Shit, piss, cocksucker,
My mother is a mother fucker.
My Mother Fucking Mother
Labia, labia, get a scabia,
On the planet of tit fucking mania.
Penis in, and penis out
Tell Ben Franklin not to tout that Gout.
Asshole lickers, fruit pickers
Smother my car with bumper stickers.
Obama for President, Obama for Resident
Like black Jesus, Obama’s Heaven-sent!
Got no reasons, got no rhymes,
I’m too busy boning bitches in their hymens.
One might describe the performance on Thursday night as “simply genius.” A show this extravagant will often be misinterpreted or misunderstood, but there was something visceral about what was witnessed that night. The rhythm and effortless manner in which every aspect was performed should be renowned by all, present or not. For those who were foolish enough to be absent, please accept this humble ATTEMPT at using words to describe what was missed:
I walked through the doors at approximately 9:00pm, about half an hour before the band was scheduled to take the stage. The rush of warm air and scent of beer invigorated my dormant appetite for an evening of music and laughter. Following behind me was my trophy girlfriend and her cousin, who was visiting from out of town and would later serve as jester to my King’s court. The waitresses and barkeep seemed to acknowledge my presence immediately - perhaps a “servant instinct” could explain how they knew to bring me a Guinness without me saying a word. And for some unexplained reason every man I walked by raised his open palm for me to slap five as I passed.
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