Friday, November 25, 2005

Ass First

If I'd been born in a church,
Id've been a believer.
(Believer.)
If I'd been born in an office,
I'dve been a deceiver.
(Deceiver.)
And if my momma'd felt her belly distend
in the middle of a football field,
then by the sound of cheers
and whistles and flags,
I'd be condemned to be a tight-end.
(or a wide receiver?)

But
I came into this world ass first
I came into this world ass first
I came into this world ass first
and I intend to leave it
the same way.

Thursday, November 17, 2005

What's in Your Mailbox?

Is it a copy of the latest Stomock album, No Shit? Could be. I'm mailing them out to longtime loyal fans as they roll off the assembly line.

Title Warehouse #8 (Holiday Edition)


  • Write a Check to Santa

  • Reindeer, Tasty Reindeer

  • Thanks for the Trash

  • We Don't Have to Talk to Each Other (but I still gotta get you a gift)

  • Do You Smell What I Smell?

  • Also With Birthdays Today

My Baby Hates Christmas

No, she's not a Muslim
or a Hindu or a Jew.
She's a regular middle-American Christian,
like me and you and...
(I guess not you).
She goes to church
and she says her prayers.
She's a fan of Jesus Christ.
But every year I fear she'll lose it
and a Santa will get sliced.

'cause my baby
hates Christmas.
She hates it like it kicked her dog.
She hates it like it stole her lollypop.
She hates it like it killed her Ma.
She hates it like it took the last piece of bacon
that she needed for her BLT.
Yeah, my baby
hates Christmas
like Christmas
was me.

Yeah, my baby
hates Christmas.
She hates it like it screwed her man.
She hates it like it gave her VD.
She hates it like it burned her ham.
She hates it like showed up late to the party
in the very same dress as she.
Yeah, my baby
hates Christmas
like Christmas
was me.

What Was In My Stockings

My favorite part of Christmas
was what was in my stockings.
There's was always something tasty,
something shiny,
something new.
But after this year's Christmas
I'll no longer love my stockings.
'cause what was in my stockings
was you.
You've always been
a manly man,
looking at the ladies.
You reassured me you
would look not touch.

It didn't really bother me
that you were a skirt-watcher.
But now I know you like the skirts
just a bit too much.
My favorite part of Christmas
was what was in my stockings.
There's was always something tasty,
something shiny,
something new.
But after this year's Christmas
I'll no longer love my stockings.
'cause what was in my stockings
was you.

Kinky panties. Sexy bras.
I saw you hid my presents.
I should've known better.
Such a large sweater.
The pumps were size-elevens.

My favorite part of Christmas
was what was in my stockings.
There's was always something tasty,
something shiny,
something new.
But after this year's Christmas
I'll no longer love my stockings.
'cause what was in my stockings
was you.

Tuesday, October 04, 2005

Title Warehouse #7 (parenthetical, mostly infinitive, clause edition)

They Thwarted a Plan (to blow up a dam)

It Don't Take a Baseball Bat (to break a pinata)

It's Still Illegal (to run me over)

It's Hard (to beat you) When You Beat Yourself

(I never show up) For Death

Tuesday, August 30, 2005

Title Warehouse #6

600 Meters of Dutch Boys

Ugly as Sin (and twice as popular)

The Captain's Panties

Personal Dust Bowl

Puttin' in Time (and gettin' back gumballs)

Wednesday, August 24, 2005

First the Beer, then the Wine, then the Bourbon (and then the Bitter Tears)

You swore that your change wouldn't jingle
in your pocket from walking away.
But you first played that song seven years ago,
and I'm still dancing to it today.
I pour out a glass
for the good times
that haven't come near me
for years:
first the beer, then the wine,
then the bourbon--
and then, the bitter tears.
You taught me to drink beer like water.
You taught me to drink wine like beer.
You made me see red wine in bourbon
and Mardi Gras in the Jewish New Year.
I pour out a glass
for the good times
that haven't come near me
for years:
first the beer, then the wine,
then the bourbon--
and then, the bitter tears.
We were famed for our inebriation
with each other, right from the start.
Then like Carry Amelia Nation,
you smashed the saloon of my heart.

Wednesday, August 17, 2005

Title Warehouse #5

Stuck in a Rut Called You

I'll Tell You What I'm Thinkin' ('cause I'm Drunk)

Finish Your Platitudes (there are children in China with no common sense)

Congratulations on Your Magical Pants!

Friday, August 05, 2005

Why Won't You Stay?

I said that you were sweet like sugar.
You smiled and so I figured
I had gotten something right.
But I got hungry in the night
and tried to scoop up
a cup,
so we had to have a little fight.
Why won't you stay where I put you?
You're always doing something
that I didn't think you could.
Why won't you stay where I put you?
Why won't you stay understood?
I said that you were soft and warm,
like the wooly underwear
our grandparents used to wear.
But I got cold in the night
and tried to unsnap
your flap,
so we had to have a little fight.
Why won't you stay where I put you?
You're always doing something
that I didn't think you could.
Why won't you stay where I put you?
Why won't you stay understood?
I said that you were cold as an icepick
someone firmly took in hand
and jammed into my ear.
You said, "babe, you're too precise
and too uptight
tonight,"
and then we fooled around all night.
Why won't you stay where I put you?
You're always doing something
that I didn't think you could.
Why won't you stay where I put you?
Why won't you stay understood?

Tuesday, August 02, 2005

Fun is for the Young

You can hold 'em back.
Fuss and fight.
Preach and teach.
Make 'em stand up right.
Lock 'em in their rooms.
Fill 'em with your fears.
Make 'em like you.
Make 'em dread each year.
Give your children condoms.
Let your children play.
Hand buzzer gags and porno mags.
Bicycles and bondage games.
I have seen the grownup world.
The grownup world is dumb.
Fun.
Fun is for the young.
You can press 'em down.
Growl and spit.
Wash out their mouths
if they say "tit".
Call up the priest
to cast out their will.
If all else fails,
put 'em on pills.
Give your children condoms.
Let your children play.
Hand buzzer gags and porno mags.
Bicycles and bondage games.
I have seen the grownup world.
The grownup world is dumb.
Fun.
Fun is for the young.

The choice is yours
until the choice is theirs
so take their choice away.
If you can't join 'em, beat 'em.
Berate 'em and beat 'em.
Berate 'em and beat 'em.
Berate 'em berate 'em berate 'em berate 'em

or just
give your children condoms.
Let your children play.
Hand buzzer gags and porno mags.
Bicycles and bondage games.
I have seen the grownup world.
The grownup world is dumb.
Fun.
Fun is for the young.

Tuesday, July 26, 2005

Fighting Tube

You sat on your ass.
You read and woolgathered.
Like a wet glass on wood
you left rings 'round what mattered.
Now you sit there and say
you'll stand up for what's right,
but you might as well wave goodnight.
'cause when you look back and see blood
it's too late for peace and love.
The judge says
it's time.
To pull out your fighting tube.
You snacked on crunch snacks,
fat beef and cheese platters.
You drove everywhere,
even bedroom to bathroom.
Now you sit there and plan
to exercise your rights,
but you might as well wave good night.
'cause when you look back and see blood
it's too late for peace and love.
The doctor says
it's time.
To pull out your fighting tube.
And you won't miss it.
Not a bit.
You may wonder
what you saw in it.
You'll feel the peace
spreading out beneath you.
And you'll wonder just what took you.
'cause when you look back and see blood
it's too late for peace and love.
You know
it's time.
To pull out your fighting tube.

Sunday, July 24, 2005

Title Warehouse #4

  • My Very Female Wife
  • The Funniest Man in Texas
  • Oh, Craquerstan, My Craquerstan!
  • Tho Thor

Friday, July 22, 2005

It's Boston's Fault

The people of Boston are so liberal.
I wanna fuck that boy.

So open-minded and so liberal.
I wanna fuck that boy.

The people of Boston are so liberal.
Makes me wanna fuck that boy.

So screwed up and so liberal.
I wanna fuck that boy.

And I've never even been to Boston.
I wouldn't know the way.
But somethin' 'bout those people in Boston
seems to be turnin' me gay.

I wanna fuck that boy.


A little trip into the mind of Rick Santorum.

Here's a draft of the song.

Friday, July 15, 2005

Title Warehouse #3

Today's pool:
  • The Girl with the Spectacular Ass
  • Refreshingly Moist
  • Blues You Can Use
  • Fun is for the Young

Saturday, July 02, 2005

I Hate Our Freedom

I hate our freedom,
hate our fun,
the choice to have or not to have
sex with anyone.

I hate the church.
I hate the state.
I hate the space between them.
I hate how I can freely say
how much I hate my freedom.

Socialists in Europe
gaze across the pond and frown.
They live in huts in Amsterdam
and plot to bring us down.
The French, the Swedes,
the Luxembourgese,
the Injuns with their dots--
our grand offensive freedom
is always in their thoughts.

I hate our freedom,
hate our fun,
the choice to have or not to have
sex with anyone.

I hate the sun.
I hate the sky.
I hate the open air.
I hate that I am not required
to cut my hippie hair.

Socialists in Europe
gaze across the pond and frown.
They live in huts in Amsterdam
and plot to bring us down.
But though they hate us gaily,
thoroughly and often,
if they saw my rabid hatred,
out of sympathy they'd soften.


I hate our freedom,
hate our fun,
the choice to have or not to have
sex with anyone.

No PBS. No CNN.
No NBC. No FOX.
I feel the hatred curl my hair
and scrunchy up my nuts.

Update: finally recorded this.

Friday, June 17, 2005

Tasty Liquid Center

Tasty liquid center.
I've got to take a bite.
I could get on TV
and tell you how I'm right
on the public path to righteousness:
one, two, thuh-ree:
A tasty liquid center
reveals itself to me.

Can you follow me
with your eyes?
Can you make a
grunting noise?
I'm here to help. See me want to help?
I've sympathy for your animal yelp.

Can you follow me
with your eyes?
Can you make a
grunting noise?
I could reach out my hand
to empty your pan,
but I can't 'cause I've got other plans.

Tasty liquid center.
I've got to take a bite.
I could get on TV
and tell you how I'm right
on the public path to righteousness:
one, two, thuh-ree:
A tasty liquid center
reveals itself to me.

Thursday, June 16, 2005

Title Warehouse #2

Looking for a One-armed Man

First the Wine, then the Bourbon (then the Bitter Tears)

My Meds are Good Meds

Tasty Liquid Center

Octave Moses

Octave Moses

Monday, June 13, 2005

Bein' the Man Blues

If you weren't being such a child,
I wouldn't have to be The Man.
If you weren't being such a child,
I wouldn't have to be The Man.
I'm gonna come down hard upon you,
which was never in my plans.

The Man, he wears a uniform
or he's my Teacher or my Pa.
The Man, he wears a uniform
or he's my teacher or my Pa.
So I never thought I'd be him.
I never thought it'd go so far.

I don't care that you misbehaved.
I don't care that you lifted, lied or ran.
I don't care that you misbehaved.
I don't care that you lifted, lied or ran.
But I'm mad because you made me,
you made me have to be The Man.

If you weren't being such a child,
I wouldn't have to be The Man.
If you weren't being such a child,
I wouldn't have to be The Man.
I'm gonna come down hard upon you,
which was never in my plans.

Thursday, June 02, 2005

Ego Free

The Mullahs say I've got to get down
with the Holy Book.
And they're right
about
me.
The Taoists say I've got seven holes
leading out of my head.
No wonder I
feel
free.

Look at me.
Look at me.
You should be
more like me.
Look at me:
I'm ego free.
Balance and perfection,
mind, body and soul.
Look at me:
I'm ego free.

The shamans shake and dance in their trance
and they break chicken necks,
and I know
what they
mean.
The Taoists say I've got seven holes
leading out of my head.
No wonder I
feel
free.

And in parts of Nigeria
they say God's busted up so small
you can spend all your life
just gathering shards
and still have nothing to show.

Look at me.
Look at me.
You should be
more like me.
Look at me:
I'm ego free.
Balance and perfection,
mind, body and soul.
Look at me:
I'm ego free.

Here's a draft of the song.

Polarity, Hey

You used to beg for forgiveness.
I used to give it away.
But when we found each other,

opposites

changed our ways.

Changed polarity, hey.

You used to be plenty nasty.
I never could walk away.
But when we got together,
opposites
changed our ways.

Changed polarity, hey.

It must've been something 'bout
swappin' our molecules.
It must've been something 'bout
swappin' our molecules.
We should've been careful 'bout
swappin' our molecules.
It was just another passing phase,
'Till we changed polarity, hey.

You used to boil at the same point
where I melted away.
But when we got together,
opposites
changed our ways.

Changed polarity, hey.


Like
dissolves like, and I like
the way things are melting now.
Like
dissolves like, and I like
the way things are melting now.
Like
dissolves like, and I like
the way things are melting,
the way things are melting away.



Written in honor of my science pal, who works on fatigue and is quite fatigued with fatigue.

Wednesday, June 01, 2005

Title Warehouse #1

Unused titles from the word bank:

The Rich Blink

My Heart's Not that Big Anymore

Everyday Hangover

Fun's for the Dumb

Fighting Tube

LIMF and HIF

I'm good and healthy at the
church and gym.
I stretch before I exercise.
I know each hymn.
I shake hands with the preacher
and I pay my tithe.
I got flax seed in my innards
and hemp outside.
I park a hybrid car outside my
solar home.
I work hard for my employer
and I pay my loans.
No problems. Perfection.
My work is all done.
If it weren't for self-destruction
I would kill someone.

She's bad for me and I like it like that:
low in moral fibre and high in fat.
Balanced in the front by the load in back.
Low in moral fibre and high in fat


Written to fit with "Grindstone" a short, raucous, bass and drums track Bryan sent awhile back. The lyrics work with the tune, plus they'll please our many female fans. Or rather, they'll offend many potential fans who are female. But with collective sales on our most recent album weighing in at three copies, we're not really worried about potential fans.

Saturday, May 28, 2005

I Shit on My Grave

this is an audio post - click to play
I wrote this one for the late Ms. Cleo, who actually shat on her grave.

I Shit on My Grave

In this time
of worldwide trouble,
just as bad
or worse than before,

I float around
in a happy bubble,
like a disco queen
on a disco floor.

[chorus]

I party with the pastor,
one glass from saved.
I limerick my epitaph.
I shit on my grave.

I don't listen to my heartbeat.
Just let it go away.
I plagiarize my autopsy.
I shit on my grave.

In this time
of worldwide trouble,
I could shout
and cling to a cause.
But I float around
in a happy bubble.
I'm my own good witch
in my private Oz.

[chorus]

In this time
of worldwide trouble,
I could help nearby
or in the Cote d'ivoire.
But I float around
in a happy bubble
I know the waiter's name.
I know the way to the bar.

Public Decomposition

The olde Stomock's been a mite slow of late. Perhaps a blog laxative will help? We dedicate this Stomock to the processing of unlikely substances into less likely resemblances. Like the circular digestive system, it processes and processes. Unlike said circle, it sometimes decides to just let it go.

So let it go.