The restroom door said “Gentleman”
And so I walked inside,
I took two steps and realized
I’d been taken for a ride,
I heard high voices, turned
and found the place was occupied,
By two nuns, three old ladies and a nurse,
What could be worse
Than two old nuns, three old ladies and a nurse…
The restroom door said “gentlemen”
It must have been a gag,
As soon as I walked in there
I saw an old hag,
She sprayed me with a can of mace
And slapped me with her bag,
I could tell this just wouldn’t be my day,
What can I say?
This just wasn’t turning out to be my day…
The restroom door said “gentlemen”
And I would like to find,
That crummy little creep
Who had the nerve to switch the sign,
‘Cause I have two black eyes
And one big bruise on my behind,
So I can’t sit with comfort and joy
Boy, oh boy,
No, I’ll never sit with comfort and joy.
Well dere once was a story ’bout a man named Bill;
Da poor president couldn’t keep his willie still;
Den one day he was workin’ at his desk,
When in walks Monica and shows da boy her chest…
Boobs, that is. Two of ’em. Bodacious ta ta’s.
Well da next thing ya know, Monica is on her knees,
Mouth open wide and as happy as you please;
Bill sez, “oh yeah now-don’t say a thing,”
“If you do a good job then we’ll have a little fling.”
Blow job, that is. Phalli osculation.
Well, Bill lost his load and it fell upon her dress,
He said, “Clean it up, ‘cuz you really are a mess,
And you’re invited here to dis fine locality,
To have a heapin’ helpin’ of little Willie C.”
Da wiener, that is. Da presidential staff.
So week after week, Monica is on her knees
Keepin’ Willie and his Wiener just as happy as you please,
But then she figured out dat the fling had gone too far,
And she blabbed it all to Linda Tripp who blabbed it all to Starr.
Bad girl, that is. Cigars. Bodacious ta ta’s.
Well it weren’t too long till we all knew the score,
’bout da stuff dat went down behind da oval office door;
Da country’s in da toilet and da people cry, “No More”
But if we oust da cheatin’ jerk, den we gotta live with Gore.
Boob, that is. Great big one. Head stuck up his rear.
So now ya know da story ’bout Bill our president,
Wonderin’ if dis fling’s gonna cost him every cent;
So da moral of da story is to do it quietly,
And stay outta trouble with dat bitch named Hillary.
August 1998 – Montevideo, Uruguay – Paolo Esperanza, bass-trombonist with the Simphonica Mayor de Uruguay, in a misplaced moment of inspiration, decided to make his own contribution to the cannon shots fired as part of the orchestra’s performance of Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture at an outdoorchildren’s concert. In complete seriousness he placed a large, ignited firecracker, supposedly equivalent in strength to a quarter stick of dynamite, into his aluminum straight mute and then stuck the mute into the bell of his quite new Yamaha in-line double-valve bass trombone.
Later, from his hospital bed he explained to a reporter through bandages on his mouth, “I thought that the bell of my trombone would shield me from the explosion and instead, would focus the energy of the blast outwards and away from me, propelling the mute
high above the orchestra, like a rocket.” However, Paolo was not up on his propulsion physics nor qualified to use high-powered artillery. In his haste to get the horn up before the firecracker went off, he failed to raise the bell of the horn high enough so as to give the mute enough arc to clear the orchestra.
What actually happened should serve as a lesson to us all during those delirious moments of divine inspiration. First, because he failed to sufficiently elevate the bell of his horn, the blast propelled the mute between rows of players in the woodwind and viola sections of the orchestra, missing the players and straight into the stomach of the conductor, driving him off the podium and directly into the front row of the audience.
Fortunately, the audience were sitting in folding chairs and thus they were protected from serious injury, for the chairs collapsed under them, passing the energy of the impact of the flying conductor backwards into row of people sitting behind them, who in turn were driven back into the people in the row behind and so on, like a row of dominos. The sound of collapsing wooden chairs and grunts of people falling on their behinds increased logarithmically, adding to the overall sound of brass cannons and brass playing as constitutes the closing measures of the Overture.
Meanwhile, all of this unplanned choreography notwithstanding, back on stage Paolo’s Waterloo was still unfolding. According to Paolo, “Just as I heard the sound of the blast, time seemed to stand still. Everything moved in slow motion. Just before I felt searing pain to my mouth, I could swear I heard a voice with an Austrian accent say, ‘Fur every akshon zer iz un eekvul unopposeet reakshon!'”
Well, this should come as no surprise, for Paolo had set himself up for a textbook demonstration of this fundamental law of physics. Having failed to plug the lead pipe of his trombone, he allowed the energy of the blast to send a superheated jet of gas backwards through the tubing of the trombone, through the mouthpiece, burning his lips and face.
The pyrotechnic ballet wasn’t over yet. The force of the blast was so great it split the bell of his shiny Yamaha right down the middle, turning it inside out, while at the same time propelling Paolo backwards off the riser. And for the grand finale, as Paolo fell backwards he lost his grip on the slide of the trombone, allowing the pressure of the hot gases coursing through the horn to propel the trombone’s slide like a double golden spear into the head of the 3rd clarinetist, knocking him unconscious.
The moral of the story? Beware the next time you hear someone in the horn section yell out “Hey, everyone, watch this!”
The Rock and Roll Hall Of Fame ignored pleas of impassioned fans to elect the bands K.C. & The Sunshine Band and Rose Royce, and artists Evelyn Champagne King to its honor roll. Similarly dishonored were The Brothers Johnson and The New Riders Of The Purple Sage. Mickey Dolenz of Monkees fame was similarly shut out of the awards ceremony last night.
“This is a travesty of monumental proportions,” Gertrude Rickert, spokesmen for the “Coalition To Elect Really GOOD Artists To The Hall Of Fame Instead Of SUCKY Ones” said in a prepared release. “My nominees were way cooler than these bozos they just elected.
“For instance, Michael Jackson, for crying out loud. He does nasty things to little boys with his monkey! And, isn’t Aerosmith a Russian band that had to change their name from Aeroflot? That Ritchie Valens — when’s the last time he put out a new song! And Paul Simon, how’d he even get in there? I’d much rather have seen Simon N. Garfunkel get into there. I always liked his songs. Always sounded like two guys were singing at once.”
Rickert was also disappointed in the Awards Ceremony itself. “How could they get Bono as a presenter? He got smacked by the tree when he went skiing a few years ago. Is Cher standing his bony ass up on stage and moving his arms like a puppet?”