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Following up I Got Nothing to Say That You Wanna Hear with a quality track, conceived from nothing and produced to finished product in 24 hours, was not going to go well. After several false starts, I simply started jabbering into the microphone and after a few minutes, something of a surrealist riff emerged. A couple hours' later, I had this little piece of semi-spontaneous insanity. Not one of my best pieces, but there are definitely some interesting moments here, and I think you'll agree after browsing the working script that the title is utterly fitting.
You're...uh...probably expecting a song to play at this time. Well, I'm not going to do that. The reasons aren't important...I'm just...not going to do it.
"Well", you might say, "this is a pretty poor excuse for a composition."
You might say that, but you didn't. But if you did say that...if...you...did say that, you'd be right. It is a pretty...no, wait you'd be wrong. And you'd be wrong because this is not an excuse for a composition. Because in case you weren't listening up until now, this isn't a composition, now is it?
But let's assume just for the moment - just for the moment, mind you, because this is not an attitude you want to carry with you all day, that you said instead "this is no excuse for a composition..." no, wait, that's not going to work either. I do wish you'd figure out what you want to say before you actually say it.
Well, now. I'm just going to compose myself for a moment...hey, that's a neat little play on words, isn't it, "compose myself for a moment?"...heheh that is pretty funny. Because that's what I'm doing isn't it...composing...myself.
No no no that doesn't work either because I didn't compose myself. And now we're verging dangerously close to the whole question of what we're really made of and who or what made us, and let's face it, we've all been over this far too many times already. Besides, if I did tell you the answer to that one, you'd probably never speak to me again, so let's leave that alone too.
(Man, try to get a moment's relaxation around here...it's like trying to tie your shoes with a shower curtain made out of fried bicycle seats...it can't be done and you're a goddamn fog farmer for even considering the possibility let alone trying it, and you're a total snot-for-brains for thinking EVEN FOR ONE SPLIT SECOND that it might be possible. So I'm going to go over there for a moment. Hold on...I'll be back...just sit tight...
Ah, that's better.
Now where were we? Oh yeah that's right, we were trying to figure out why you're making such a big deal out of this. And frankly I'm starting to wonder if I should have even let you bring up the subject in the first place. But here we are, and we may as well accomplish something meaningful while we're here, because let's face it, the fact that you're listening to my voice right now does not say kind things about the value you place on your time and the voluminous range of choices you have for divesting yourself of unallocated moments of conscious attention. And let's be frank about this...it really isn't any deep, dark secret among the people who know you, either.
So, let's advance toward that Olympian objective...let's reach that goal..."achieve, achieve, achieve"...which seems to be all that's left to measure yourself by any more thanks to the whole political correctness thing. I mean you just can't come out and say you judge yourself to be better or worse than anyone...heaven forbid you get accused of arrogance...or worse, false modesty, or even worse than that, the out-and-out meretritious misjudgement of an expression of inferiority. I mean you might as well shout "Hey niggers, the rednecks are servin' up fresh polack burgers and hippie nuggets with your choice of jew-bread or wino rolls!"
Christ, even a goddam Canadian would kick your faggot ass for even thinking such a thing. And let's not even talk about money.
Right. So would it cause festering boils to grow on your ass and your hair to max out your credit card with calls to a phone sex line to weeeeeelllll *I* don't know, GET TO THE FUCKING POINT? WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS???
I can sure as shit's greasy and evil-tasting tell you what it isn't.
It isn't the latest soundtrack to some young starlet's latest sexcapade with a twelve-fingered Armenian barfly, that's for goddam sure.
It isn't yet another whiny rant against a rustbucket-driving, diet-seven-up-drinking Freddy Flextime who doesn't have two clues to beat up the homeless with or suffer violent explosive diarrhea when faced with the prospect of choosing between Republican and BlueRay. Fuck no.
And I could be wrong...I could...be...wrong...but I don't think my ears detect the telltale slushy tone of electric guitars and anarchist chunks being blended by a woodchipper into what passes in some parts of Idaho as - and I quote - "cole slaw for real men". (I tell you right now that that is a picnic I wouldn't send a campus-radio program director to clean up after.)
This isn't the soundtrack to a photocopier's intestinal complaint like we're all so sick of hearing from those satellite radio snot-jocks who - I think you've noticed this - who all seem to get a perverse chubby from calling up innocent bystanders in the ratrace of life and telling them that their vacuum cleaner was manufactured by non-union teen prostitutes or that for the last hundred years the Catholic Church has classified parallel parking as a greater sin than buying flowers from the Krishna's at a Van Halen concert.
And another thing this isn't is the latest pirated copy of the audiobook version of Corn Starch for Dummies or Baby Seal Barbecue the George Clooney Way.
And...and you know what? I could just go on listing all the things this isn't until the last iota of energy dies and the universe comes to a complete and final rest but you and I both know that that wouldn't do either one of us a goddam bit of good, so I'm leavin' this up to you.
That's right. You. You tell me what this is.
And I'm warning you right now you'd better have one hell of a good answer because I get really, really pissed off when people waste my time like this.
Copyright ©2009 Bunction Music (though I can think of no earthly reason why this should ever need copyright protection)