Joe's Garage Acts II & III



Eventually it was discovered
That God
Did not want us to be
All the same

This was
Bad News
For the Governments of The World
As it seemed contrary
To the doctrine of
Portion Controlled Servings

Mankind must be made more uniformly
If
The Future
Was going to work

Various ways were sought
To bind us all together
But, alas
Same-ness was unenforceable

It was about this time
That someone
Came up with the idea of
Total Criminalization

Based on the principle that
If we were All crooks
We could at last be uniform
To some degree
In the eyes of
The Law

Shrewdly our legislators calculated
That most people were
Too lazy to perfom a
Real Crime
So new laws were manufactured
Making it possible for anyone
To violate them any time of the day or night,
And
Once we had all broken some kind of law
We'd all be in the same big happy club
Right up there with the President,
The most exalted industrialists,
And the clerical big shots
Of all your favorite religions

Total Criminalization
Was the greatest idea of its time
And was vastly popular
Except with those people
Who didn't want to be crooks or outlaws,

So, of course, they had to be
Tricked Into It . . .
Which is one of the reasons why
Music
Was eventually made
Illegal.



ACT II


SCENE NINE
A Token Of My Extreme

Arriving at L. RON HOOVER's modernistic
office/cathedral/warehouse/condominium complex, JOE is greeted by a
pre-recorded message and a dramatically illuminated image on a wall-sized
TV screen . . .

L. RON HOOVER:

Welcome to the First Church of Appliantology! The WHITE ZONE is for loading
and unloading only!

Don't you be Tarot-fied
It's just a token of my extreme
Don't you be Tarot-fied
It's just a token of my extreme
Don't you never try to look behind my eyes
You don't wanna know what they have seen
Don't you never try to look behind my eyes
You don't wanna know what they have seen

JOE:
(Thinking to himself)

Some people think
That if they go too far
They'll never get back
To where the rest of them are
I might be crazy
But there's one thing I know
You might be surprised
At what you find out when ya go!

And thus, having rationalized his expedition to L. RON's modernistic
office/cathedral/warehouse/condominium complex, JOE seeks The Answer to his
problem . . .

JOE:

Oh, oh oh
Mystical Advisor
What is my problem, tell me
Can you see?

L. RON HOOVER:

Well, you have nothing to fear, my son
You are a latent appliance fetishist
It appears to me!

JOE:

That all seems very, very strange
I never craved a toaster
Or a color TV

L. RON HOOVER:

A Latent Appliance Fetishist
Is a person who refuses to admit to his or herself
That sexual gratification can only be acheived
Through the use of MACHINES . . .
Get the picture?

JOE:

Are you telling me I should come out of the closet now
Mr. Ron?

L. RON HOOVER:

No, my son!
You must go into
THE CLOSET

JOE:

What?

L. RON HOOVER:

And you will have
A lot of fun!
That's where they all live
So if you want an
Appliance to love you
You'll have to go in there
'N get you one

JOE:

Well . . . that seems simple enough . . .

L. RON HOOVER:

Yes, but if you want a really GOOD one
You'll have to learn a foreign language . . .

JOE:

German, for instance?

L. RON HOOVER:

That's right . . .
A lot of really cute ones come from over there!
(Fifty bucks, please)

And  a  cheerful  group  of  Appliantologists  dance   into the room wearing
aluminum  foil  lab  smocks,  lock arms in a circle around JOE, making sure
that he pays in full, all the while singing with L.  RON as he delivers his
final instructions .  .  .

L. RON HOOVER:

If you been
Mod-O-fied
It's an illusion, an' yer in between
Don't you be
Tarot-fied
It's just a lot of nothin'
So what can it mean?
If you been
Mod-O-fied
It's an illusion, an' yer in between
Don't you be
Tarot-fied
It's just a lot of nothin'
So what can it mean?
(etc., etc., etc.)



SCENE TEN
Stick It Out

JOE leaves the First Church of Appliantology and sets out to try L. RON's
expensive advice

CENTRAL SCRUTINIZER:

This  is  the  CENTRAL  SCRUTINIZER  .  .  .  Joe has just learned to speak
German.  Now get this, here's why he did it!  He's gonna go to this club on
the  other  side  of  town  called  THE  CLOSET .   .  .  And they got these
Appliances  in  there  that really go for a guy dressed up like a housewife
who  can  speak German (you know what I mean) .  .  .  so Joe's learned how
to  speak  German, he goes into this place and he sees these little Kitchen
Machineries  dancing  around  with each other, and he sees this one .   .  .
that  looks  like  it's  a cross between an industrial vacuum cleaner and a
chrome  piggy-bank  with marital aids stuck all over its body .  .  .   it's
really exciting .  .  .  and when he sees it, he BURSTS INTO SONG .  .   .

JOE:

Fick mich, du miserabler hurensohn
Fick mich, du miserabler hurensohn
Streck ihn aus
Streck aus deinem heisen gelockten
Streck ihn aus
Streck aus deinem heisen gelockten
Streck ihn aus
Streck aus deinem heisen gelockten
shwanz
Ah-ee-ahee-ahhhhh!
Mach es sehr schnell
Rein und raus
Magisches schwein
Mach es sehr schnell
Rein und raus
Magisches schwein
Bis er spritzt, spritzt, spritzt
Feuer!
Bis er spritzt, spritzt, spritzt
Feuer!
Aber beklecker nicht das Sofa, Sofa!
Aber beklecker nicht das Sofa, Sofa!
Aber beklecker nicht das Sofa, Sofa!
Aber beklecker nicht das Sofa, Sofa!

Stunned  by  JOE's  command  of  its native tongue, a gleaming model XQJ-37
nuclear-powered  Pan-sexual  Roto-Plooker named SY BORG (previously thought
to  be  the  son  of  the  lady  who called the Police on cut two, side I),
spindles over to JOE and says .  .  .

SY BORG:

Pick me . . . I'm clean . . . I am also programmed for conversational
English

This stuns JOE, who stands there speechless for a moment.  Smitten by JOE's
animal magnetism, SY continues .  .  .

SY BORG:

May I have this dance?

And JOE, looking sharp in his housewife costume with the napkin on his head
and  the  yellow  chiffon  apron, responds boldly by repeating the entreaty
originally delivered in Deutsch in its conversational English form, so that
his intentions regarding the Appliance will be made perfectly clear .  .  .

JOE:

I've got a better idea . . .
Fuck me, you ugly son of a bitch
You ugly son of a bitch
Fuck me, you ugly son of a bitch
Stick it out
Stick out your hot curly weenie
Stick it out
Stick out your hot curly weenie
Stick it out
Stick out your hot curly weenie
Weenie . . . weenie, weenie, weenie!
Make it go fast
In and out
Magical Pig
Make it go fast
In and out
Magical Pig
Till it squirts, squirts, squirts, squirts
Fire
Till it squirts, squirts, squirts, squirts
Fire
Don't get no jizz upon that sofa, sofa
Don't get no jizz upon that sofa, sofa
Don't get no jizz upon that sofa, sofa
Don't get no jizz upon that sofa, sofa

Whereupon,  in  order  to prove to JOE that he is no ordinary Appliance, SY
quotes a few lines of traditional American Love Poetry .  .  .

SY BORG:

What's a girl like you
Doing in a place like this?
Do you come here often?
Wait a minute. . .
I've got it . . .
You're an Italian . . .
What? You're Jewish?
Love your nails . . .
You must be a Libra
Your place or mine?
Your place or mine?
Your place or mine?
Your place or mine?
See the chrome
Feel the chrome
Touch the chrome
Heal the chrome
See the screaming
Hot black steaming
Iridescent naugahyde python screaming
Steam Roller!



SCENE ELEVEN
Sy Borg

CENTRAL SCRUTINIZER:

This is the CENTRAL SCRUTINIZER . . . Joe and his date are going back to
the apartment to have a little party . . .

JOE:

Sy Borg
Gimme dat, gimme dat
Sy Borg
Gimme dat, give me the chromium leg.
I beg
Sy Borg
Gimme dat, give me the chromium leg.
Little wires, pliers, tires
They turn me on
Maybe I'm crazy
Maybe I'm crazy
Maybe I'm crazy
mon . . .

Stroking several of SY's gleaming appendages, JOE continues . . .

Gee, Sy
This is a real groovy apartment
You've got here

SY BORG:

All government sponsored recreational services are clean and efficient

JOE:

This is exciting
I never plooked
A tiny chrome-plated machine
That looks like a magical pig
With marital aids stuck all over it
Such as yourself before

SY BORG:

You'll love it
It's a way of life

JOE:

Does that mean later
You'll plook me . . .

SY BORG:

If you wish, we may have a groovy orgy

JOE:

Just me and you?

SY BORG:

I share this apartment
With a modified
Gay Bob doll
He goes all the way . . .
Every try oral sex with a miniature rubberized homo-replica?

JOE:

No, ah, not yet
Ah, is this him?

SY BORG:

This is him
Your wish is his command
He likes you
He wants to kiss you always
Just tell him what you want

JOE:

Really?
Hi, little guy
Think I might get a tiny, but exciting
Blow . . . job . . .
Gimme dat, gimme dat
Bow job . . .
Gimme dat, give me de chromium cob

SY BORG:

Bend over

JOE:

Gay Bob
Blow job
Gimme dat, gimme dat
Blow job
Gimme dat, give me
De chromium cob

SY BORG:

You'll love it!
It looks just like a Telefunken U-47

JOE:

Little leather cap and trousers
They look so gay
Warren just
Bought some
Warren just
Bought some
Warren just
Bought some
Hey . . .

SY BORG:

Bob is tired
Plook me now
You savage rascal
Ehhh! That tickles
You are a fun person
I like you
I want to kiss you always

JOE:

Gee, this is great
How's about some bondage and humiliation?

SY BORG:

Anything you say, master

JOE:

Oh no, I don't believe it
You're way more fun than Mary . . .

SY BORG:

You're plooking too hard . . .

JOE:

And cleaner than Lucille . . .

SY BORG:

Plooking on me . . .

JOE:

What have I been missing
All these years?

SY BORG:

Too hard

JOE:

Sy . . .

SY BORG:

Too hard

JOE:

Sy . . .

SY BORG:

Plooking too hard on me-e-e-e-e . . .

JOE:

Speak to me
Oh no . . .
The golden shower must have shorted out
His master circuit
He's, he's on my God
I must have plooked him . . .
Hey
To death . . .
Hey

CENTRAL SCRUTINIZER:

This  is the CENTRAL SCRUTINIZER .  .  .  You have just destroyed one model
XQJ-37  Nuclear-powere  Pan-sexual  Roto-plooker.  And you're gonna have to
pay for it!  So give up, you haven't got a chance

JOE:

But I .  . .
I, I, I, I . . .
I can't pay
I gave all my money
To some kinda groovy religious guy
Two songs ago . . .

CENTRAL SCRUTINIZER:

Come on out son . . .
Between the two of us
We'll find a way to
Work it out



SCENE TWELVE
Dong Work for Yuda

CENTRAL SCRUTINIZER:

Hello  again .  .  .  this is the CENTRAL SCRUTINIZER .  .   .  Joe was sent
to  a special prison where they keep all the other criminals from the music
business .  .  .  you know .  .  .  the ones who get caught .  .  .  it's a
horrible place, painted all green on the inside, where musicians and former
executives take turns snorting detergent and plooking each other .  .  .

(As the CENTRAL SCRUTINIZER chuckles to himself for a moment, FATHER RILEY,
who  became BUDDY JONES, steps into view in his new identity:  FATHER RILEY
B.  JONES, Prison Chaplain, who, in a rather heavy-handed piece of imagery,
is  now  entrusted  with  the  job  of  singing this song as he assists the
captured  executives in their quest for new meat to plook, and, once having
found  these  victims  for  the princes of the industry, trades them little
blobs  of sanctified lubricant jelly for cigarettes and candy bars while he
holds them down so the execs won't have to work too hard when they stick it
in.)

.   .   .   Anyway,  while he's in there he meets this guy who used to be a
promo man for a major record company, Bald-Headed John .  .  .  King of the
Plookers .  .  .

FATHER RILEY B. JONES:

This is the story ' bout
Bald-Headed John

FORMER EXECS:

Dong work for Yuda
Dong, Dong

FATHER RILEY B. JONES:

He talks a lot 'n it's usually wrong

FORMER EXECS:

Dong work for Yuda
Dong, Dong

FATHER RILEY B. JONES:

He said Dong was Wong
'N Wong was Kong
'N Dong work for Yuda
'N John was wrong

FORMER EXECS:

Sorry John
Sorry better
Try it again
Dong work for Yuda
Dong, Dong
Sorry John
Sorry better
Try it again
He said Dong
Was Wong
And Wong was Kong
And Dong was Gong
'N John was wrong

FATHER RILEY B. JONES:

John's got a sausage
Yeh man
John's got a sausage
Yeh man
John's got a sausage that will make you fart
John's got a sausage that will break your heart
Make you fart
And break your heart
Don't bend over if you are smart
He took a little walk to the weenie stand
John's got a sausage
Yeh man
A great big weenie in both his hands
John's got a sausage
Yeh man
He sucked on the end 'til the mustard squirt
He said "Ya'll stand back 'cause you might get hurt"

FORMER EXECS:

Sorry John
Sorry better
Try it again
John's got a sausage
Yeh man
Sorry John
Sorry better
Try it again
He said Dong was Wong
Wong was Kong
Kong was Gong
'N John was wrong
Sorry John
Sorry better
Try it again

BALD-HEADED JOHN:

Make way for the iron shaschige

FORMER EXECS:

Sorry John
Sorry better
Try it again

BALD-HEADED JOHN:

I need a dozen towels so the boys can take a shower

FORMER EXECS:

Sorry John
Sorry better
Try it again

BALD-HEADED JOHN:

Bartender, bring me a colada and milk

FORMER EXECS:

Sorry John
Sorry better
Try it again

BALD-HEADED JOHN:

On second thought, make that a water . . .
HtO

FORMER EXECS:

Sorry John
Sorry better
Try it again

BALD-HEADED JOHN:

Falcum . . .
Take me to the falcum!

FORMER EXECS:

Sorry John
Sorry better
Try it again

BALD-HEADED JOHN:

I wave my bags
Did you wave your'n

FORMER EXECS:

Sorry John
Sorry better
Try it again

BALD-HEADED JOHN:

Well how much did they wave?

FORMER EXECS:

Sorry John
Sorry better
Try it again

BALD-HEADED JOHN:

I'm almost two kilometers tall

FORMER EXECS:

Sorry John
Sorry better
Try it again

BALD-HEADED JOHN:

This girl must be praketing richcraft

FORMER EXECS:

Sorry John
Sorry better
Try it again

BALD-HEADED JOHN:

Don't worry about the faggot
I'll take care of the faggot

FORMER EXECS:

Sorry John
Sorry better
Try it again
Try it again,
Try it again
Try, try, try again . . .
etc., etc., etc.

BALD-HEADED JOHN:

Your Pomona is very extinct . . .
Yeah, I studied with the Dong of Tokyo
'N also with the oriental Kato . . .
My body contain uh water
I just love the way these Copenhagens talks!
Driver, McDoodle . . .
Sausage
Salima
Salami
That looks like the stuff that Freckles lets out
Once a mumfth . . .



SCENE THIRTEEN
Keep It Greasey

Eventually FATHER RILEY B. JONES gets around to JOE with his little case of
pre-blessed unguents . . .

CENTRAL SCRUTINIZER:

This  is  the CENTRAL SCRUTINIZER .  .  .  Poor Joe.  He's getting tired of
bending  over  .  .  .  but we tried to warn him .  .   .  didn't we?  Okay,
Joe .  .  .  you asked for it .  .  .  here comes The Big One .  .  .

JOE:
(Annointing himself as he sings)

Keep it greasey so it'll go down easy
Keep it greasey so it'll go down easy
Keep it greasey so it'll go down easy

MANX:

Roll it over 'n grease it down
I'll drive you through the heart of town

JOE  (who  is still wearing his housewife costume from when he first picked
up  SY  BORG in The Closet) adjusts his little apron to a more advantageous
position and sings .  .  .

JOE:

Hey, the good women, they sure has it tough
The good men, well there ain't enough
All the good girls are lookin' all the time
Good men is something that they can't find
'Cause if they find one miraculously
They try to be as lovin' as they can be
'Cause if they find one and let him go
Chances are they might not ever find one no mo'
Keep it greasey so it'll go down easy
Keep it greasey so it'll go down easy
Keep it greasey so it'll go down easy

MANX:

Roll it over 'n grease it down
I'll drive you through the heart of town

JOE:

A girl don't need
No fancy grease
To get herslef
Some rump release
Any kind
Of lube'll do
Maybe from another part of you
Lube from the North
Lube from the South
Take a little slobber
From the side of your mouth
Roll it over
Grease it down
Here come that crazy
Screamin' sound . . .
Keep it greasey so it'll go down easy
Keep it greasey so it'll go down easy
Keep it greasey so it'll go down easy
Roll it over ' grease it down, down, down
Grease it down . . .
Oh no! Here comes that screamin' sound again . . .

And  sure  enough the walls of the prison did reverberate with all sorts of
screamin'  sounds  as  lawyers and execs and promo personages all decide to
jump on JOE for a spectacular high speed gang-bang leading to .  .  .




SCENE FOURTEEN
Outside Now

JOE:
(Somewhat exhausted)

These exectutives have plooked the fuck out of me
And there's still a long time to go before I've
Paid my debt to society
And all I ever really wanted to do was
Play the guitar 'n bend the string like
Reent-toont-teent-toont-teent-toont-teenooneenoonee
I've got it
I'll be sullen and withdrawn
I'll dwindle off into the twilight realm
Of my own secret thoughts
I'll lay back here 'til dawn
In a semi-catatonic state
And dream of guitar notes
That would irritate
An executive kinda guy . . .

And  sure  enough  JOE  dreams  up  a  few of those guitar notes that every
executive  despises  .  .  .  those low ones .  .  .   every exec knows it's
only  the  records  with the high squeally ones that get to be hits (except
for Duane Eddy) ..  .

Well, I guess that one did the trick
If they only coulda heard it
Half-a-dozen of 'em woulda strangled
While they was suckin' on each other's dick
But that was just a bunch of imaginary
Notes I played
Just a little extra somethin'
To keep me goin' from day to day
That's okay
I'll be gettin' outta here pretty soon
Then I won't have to live
In this ugly fuckin' room
Can't wait to see
I can't wait to see what it's like
On the outside now . . .
etc., etc., etc.

And  JOE just lays there, dreaming imaginary guitar notes for years on end,
until finally they let him out .  .  .


END OF ACT II


ACT III


SCENE FIFTEEN
He Used To Cut The Grass

JOE:
(To himself as he walks out of prison)

I'm out at last
Boy, the world sure looks different
Wow . . . there's hardly anything fun left to do
Since they made music illegal
But I'm hooked
I got the habit
I got to have it
I need to play
But there's no musicians anymore
They're all gone
Wait! I've got it!
I'll be sullen and withdrawn
I'll dwindle off into the twilight realm
Of my own secret thoughts
I'll walk through the parking lot
In a semi-catatonic state
And dream of guitar notes
To go with the loading zone announcements

JOE  wanders  though the world which by then has been totally epoxied over,
carefully  organised, with everyone reporting daily to his or her appointed
place  in  a  line  somewhere  in front of a window somewhere in a building
somewhere  in order to collect his or her welfare check, which when cashed,
made  it  possible  for  the  young  ones  to continue the payments for the
obsolete  and  irreperable  appliances  their  parents  had purchased on an
installment  plan  years  ago,  providing as security the future incomes of
their children.  The rest of these checks were used by the young recipients
to  buy  fun  things  of  their  own on credit, most of which broke down or
failed within moments of purchase and seemed to be stacking up everywhere.

CENTRAL SCRUTINIZER:

The WHITE ZONE is for loading and unloading only
If you gotta load or unload, go to the WHITE ZONE
You'll love it
It's a way of life

As  JOE  stumbles  over  mounds of dead consumer goods formed into abstract
statues  dedicated  to  the Quality of American Craftsmanship, dreaming his
stupid little guitar notes, he hears somewhere in the back of his head, the
voice of MRS.  BORG, taunting him:

MRS. BORG

Turn it down!
Turn it down!
I have children sleeping here!
Don't you boys know any nice songs?
I'm calling the police!
I did it!
They'll be here . . . shortly!
I'm not jokin around anymore!
You'll see now!
There they are . . . they're coming!
Just listen to that mess, would you!
Every day this goes on around here!
He used to cut my grass . . .
He was a very nice boy . . .
He used to cut my grass . . .
He was a very nice boy . . .
He used to cut my grass . . .
He was a very nice boy . . .
He used to cut my grass . . .
He was a very nice boy . . .

CENTRAL SCRUTINIZER:

This  is the CENTRAL SCRUTINIZER .  .  .  Yes .  .  .   he used to be a nice
boy  .  .  .  he used to cut the grass .  .  .  But now his mind is totally
destroyed  by  music.   He's  so crazy now he even believes that people are
writing  articles  and  reviews  about  his imaginary guitar notes, and so,
continuing  to dwindle in the twilight realm of his own secret thoughts, he
not  only  dreams  imaginary  guitar  notes, but, to make matters worse, he
dreams  imaginary  vocal  parts  to a song about the imaginary journalistic
profession .  .  .



SCENE SIXTEEN
Packard Goose

JOE:
(Clutching the hood ornament of an ancient car)

Maybe you thought I was the Packard Goose
Or the Ronald McDonald of the nouveau-abstreuse
Well fuck all them people, I don't need no excuse
For being what I am
Do you hear me, then?

All them rock 'n roll writers is the worst kind of sleaze
Selling punk like some new kind of English disease
Is that the wave of the future?
Aw, spare me please!

Oh no, you gotta go
Who do you write for?
I wanna know
I believe you is the government's whore
And keeping peoples dumb is where you're coming from

Fuck all them writers with the pen in their hand
I will be more specific so they might understand
They can all kiss my ass
But because it's so grand
They best just stay away
Hey, hey, hey

Hey, Joe, who did you blow?
Moe pushed the button boy
And you went to the show
Better suck a little harder or the shekels won't flow
And I don't mean your thumb
So on your knees you bum
Just tell yourself it's Yum
And suck it 'til you're numb

Jounalism's kinda scary
And of it we should be wary
Wonder what became of Mary?

And no sooner has he wondered, a vision of MARY appears to him, delivering
a little lecture . . .

VOICE OF MARY'S VISION:

Hi! It's me . . . the girl from the bus . . .
Remember?
The last tour?
Well . . .
Information is not knowledge
Knowledge is not wisdom
Truth is not beauty
Beauty is not love
Love is not music
Music is THE BEST
Wisdom is the domain of the Wis (which is extinct)
Beauty is a French phonetic corruption
Of a short cloth neck ornament
Currently in resurgence . . .

And  no  sooner has she spoken (which is awkward and probably incorrect but
what  the  fuck),  enormous  flabby  short cloth neck ornaments obscure the
horizon  in  a multitude, beating their ugly wings and working their hidden
chrome  snap attachments as they resurge in the direction of the WHITE ZONE
seeking snack material near the Utensil Shrines of Greater America .  .  .

JOE:

If you're in the audience and like what we do
Well, we want you to know that we like you all too
But as for the sucker who will write the review
If his mind is prehensile
He'll put down his pencil
And have himself a squat
On the Cosmic Utensil
Give it all you got
On the Cosmic Utensil
Sit 'n spin until you rot
On the Cosmic Utensil
Now that I got that over with
I'll just play my imaginary guitar again
[Reent-toont-teent-toont-teenooneenoonee]
Hey . . . sounds real good!
Hey . . . get down, me . . .
Boy, what an imagination!
Love myself better than I love myself . . .
I think . . .
What tone!
Sounds like an Elegant Gypsy!
What is that!
Musk?
It's hip!



SCENE SEVENTEEN
Watermelon In Easter Hay

CENTRAL SCRUTINIZER:

This  is  the CENTRAL SCRUTINIZER .  .  .  Joe has just worked himself into
an  imaginary  frenzy during the fade-out of his imaginary song .  .   .  He
begins  to  feel depressed now.  He knows the end is near.  He has realized
at  last that imaginary guitar notes and imaginary vocals exist only in the
imagination  of  The Imaginer .  .  .  and .  .  .   ultimately, who gives a
fuck  anyway?   .   .   .  Who gives a fuck anyway?  So he goes back to his
ugly little room and quietly dreams his last imaginary guitar solo .  .  .

(after the song ends)

This  is the CENTRAL SCRUTINIZER .  .  .  As you can see, MUSIC can get you
pretty  fucked  up  .  .  .  Take a tip from Joe, do like he did, hock your
imaginary  guitar and get a good job .  .  .  Joe did, and he's a happy guy
now,  on  the  day shift at the Utility Muffin Research Kitchen, arrogantly
twisting  the  sterile  canvas  snoot  of a fully-charged icing annointment
utensil.  And everytime a nice little muffin comes by on the belt, he poots
forth  .   .   .   And  if  this doesn't convince you that MUSIC causes BIG
TROUBLE .  .  .  then maybe I should turn off my plastic megaphone and sing
the last song on the album in my regular voice .  .  .



SCENE EIGHTEEN
A Little Green Rosetta

CENTRAL SCRUTINIZER:

A little green rosetta
A little green rosetta
A little green rosetta
A little green rosetta
You'll make a muffin betta
With a green rosetta
A little green rosetta
A tiny green rosetta
A little green rosetta
A little green rosetta
A little green rosetta
A little green rosetta
You'll make a muffin betta
Betta
It's really getting betta
With a green rosetta
Setta, setta
That's right, with a green rositti, too
Green rositti
A little green rositti
It's really, really meaty
A little green rositti
Betta, betta
(Hey, really out there . . . really good)
It's really getting betta
It's betta, it's betta
With a green rosetta
Setta, setta
(Good God, give the drummer some)
Green rosetta
A little green rosetta
A little green rosetta
A little green rosetta
(Setta, setta, setta, etc. . . .)
(Make a muffin, make a muffin, make a muffin,
Make a muffin betta, make a muffin betta, etc. . . .)
With a green rosetta
A little green rosetta
(Etc. . . .)

Good  God!   you're  really  jammin'!   Now the Reggae version, hey for the
People  in  the  Third  World .  .  .  we haven't forgotten anybody on this
song  .   .  .  for all of you French people .  .  .   who think that you're
outta  sight  .   .   .  And for the people in Spain .   .  .  who think the
French people are where it's at .  .  .  And for the people in Mongolia who
always  wanted  to go to Spain for a vacation .  .  .  And for those of you
in Taiwan who got chumped, this chorus is for you:  (Rang Tang Ding Dong, I
am the Japanese Sandman .  .  .  Take Eight .  .  .)

Green rosetta
Green rosetta
A little green rosetta
(Against the Reggae beat, though . . . No, it's still Reggae, but it's all
backwards)

A little green rosetta
A little green rosetta
A little green rosetta
You'll make a muffin betta
(Etc., etc., etc. . . .)

Now  you see, some places in the Third World it might be difficult to dance
to this because the kerosene record player is not a very efficient device .
.   .   And  a lot of times they run out of, they run out of spunk right in
the  middle of the chorus .  .  .  Causing the song to sound like this .  .
.)

A little green rosetta

However  we  continue in spite of the fact that the fuel may be low on your
record  player.   We  suggest  that  in  places like the Fourth World where
things  are  really  tough that you keep the record player going by rubbing
two  sticks together.  And if all else fails, throw the record away .  .   .
build  your own green rosetta .  .  .  try this recipe:  We'll start with a
lump  of  grass .  .  .  the grass bone connected to the ankle bone .  .  .
the  knee  bone connected to the wishbone .  .  .  and then everybody moves
to  New  York and goes to a party with Warren.  Hey!  And we've flown in at
great  expense  (triple scale, no less, ladies and gentlemen), Steve Gadd's
clone to play the out-chorus on this song .  .  .  he's really outasite, in
spite  of  the fact that the click track is totally irrelevant to what he's
doing  now.   I'm listening to the click, yes, I'm suffering with the click
track  right now .  .  .  this guy is totally out of sync with it, but what
the  fuck.   Ed  Mann  will  call  him  up later, show him the sign.  Okay,
Vinnie, where is five?

They're pretty good musicians
They're pretty good musicians
They're pretty good musicians
They're pretty good musicians
But it don't make no difference
If they're good musicians
Because anybody who would buy this record
Doesn't give a fuck if there's good musicians
On it
Because this is a stupid song
AND THAT'S THE WAY I LIKE IT
A little green rosetta
A little green rosetta
A little green rosetta
A little green rosetta
You make a muffin betta
With a little green rosetta
A little green rosetta
Rosetta, rosetta, rosetta
(etc., etc., etc. . . .)

AL MALKIN:

Zetta . . .



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