To the twenty people who voted (or the one person who voted twenty times), I thank you for the answer to the burning question put forth by my sidebar’s poll:
Q: Hurple hurf nuhr wunk?
A: Ie Ie Ie Ie Ieeee
Honestly, typing it out I now realize how obvious the answer was.
(yes, I am gradually getting weirder and weirder)
With apologies to Woody Guthrie, I have been finding myself making up verses to John Henry, sung passionately in the style of Mr. Guthrie.
Yeah, I do this singing in public. It helps pass the time, and scares passersby.
If you would like to make your own verse to John Henry, please feel free to add it in the comments. I’ll update with more verses as they pop up unannounced in my brain.
John Henry was a giant cheese pizza
A giant cheese pizza was he
He didn’t like to return any of his calls
And he claimed to have invented TV (oh Lord)
He claimed to have invented TV.
John Henry had an outboard motor
And a masters in philosophy
He would spend all day in his tub full of pudding
Badmouthing manatees (oh Lord)
John Henry was a perfumed waitress
Who’d bring you extra marmalade
But if you didn’t tip, he’d a-hit you with his wig
And throw you in the cold stockade (oh Lord)
He’d throw you in the cold stockade
John Henry had a plastic raven
He washed it with powdered soap
He would walk down the street with that raven on his arm
Filling all the people with hope (oh Lord)
Filling all those people with hope.
John Henry’s pa was a garbanzo
His ma was a rehydrated pea
They met on the floor of a diner
And were joined in holy matrimony (oh Lord)
Joined in holy matrimony
01. Moon Boots
02. Shetland Ponies
03. Peter Coyote
04. Foie Gras
06. Gary Wright’s “Dream Weaver”
07. White Pepper
09. Diet Coke
Tell me if this is strange, won’t you?
Whenever I eat ice cream, I take whatever empty receptacle I have eaten the ice cream from — be it a bowl, or a Ben And Jerry’s pint, what-have-you — and I fill it halfway with milk, then drink the milk.
At least it’s not eating olives from the nostril of a racehorse, right?
I’m not super-weird.
But I’m weird, relative to Harrison Ford at least, who, let’s face it folks, is not very weird at all.
There are occasions, usually when I’m doing some utterly mindless task, or maybe riding my bike and enjoying the day, where I will lapse into repetitively muttering (or sometimes loudly belting out, even) this “chant” I made up to myself.
Click to hear -> Hey You Motherf*ckers
Just to warn you, there is profanity in them thar wav file!
Here’s the words, if you want a lyric sheet to read from.
Hey you motherf*ckers
Hey you motherf*ckers
Hey you motherf*cking motherf*cking motherf*cking motherf*ckers
You may find chanting this therapeutic, and it’s a helluva lot easier to say than Nam Myōhō Renge Kyō.