I Hope You Pants

 

I hope your trousers suit you well as public speaker,

You’re never bullied into heals when you’ve got sneakers.

May you never take an ankle sock for granted.

God forbid you ever leave your hair unbanded.

I hope you still feel hot when rocking jeans and t-shirt.

Whenever someone mocks flip-flops, you’ll never be hurt.

Promise me that you’ll give hats a fighting chance.

And when you get the choice to skirt it up or pants…

I hope you pants.

[Maudlin strings, dance break, sweaty cool down, resume.]

I hope you never fear those workouts in the distance,

Always balance your aerobic with resistance.

All your heft will carry weight, but it’s worth bearing;

Playing sports will lead to bruises, they’re worth sharing.

I hope you still stand tall when surrounded by the shorter,

Whenever someone orders wine, you’ll have a porter.

Give your laurels more than just a passing glance,

And when you’re hearing lots of “no”s or “don’t”s or “can’t”s,

I hope you pants.

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Just Give Me Some Season(-ing)

There’s a small but vocal part of my brain that gets mightily embarrassed when I write new lyrics for pop songs. And whenever she gets going, the rest of my brain just sings louder.

Right from the start
You were a chef for healthy hearts,
And I reject your dictum.

You made me eat the parts of things
That weren’t all that pretty,
And with every bite, I icked them.

You’ve been using fat-free cream, uh-oh.
You’re taking all the taste from me, uh-oh.
You tell me that a pat’s enough.
I say tough.

Just give me some season,
Just a little salt’s enough
…plus some pepper.
We’re not broken just bland,
And we will learn to cook again.

It’s in the fats,
All these butters should be eaten in vats.
We’re not broken just bland,
And we will learn to cook again.

I’m sorry, it’s your heavy hand
Where all this salt is coming from.
I thought that it was good.
(No, it needs everything.)

Your palate’s running wild again.
My dear, you’ve eaten everything.
Please watch your BMI.
(Yeah, this is fattening.)

You’ve been using so much cheese, uh-oh.
They say it’s linked to heart disease, uh-oh.
I really think you’ve had enough
Of that Fluff.

(Oh, I love that Fluff.)

Just give me some season,
Just a little salt’s enough
…plus some pepper.
We’re not broken just bland,
And we will learn to cook again.

It’s in the fats,
All these butters should be eaten in vats.
We’re not broken just bland
And we will learn to cook again.

Oh foie gras terrines.
(I’ll fix us some greens.)
We’re helping our spleens keep our system clean.

(You’re building a chin.)
You’re really too thin.
Oh nothing tastes as good as red meat.
We’ll just eat.

Just give me some season
Just a little salt’s enough
…plus some pepper.
We’re not broken just bland,
And we will learn to cook again.

It’s in the fats,
All these butters should be eaten in vats.
We’re not broken just bland
And we will learn to cook again.

Arguing with Assholes in My Head

Slightly more obscure source material for this “song”–here’s the original:

 

Aaaaaand my Monday-inspired madness:

 

Rage is here, rage is here.

Life is violence and life is beer.

I think the stuff that’s the hardest to cage

Is the rage—I do; don’t you? Bite me.

 

But there’s one thing that fuels my hostility,

That ruins my shaky civility…

 

All the world needs a punch—

Not just one, but a bunch—

When I’m arguing with assholes in my head.

 

Random moments you’ll see

Sudden outbursts from me

When I’m arguing with assholes in my head.

 

It starts with a moment to ponder my circumstance

And ends with Banana transformed to Ms. Grumpy Pants.

 

Oh you’ll soon find me in

Some secure loony bin

When I’m arguing with assholes in my head.

 

I’ve gained reputation

For threat’ning castration

Of each aberration

Whom I’ve met.

My imagination

Drifts toward mutilation

For every occasion

I dream I might get.

But it’s not based in any reality;

Just a spiritual abnormality.

 

So if one day you see

Something maddening me

I’m just arguing with assholes in my head.

 

And maybe I’ll dream

Of a nice peaceful stream—

Or I’ll argue with assholes in my head.

 

I’ll fight with them all amid building insanity.

It’s not just a few; it’s the whole of humanity.

 

My mind will be spinning

As phantoms are winning

The fights I’m creating—

It’s quite irritating—

When I’m arguing with assholes in my head.

So Save Me, Maybe?

This damn song has been in my head ALL DAY. So, naturally, I caved and changed the lyrics to reflect the whole “zombie apocalypse” thing.

[Keep in mind that the parts of this song that are vague, nonsensical or just plain suck have been written that way totally on purpose, as an homage to the original.]

I threw a fit in my car,
A normal morning so far,
But then you came from afar
And asked me for my head.

I read the news and it’s weird,
It’s just as we had all feared:
The zombie outbreak is here
To eat what’s in my head.

The lights are flashin’
Ripped flesh, teeth are gnashin’,
Down the street we’re dashin’.
Where’s the goods we’re stashing, baby?

Hey, I just met you,
And now you’re raving,
So I’m-a leave now,
And someone save me.

You’re eating people
And that shit’s crazy,
So go eat that guy,
And spare me, maybe?

And all the other freaks
Never fazed me,
But you’re a zombie,
So someone save me.

(Before I fixed my rifle sight
I missed you so bad,
I missed you so bad,
I missed you so, so bad.)

I took my time with the gun,
I spent some time on the run.
Now shooting zombies is fun,
(Just aim it for the head.)

I pile them up on the lawn,
Now all the zombies are gone.
That didn’t really take long,
And I still have my head.

The rain is fallin’,
Drip, drop, drink is callin’,
Blood bath, so appallin’,
Why’re you always stallin’, baby?

Hey, I just shot you,
And you’re still flailing,
So here’s my number,
So call me maybe?

It’s hard to look right
At you, baby,
So here’s your arm back,
And bite me, maybe?

Now all the other brains
Look so tasty.
So here’s my dinner,
I’ll eat it, maybe.

My Ragingest Things

A song. (Alternately titled LOOK AT ALL THE FUCKS I GIVE!)

God-awful drivers and steaks that have gristle,
Empty beer bottles and people who whistle,
All of the bitching that one mistake brings,
These are a few of my ragingest things.

Short-pour bartenders and chewing-gum smacking,
“Girl, you should smile more” and other crap macking,
Asking for drumsticks and just getting wings,
These are a few of my ragingest things.

When the boss calls,
When the glass breaks,
When I’m seeing red,
I simply remember I can’t go to jail
And go to the bar instead.

Whiffing a slap shot and mold in my shower,
Racists on Facebook and morons in power,
Deafening cell phones with stupid-ass rings,
These are a few of my ragingest things.

Stains on my trousers and gay-marriage bannings,
Tebow and Crosby and most of the Mannings,
Emotional crises with unending stings,
These are a few of my ragingest things.

When the jerk brags,
When the child screams,
When I want to kill,
I simply remember it’s 15 to life,
…and sometimes I’m raging still.