Tags: holidays, humor
I read this to my girlfriend and she said, “Wow, that’s not racist.” I think that was sarcasm, but I choose to accept it at face value, which means that it’s okay, and not at all controversial. Nonetheless, I figure that while I don’t owe anyone an explanation, I’m going to give you one.
Kwanzaa is a bullshit, made-up holiday created by an angry, racist, reactionary, criminal thug who wanted to drive more of a divide between black people and white people.
Since the followers of Kwanzaa want their own thing, I give them their own thing. A realistic holiday poem:
One night during Kwanzaa, all up in da crib
All my cousins was sleeping, for the bed they called dibs;
The laundry was hung by the heater with care
In hopes that it wouldn’t start a fire in there;
The babies was nestled all snug in they beds
While visions of bling and shit danced in they heads;
Baby Mamma in her moo-moo, looking so Phat
Had just then agreed to let me hit dat
When out on the lawn there arose such a ruckus
I jumped out of bed to see what the fuck was.
I thought it was cops when I saw the light flash,
So I opened the window and tossed out my stash
The spotlight on the dankness of old yellow snow
Looked like an episode of Cops in the alley below
Just then down the street came a crazy mo-fo
In a big ol convertible, full of bitches and hos.
With a smack-talking driver, all dressed up and hip
I knew in a moment it must be Da Pimp
The car boomed and it rocked, down the roadway it came
And he yelled, and shouted, and called them by name:
“Lucretia, Lashonda, Lataisha, Sha-Nay-Nay”
“LaSharon, LaChevy, Tunisha, and Carol;
“To the top of the projects! To the liquor store wall!
“Now shake them all down, ‘fore I bitch-slap you all!”
When he pulled into the driveway it made such a sound
All the property values went instantly down
While the rims were still spinning he fell out of the car
Then stumbled around before throwing up in my yard.
He offered me his 40, the sneaky old prick,
Then distracted me with the oldest of tricks
He said, “Check that ass,” and when I turned around,
Through my back door Da Pimp came in with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur, with a big-ass pimp hat
And gold and a cane, like this and like that
A handful of bags he had flung on his back
He looked just like a gangsta, smoking some crack.
His eyes – how they dilated! His teeth caps, how golden!
His cheeks were like chocolate, his face a crushed berry!
We could all see his drawers ‘cause his pants hung real low
And the beard of his chin was as black as the coal.
The roach of a blunt he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad nose and big ol’ fat gut
That he rested on the ass of a bent-over slut
He’s the spirit of Kwanzaa, set to do crime;
Fresh out the joint after doing hard time.
He was out to score free holiday fare;
I worked hard for my shit but he just didn’t care.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled his bags with my shit, the fucking old jerk
He took all my presents, and food–every bit
Then just strolled out the door–ain’t that some shit?
He hopped in his car, but I couldn’t run
As he peered at me down the barrel of his gun
But I heard him warn me, as he drove out of sight,
“I’ll be back next year, and fuck you up right!”
Tags: humor, songs and music
He has a officle. It’s bigger than a regular cube, and it’s shaped like an office except the walls are only five and half feet tall, and portable, made of cube material, and there’s no door. It’s kind of like shaping tofu into a t-bone steak–it may look nice, but it’s still tofu. Steak sauce won’t help.
Anyway, several people–work-friends–are gathered there and my first thought is, “Shit, not another intervention.” My second thought was, “What could it be for *this* time?”
Before I can protest, someone says, “Listen to this.” It’s playing on computer speakers and it’s kind of low, so I can barely make it out. Acoustic guitar and some singing. A familiar tune. Suddenly the light dawns on me. *TOO* familiar. It’s lyrics that I wrote. Somebody STOLE my song!
I didn’t say anything yet, which was good, because I would have made an ass of myself. “Sound familiar?” somebody said.
I turned, and she handed me a CD case and explained. Last year in October or November, I sent around by email these lyrics that are a parody of Simon and Garfunkel’s “Sound of Silence.” They got to Linda, and she sent them to her husband. Her husband and brother-in-law have a band. They were tickled by the lyrics and they thought up a great idea. The band practiced the song, performed it, and recorded it. A girl at the bank clandestinely took my picture, and another woman took the photo and ‘shopped it onto the cover of the original Simon and Garfunkel album art, and changed it to my name and the name of the song.
I listened to the song again. They really went all out on this. I was amazed and just knocked on my butt at the lengths they went to. I just felt–wow. I felt like a rock star. I felt like I won the Grammy. I felt special, like a sitcom’s very-special-episode kind of special, but in a good way. It warmed my heart and the cockles of my balls.
And all of this because 16 years ago or so, I heard the song and different words went through my head, and I knew I had to go with it. I re-wrote the lyrics to be more applicable to something I could relate to: Pizza Delivery. The new song was called, “The Sound of Slices.”
Whenever the song comes up in conversation, I casually mention that I was with Art Garfunkel before Paul Simon was. We toured the local bus station circuit doing folk music. I had just written that song when Paul Simon came along. I got kicked out, and they stole my material–it was this whole big thing. Paul Simon rewrote the lyrics, but my version makes more sense. Obviously. It’s about my life delivering pizza back in the 1950s.
I told them that story, and then sent them the lyrics. And they did all of that work. It’s just amazing. It makes me happy to know that I have friends that will do things like that, and people who actually think my material is good enough to do that do. I am now–officially–a published songwriter. Let me go ahead and give you the lyrics.
THE SOUND OF SLICES
Pizza boxes my old friends
I’ve come to fold you up again
Because a GM softly creeping
Woke me up when I was sleeping,
And the threat of being fired still remains
In my brain
Within the sound of slices
Out on runs I go alone
Driving fast and getting stoned
Beneath the halo of a streetlamp
I deliver in the cold and damp
When my eyes were stabbed by the flash
Of a neon light
“Open All Night”
To serve the sound… of slices
And in florescent light I saw
10 thousand pizzas, maybe more
Pizzas stacking without leaving
Pizzas sitting and not going
Pizzas growing old and drivers never care
No one dared
Disturb the sound of slices.
“Fools!” said I, “You do not know!
“Sliced like that it cannot go!”
Hear my words that I might teach you
Grab my apron that I might train you
But my words, like pepperoni fell
And in the air the smell
And the people bitched but paid
For the pizza that I made
And the sign flashed out its warning
See the words that it was forming
And the sign said the slices of the pizza
Are for sale near the subway walls
And tenement halls
And whisper the sound… of slices
Bob Denver died recently. It is truly sad, indeed. Our heartfelt condolences go out to his family. But he lived a good, long life, and left a tremendous, lasting legacy in our hearts.
On the bright side, at least, he is off my list of potential candidates as the anti-Christ.
Unless he comes back.