2002-08-08 | SORRY, I HAVE NO EXPLANATION. BLAME MY FINGERS

i say "verb up"

cuz i'm a dysfunctional fallacy

a whack emcee

so hit me on the head like i was a mole at Fun Factory

or Chuck E. Cheese

The industry won't stop fucking me

So I told them to take me out to dinner, once or twice at least

A scrumptious feast

Instead they took me to the Golden C.

It's not an okay corral

The waitresses looked like junkies

And they towed my car from Mark Whalbergs honarary spot because my bunch wasn't funky

They tried to get me drunk

So I would sign on the line that's dotted

But I found out one of them was Satan

And his teeth were all rotted

So I escaped out the back window

But Barry Windham was waiting with some barbed wire

He called me Goldie-locks and blamed me for making him retire

He put me in a figure-four and wanted me to tap out

The last shred of manhood i had was in a forklift about to back out

Over the edge of a cliff, where at the bottom there laid a blank check

It was a little teaser before you died, even if you survived you'd spend it all on a comfy matress

And your doctor bills would be mighty hefty

So I turned him around into a "sinch-sack"

That's my finishing move, so I grabbed his rocks, and gave him a lip smack

I didn't kiss him, but I lyrically dissed him

I punched him in the kissinger, like henry, but I sort of missed him

He's never been the same sinse

Brushing his teeth with a bottle of cream rinse

Walking around in circles like M. Doughty

Coughing up his soul, overdosing on a bucket of green mints

I was the victor again, but I didn't get the spoils

I was too busy using some baking soda to rid my favorite t-shirt of this motor oil

I ran into Dennis Boyd, and he was trying to start a casino

But copyright infringement was giving him an acid reflux flashback (amino)

So I dyed his socks white, so I could disguise him for a while

He had an allergic reaction, and swelled to the size of the guy from the Green Mile

I didn't know what to say

I had no alibi

My cover blown

So I called Steve Albini

But I forgot he's anti-cellphones

I had to dial long distance

But all I had was a can and some string

I dialed 911 but it wasn't the Police, just Sting

Sheriff Andy was out for the Summer, and Stewart was watching Copland

I called him Captain Gordo, but he wasn't very impressed

I asked him if he was bugged

He said "no, but I liked 'Infest'"

He named a few more of his favorite albums, and I felt ill

I made him revoke his license, and gave him a dose of "Kill at Will"

He had no dead homies, but he poured a beer out for all the dead bands

The ones that couldn't play their way out of a wet paper guitar bag

I told him if the rest of the squad got off vacation

That they would be the dopest band again, the best in all the nation

He laughed and said, "what i've already done, makes them look like a bunch of rookies"

I said, yes, but you've got to remind them that you didn't do it all for tantric nookie

Take those red baseball caps and throw them in the gutter

When I listen to their albums I can't believe it's not filed under clutter

It's just a bunch of noise, poised to destroy everything we've worked for

There's nothing we can do now, except make a little mess on the pressing room floor

Bring your best sledgehammer, and we'll make Peter Gabriel smile

Because we haven't had an artist of his substance make it big in a while

The dry sense of humor is an element often missed

Sometimes I go a little too far, but at least I got my wish

- premature ejaculation | tantra +