By those musical greats, the Scottish Falsetto Sock Puppet Theatre!
Also posted by Collin over at Cornell Finch.
Unintelligible, mangled, “r”-rrrrrollin’ lyrics decoded after the jump.
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or at least Vancouver poet/accordionist/comedian Rowan Lipkovits is. Here he is at the Roxy, a barn-like nightclub for people under 25 looking to get A) shitfaced and B) laid. Watch and enjoy as he testifies to the fact that he is not exactly in their target demographic. The songs are Al Mader‘s I’m a Lousy Lover and Lipkovits‘ own elderly-tomcat theme, Cougar Man. UPDATE: Rowan reports that Cougar Man is a product of the genius of Peter Guindon, aka Bob Uker (as in ukulele-player), aka The Minoans.
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And they called it puppy love
Oh i guess they’ll never know
how an old fart really feels
and just why I can’t let him go…
Mortifying Confession Alert: I used to steal my little sister’s Donny and Marie albums and listen to them when she was asleep, particularly the really corny tunes. But my parents figured it was probably healthier for me than sneaking out to go drinking, so they didn’t interfere.
What can I say? I had a boring youth, even for a Canadian. In fact, I had a number of boring youths…but that’s a tale for another time.
and they called it GenX love
just because I’m past my teens
tell them all
please tell them it isn’t fair
to take away my only dream
Yes, ladies, we can still live the dreams of our youth, particularly if we take our glasses off for that nice, soft focus that makes everyone look just a little bit more like we remember. Donny Osmond is back, and raincoaster’s got him. Or at least, I’ve got this silly flash game, which is the next best thing. Compare and contrast to the Britney Spears Grab the Sex Tape game: Toss Donny a rose from the back row of the concert hall and make him fall in love with you.
Awwwwwwww.
I drive all night
to go see you
these seats are a real pain
I hope and I pray
that maybe someday
I’ll be down (I’ll be down) in the front row
once again
If he snatches your rose, you advance to the next level, which is something like a very euphemistic version of the life path of Pamela DesBarres. Also, if you go up a level he throws you a kiss and sings yet another song of the Seventies, and quite frankly, can you ever have enough of either of those?
someone help me
help me
help me please
will he catch it in his glove?
how can I
oh how can I tell him
to ignore that bitch, Courtney Love
You cannot pass up this opportunity. You cannot fool ol’ raincoaster here: she scored a part-time gig as a surveillance tech for Santa so she sees you when you’re sleeping, she knows when you’re awake, she knows when you’ve been bad or good and she sure as HELL knows you’ve still got that unrequited crush on Donald Clark Osmond, so don’t just sit there, do something about it! Don’t forget the life lessons the Osmond Family taught us: don’t end up like the two in this ancient classic. Seriously, it’s worth slogging through to level eight, just to hear him do Barry Manilow‘s immortal Mandy. Should I mention the current high scorer in this game is named Aaron? You GO girlfriend!
someone help me
help me
help me please
should I lob it up above?
how can he
oh how can he catch this?
this is not a puppy love
(this is not a puppy love)
(this is not a puppy love)
not a puppy love
(this is not a puppy love)
(oooooooh yes it is)
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Is this the oil that launched a thousand chips?
Make haste toward that tiled, enchanted room.
Prepare thy drawers perchance some foul thing slips,
Or thundrous peals from out thy cornhole boom.Though nature’s oils sufficed from dawn of man
For culinary functions tried and true,
It seems that P&G technicians can
Replace them with an oleated goo.And now Olestra has begun her reign.
The Dark Queen sits and cackles in the night,
Dispensing bouts of shooting rectal pain.
Her fudge erupts from sphincters once held tight.Beware the chips that claim to be your friend.
The Hershey squirts will get you in the end.
Truly and often have the poets confronted us with our own torn desires; we love what we despise, we crave what we cannot tolerate, we desperately need what we can never have. Fecklessly falling for fallacies, we cyclically succumb to snake oil salesmen. And always, the poets are there, taking notes.
viz. this, an epic verse-cycle dedicated to that peerless promoter of poopage, Olestra. This, my friends, is truly a work of art, this generation’s Sonnet 130. It is genius, not any ordinary talent, that could spin such a gossamer web of pure poetry on the subject of anal leakage.
Speak on, sweet lips that never told a lie…
Olean… Olean… Olean… Olean
I’m begging you, please leave my sphincter shut
Olean… Olean… Olean… Olean
Please don’t go and lubricate my gutYou’re found in products everywhere, with fatty taste beyond compare;
Of mouth-feel, so enticing, you’re the queen!
Each cake is tasty, but so brief, each chip is crisp as autumn leaf;
And I cannot eat just a few, OleanYou wake me up when I’m asleep; there’s nothing I can do to keep
From oozing when I’ve had too much Olean
And I can easily see now too, how you can easily flow right through,
But you don’t know what that means to me Olean
(chorus)
Well you’re in every kind of snack, but I could never turn my back
You’re the only fat for me Olean
I have to have this talk with you, my skinniness depends on you
Whatever you decide to do Olean
(chorus)
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raincoaster 