiment of 2010, and got updated in December 2011. I was trying to sound like early-80s Dire Straits (the band) – before “Money For Nothing” made them international celebrities. I'm pleased with the result. The lyric used to be about a tragic breakup and how desperate it can make one. I changed that entirely for this CD, and made it a song about how we are our own Big Brother when we post every single thing on twitter and facebook, etc. I think it's a fitting addition to this technology- and frustration-laden album. Guitar: SG Bass: SG Drums: SG Piano: SG Vocal: SG I blog everything I do When I fold my socks, and brush my teeth Guess I like the attention Makes me feel pretty neat I friend everyone on facebook They’re all following my tweets And I wonder how the government Got all that intel on me Every cell phone is a camera Every friend is a spy Everywhere you go, anytime You’ve got an airtight alibi We friend everyone on facebook Hey everybody, read my tweets We’re just helping our Big Brother Get all the intel he needs And that’s the end of the CD. Wasn’t it fun? Or at least mostly non-irritating? I think we should listen to it again… what do you say? And in case I haven’t said it enough before, Big Thanks to Barbara, Jace, Walter, Aaron, Tim, Bryan, Tim, Pete, Rob, Megan, Lynda, Jenny, Al, Josh, Chris, and everyone else who lent a hand (with or without their knowledge) to this here thing. I really appreciate it! Love and kisses, Steve