I can see her lookin fast in her faded jeans
She’s a hard lovin woman, got me feelin’ mean
Sometimes I think its a shame
When I get feelin’ better when Im feelin’ no pain
Sundown ya’ better take care
If I find you been creepin ‘round my back stairs
Sundown ya’ better take care
If I find you been creepin ‘round my back stairs
Sometimes I think its a sin
When I feel like I’m winnin when I’m losin again*
Well I guess shooting Morley Safer would have solved a lot of problems, assuming of course that it could have been hushed up. Step one on the hush-up would have been shooting Cronkite. Step two would have been shooting all the other journalists. Not Dan though (assuming some kind of “understanding” could have been reached.
Better call the Homestarmy.
I never did understand that song. I think it’s about screwing, but beyond that I’m just not sure….
I can see her lyin back in her satin dress
In a room where ya do what ya dont confess
Let’s just say she ain’t running numbers.
[::Silent, contemplative pause. Then, long moments later::]:
… Yahtzee…?
As a yoot, I always thought it was “sundown” instead of “sometimes…”
How blind!
Except for that one verse…I guess I was right half the time.
Reminds me of the time I heard a guy sing the entire song The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald… with one of the most severe lisps I’ve yet come across.
Take a moment to think about that.
Really. Think about it.
The wedgend wives on from the Chippiwaw ahn down…
The weck of the Edmund Fitzgewawd…
When the wains of Nowember come eawy…
Plus he had a high pitched voice. Seriously surreal experience.
I think I know the dude:
Fake but accurate?
Man, I hate it when they start creepin’ around your back stair. I’m “open-minded” and everything, but….
Lionel Twain?
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0074937/
Well, to quote from the liner notes of my treasured 4-CD boxed set, in the words of the man himself:
So is she cheating on him, and he knows it?
Or is she cheating with him?
Not related to this song necessarily- I always hate it when I find out a song I like is about infidelity.
Beck:
I wesent those wemahks.
Appearing in the Cabana Room at the CBS News Rest Home: Gordon Lightfoot Impersonator, Edmund Fitzgewawd.
Let’s see, Dan is 72 or so, Morley is 90, Andy Rooney is 139, and Mike Wallace remembers the Jamestown landing.
And in an amazing bit of television exec insight, Katie Couric is the answer to what ails them. I’d kill for an Eric Servereid right about now.
Used to party with Gordo and a couple of Barker’s Beauties in my little cabin on the north shore of the big lake they call…..well you know what I mean.
We were drinking some homemade wine and taking huge lung-bustin’ hits off of the fattest joint ever rolled in those parts, when G. Light and I laid down some lyrics about nasty back-hair and how it can get in the way of having hot sex with the groupies.
You know, you shave it, but it just creeps back around………
You think you’ve got it beat and then you wake up and it’s taking over………
The big wigs loved the tune, but the words – a few minor changes and…..history.
Jeff! Flying back East once again, I had a Mormom dream. Your wife is gathering strength to leave you. You are so unsexy unto her. Feel my truth, Kiddo? I’m sure you do…somewhere.
Rock on alone, Kosher-Kowboy.
Strength will come baby, even unto the abandoned.
Info-Op us all.
C’mon Jeff. You ain’t never been near a woman worthy being called ‘woman’. Regurgitate pop-poetry why don’t’ya, it don’t change a thang. You’re a non-blown cynic. Admit it…and move on, Komrade Romantikus.
M1,
Project much?
I’ve said it before and (unfortunately) I’ll probably have to say it again. We’ve seen pictures of Jeff. We’ve seen pictures of his son. We’ve done the math. You don’t go from Steven Tyler to Liv Tyler without a healthy dose of Bebe Buell DNA thrown in.
I just can’t figure out why a supermodel needs to live in the northwest part of Denver to be closer to work. Coors Light twin? No, Golden is west of town… I can see this mystery is leading down a twisted alleyway towards beer. I’ll get to the bottom of this or drown trying.
Oh lawdamercy, they played this at the DSW while I was shoe-shopping. The ladies were all peering around the sale rack to see who was laughing and dropping all her shoes.
TW: you paid ‘em, right?
M1:
Seven words for you, buddy:
Eric Idle, wink, wink, nudge, nudge, guy.
SAY NO MORE!!!
That’s what’s great about Jeff – his poetic minions. And I shit ye not in as much as I truly mean it… You too write like a dying poet and such writing is good.
Maybe when you can find time you can fix me a backstage pass – and I can remember why I came by. Will you remember me to have Richar Pryor on video when I show?
(Hey Richie….c’mon down SMC way and chew me skanky azz, won’t’chya. Talent have’ya, youngin. Ye truly do)
Hey M1…. Why don’t you get cheeky with the dick man coolie. You and hooters jaw can share a rasher of Columbia-blow, and laugh your fool asses off while you watch each others heads explode in a ball of flames…
On topic… Speaking of interviewers cum newscasters, wonder if all the lisp jokes is making Bawbawa clinch….
Hey, buddy, we’re not Jeff’s minions. We’re his myrmidons.
But if he caught the settlers planning to give the Indians smallpox-infected blankets, he wouldn’t have warned them because he had to maintain his journalistic objectivity…
M1 —
The only thing I “feel” from you is the creepy sense one gets from future stalkers.
When you get home, drink some tea or warm milk and try to put me—and, in particular, anything having to do with my sexuality—completely out of your mind.
Your bedsheets and that jar of hand lotion you keep next to the bed will thank me.
Feel my truth, Kiddo? I bet you do. And with a thumb and forefinger, no doubt. Nature’s little tweezers!
Jeff, I’m looking in a pink crystal ball and I’m seeing your wife at the end of a long line of cock suckers. Jeff, does she get a comp for being the only chic or aren’t you an affirmative action kinda guy?
Hey Jeff…time to change your diapers again. Paper-grading can wait. Oh wait, is it paper grading or papergrading? Only a family neglecting apologetikus like you would give a damn.
BTW Jeff, can I waterboard your wife in Cannes or is that torture despite her begging concensus?
Well, M1, if anybody would recognize a long line of cocksuckers it would almost certainly be you.
But don’t confuse my wife with the M1 Mammy.
As for my diapers—again, why are you so fixated on my pleasure zones? It’s creepy. I mean, just because you play around in your own shit doesn’t mean you need to concern yourself with how I house mine.
And I don’t think we have to worry about your waterboarding my wife. You need a working faucet for that, and anybody who talks as much as you do about such things can never produce more than a trickle.
And you thought they were laughing and pointing at you because you used words like “apologetikus.” How very sad.
Now back to your unread site. Stop trying to suck off my traffic like it was a hairy Brad Pitt nipple.
In fact, I think I’ll go back and remove any links to your site. Just because I suspect it’ll chap your ass. And yes, I know you’ll sign up for another email account just to post here. People like you always do. It’s in your nature.
By the way, “consencus”? Don’t tell me: info-op, yes?
M1, proving once again why it’s a bad idea for
siblings to marry and reproduce.
I just wish M1’s wife would stop changing lipstick colors, my dick looks like a rainbow.
[untranslatable, I’m afraid. Like watching crack whore melt down. Or listening to Whitney Houston try to read Milton with her load on.]
I read it for the articles…
Stop shoving in line proud, M1’s wife is just getting warmed up and loving it. I kind of liked the strawberry lip shade, brings up her skin tone…
Meat1, channeling Chuck Jones animation subtitles since June 5, 2006.
Some of us know when we’re not original.
Idiot.
Wooh. I think we could just post M1’s remarks as some sort of anti-drug PSA…
Klonopin wouldn’t do it for meat. For that, you need lithium.
Heh. Read some of that shit over there at SwedeMoonBalls or whatever it is. Said penile familiarity has bred obvious contretemps—I’m visualizing a 7-foot Grace Jones wanabee with blood shooting out of its…tragic androgeny. Or something.
Or that works too. A bathtub full.
[is this thing on? Oh wait—it’s a COCK! Boy, do I have egg on my face.
Oh wait—that ain’t egg. Boy, do I have some drizzling COCK spunk on my face.]
It says something when you wish actus would show up instead of this clown.
I hate clowns. Especially Swedish clowns. It’s no trick to fit five of you in a Volvo, you know.
Yawn.
So anyway, getting back to fine online literature, is there a word for doing blotter and then writing shit too arcane for lowly mere mortals? Like the literary equivalent of say, hackneyed art-loft black & whites of pissed off skinny nude chicks.
I realize synapse-frying free association passes for commentary over in the left’s Borg ship—probably the drip that does it—but as a mere jr. high wingnut grad with half a six of High Life left in the houseboat fridge, I don’t know the terminology.
Anyone?
tw: Defense. I say we bomb ‘em.
It’s COCK!?!?!?
Oh shit, I thought it was a can of cheez whiz!!
(Ya had to be around before the editing. Trust me, that shit—that shit right there—is pure comedy gold.)
Boy, is my tail wiggling now!
6Gun,
Nothing arcane, or even original, about it. He borrows Latin titles from old Looney tunes and dresses them up with drolled-up nuggets from Stewie on “Family Guy.”
Obvious Broome Community College school of literature influences, there.
[So I licked a toad, so what. The South Americans did it all the time.
Okay, true. They didn’t do it until the thing splooged all over their gums. But still. It’s the thought that counts.]
Highly incidently, the above snippet of give-it-all-you-got paranoic/tolerant vitriol referenced some of the saddest muriatic “prose” ever to pollute algoring’s Internets slightly before our host held his nose with a fresh new latex glove, plucked it with iron tongs embossed with Zionist seance emblems, and burned it with purifying hellfire and a dead chicken in a backyard ritual of naked basement gymnasts, white sheets, and much cheap bourbon.
Then it was back on the porch.
At least that’s what MadMeatSlick is about to post over on the last page on the Internet in 5…4…3…
S/he’ll get those redstate bastards and like that and so on.
If you scream in hard vacuum, does it spew blood too?
When you’re good, you’re good.
By the way, can the Internet’s unread last page really pull a denial of service? I’d be making backups, Goldstein.
Because of all the civilians speaking truth to power. Because of the unsold B&W naked-chick art prints. Because of the justifiable rage. Because of the used syringes and the Chanti-bottle candles and the antique Hasselblad.
Because it just fucking hurts so much! [Insert vacuum-screaming, and like that, and like so, and all that, and so forth, etc.]
Damn; because it’s late! ‘Nite! Up at five to shoot Iraqis!
…bet the dog was hot for his mama….(I noticed he was in line too, wagging his tail…)
[don’t know what it said. But it sure wasted its time saying it]
It was virtually guaranteed that a post involving Gordon Lightfoot was going to get seriously surreal.
Oh, and for the record folks, I wasn’t kidding about this lisping Lightfoot crooner. Really f’ing weird. I just want to emphasize that.
But really, leave it to Gordon freaking Lightfoot to bring out the weirdest of trolls. The sort of trolls Actus & beetroot would be embarassed to associate with.
And on a closing note, NIPPLES!
[it’s lonely in Key-Biscayne, particularly when all you have in your life is the need to get your comments posted here—and the will to keep registering new email addresses to do so—only to have them flushed down the memory hole]
[Key-Biscayne rocks! Rocks!
Which, hey, that almost rhymes with ‘info-ops.’ Like the one Jeffy pulled when he channeled Richard Belzer. Which I didn’t know at the time that I made my post accusing him of niggerizing the troops, and so I made a fool of myself—but now that I know it, I can fold it into my narrative acousticaparatchikly, woe unto he who doesn’t see that particularly play of genius—it is so obvious, obvious, a ploy (filter it through game theory, and map it onto cyrillic), but nevertheless I am one that IS WATCHING!
Slim Jims. And Gatorade. I shall need scores of each! And a soft downy sleepydeepy bag for to rest my enormous head, so filled with secrets unseen. Avent ~ yeaargggghhhh!]
”?”,
If you can’t figure out what you’ve just said, why do you expect us to?
You know, I find it really surprising that they allow the patients at the Key Biscayne Asylum for the Criminally Insane internet access after lights out. They’re really not running a very tight ship down there.
Obviously insanity is no reason not to get online. Speaking of which, looks like MeatOne broomed itself from the SwedeMeatBite.com community, such as it never really was.
Chickenshit little leftard strumpet. pw is anathema to the college of online moonbat feverswamps.
All these “people” getting e-mail addresses just to post here?
How needy is that? Is it “if I had a Cure tape I’d slit my wrists now” needy, or is it worse?
I think worse, but I could be wrong.
Goldstein: ONE
Every Student and Faculty Member of Broome Community College Ever, Collectively: BUPKIS
Mikey,
Is there anything more needy than
?
I am afraid that I won’t be able to scrub that little piece of prose out of my brain for a while – thanks for that…
Then my work here is done, Major John.
word: thirty. “I have thirty Pictures of You.”
Just out of morbid curiosity, when is Gordon Lightfoot IN context unless you’re sliding across the awash decks of a foundering Great Lakes tramp freighter…?
I’ve got a million of them all ‘round myself.
Great Mencken’s Ghost,
The Ed Fitz was – as Gordan sang – an ironboat, not a tramp steamer
Off topic:
On her last voyage, the Edmund Fitzgerald was carrying ore pellets from the NW corner of Superior down thru the Straits to Detroit. The ship was over 100 feet longer than the lengths of two consecutive football fields, one of the largest afloat on the lakes in 1975.
She had a gross tonnage of fourteen thousand and carried nearly thirty thousand tons of talconite when she broke and sank.
The November storm that took her was massive. People don’t always remember that the Great Lakes produce conditions that meet and exceed those anywhere on earth. Five story waves and the erratic fresh-water chop are feared by mariners.
There seems to be no consensus how she went down but theories include sinking due to taking on water thru hatches warped by the pounding to breaking her back on a rogue wave to actually dragging bottom in a huge swell on Six Fathom Shoal.
I’ve stood at Whitefish Point looking north across Superior, the largest lake in the world. (And I’ve raced Lake Michigan in October.) 29 bodies lie in 500 feet of water less than twenty miles offshore. Under the right conditions, the rest of his catalog notwithstanding, “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” can raise the hair on the back of your neck.
Hangman, hangman
Stay you hand a while,
I think I see my sister comin’
Riding many a mile…
SB: answer
in kind
Good explanation of what happened and the appearance of the Edmund Fitzgerald here.
The Edmund Fitzgerald pretty big. I’d put it somewhere between the USS Spruance and USS Iowa in length, but much different in terms of cargo capacity and function, and of course structurally.
Commy Jeff has purged the forum. So little it takes to reveal the true nature of the beast. Mission accomplished. Thanks Jeff for once again proving our points. You make it all so easy. LMAO
I’m sorry, was your point that people who pay to maintain sites are required to give voice to cretins harboring fantasies about my wife sucking their bent and flaccid cocks?
Well, here’s my counterpoint to that carefully thought out argument: no, they aren’t. In fact, you are owed nothing by me—particularly not free rein to insult my wife, who doesn’t even participate on this site or any other. You are allowed to post here at my discretion. Just like, presumably, you reserve the right to kick people out of your room in Mom’s basement if they totally Bogart the Bugles.
And really, if this has you “LMAO,” well, I guess that explains the success of that Mencia guy.
[paraphrase: “Really, my insistence on posting where I’m not wanted doesn’t say a thing about me. But it tells me all I need to know about YOU fascists. INFO OPS RULE!]