Boy George: Commie Chameleon

RED ALERT!!!!

Dr. Herbert Armbruster's weekly front-line report on the International Communist Conspiracy in these United States.

Does Boy George make you see Red? If so, you have no need to visit the opthamalogist eye doctor in the immediate future. You, sir, have 20-20 vision and are a true American patriot. Why do I make this inference? Because you see through his Commie deception. To speak the plain truth. Boy George is a transmission belt for Red propaganda of the basest sort. (This is not meant as any sort of slur on his fine bass player.) Neither nor is this a slur on the homosexualist community of these United States. Some of the most upstanding warriors in our nation’s fight against the Marxist-Leninist virus shared this inclination, from Roy Cohn to Herbert Hoover to John Birch himself. In fact, on further consideration, it seems to be a common denominator, though I can assure you I am not of this persuasion, ask my wife.

To return to the topic at hand, Boy George is (as his "Top 40" song implies) a true commie chameleon. In the manner of a chameleon, he cunningly assumes the form of a harmlessly androgynous wearer of funny hats. A true weak sister, he. No threat to anyone! Why, he wouldn’t hurt a fly! Thus, Lady Liberty drops her guard. And Mother Russia lands a sucker punch. And she’s no lady.

Don’t you see what’s happening, my friends? Don’t you see?

Oh I can see.

And I’ll tell you what I see.

Where “moralists” and “holy rollers” of the old-fashioned persuasion might see pink, a steely-eyed American patriot who’s in the know sees Red. And that’s what I see when Boy George takes the stage. (And I've been studying him for a long time and attend his concerts whenever possible, at considerable expense and much to the distress of my wife.) Yes. I’m not jumping to conclusions. No. I have been informed through utterly reliable sources that this “harmless” performer conceals and maintains a bulky shortwave radio set throughout his “gigs,” whereby he provides intelligence (in encrypted form) to his Red paymasters on American troop movements and what kids these days like. The lyrics of his so-called "songs" offer their own coded messages. Which is or are all too plain if you decode them. As I have, over many sleepless nights by the aid of a stockpile of vintage Benzedrine inhalers. It is both an acrostic and a substitution cipher.

By way of brief example, let’s consider the inner meaning of “Karma Chameleon.”

K=Kyrgyzstan

A=Alliance for Progress

R=Russia

M=Mao

A= Adlai Stevenson

C=Chevrolet

H=Hoover

A=Apple Pie

M=Mom

E=Excellent

L=Lenny Bruce

E=Eisenhower

O=OSS

N=Nehru.

This clearly indicates the Commie game plan. Do I need to spell it out?

Allow me to state the obvious.

While America’s unsuspecting juvenile delinquents listen to Boy George and subversive comedy albums, a pincher movement of combined USSR and Chi-Com forces will make a stealthy approach through the Kyrgyzstan salient, then drive through the Indian subcontinent in a blitzkrieg attack. The resulting land grab will destroy the American way of life and make our mothers cry through a combination of cheap labor and sacred cows. (Starting to catch my drift, friend?)I'm sure you have. By installing automobile and pie factories in the land of Gandhi and stealing American jobs, our standard of living will plummet and Red and Com-Symp unions will cry “strike!” — thereby making the fake “Greater Depression” worse, and proving Ike’s “missile gap” was a big lie. After the riots die down and the Commie paratroopers drop in, Joe Dokes will discover (when it’s far too late) that Nixon (in defiance of Adlai Stevenson) found the unholy truth in a pumpkin patch, and “Wild Bill” Donovan gets the last laugh.

What could be clearer than that?

ASAP's Fairy Tales

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Little Red Riding Hood

Little Red Riding Hood brought goodies to her Grandma who lives in a cottage in the woods. A cross-dressing wolf tried to eat her. A hunter killed the wolf. The end.

The Big Bad Wolf

A wolf tried to eat three little pigs. He blew down the straw hut and the wood hut. The pigs ran into the brick hut. Wolfie couldn’t blow that down so he climbed down the chimney and burned to death. The end.

The Fox and the Grapes

The fox tried to get the grapes. They were too high. He gave up and decided the grapes sucked. The end.

Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs

Snow White's wicked Stepmother tried to kill her. She wound up living with midgets. Then, her Stepmother tried to poison her with an apple but ate it by mistake. The end.

Jack the Giant Killer

Jack climbed up a magic beanstalk and killed the giant. Then he took all his stuff. The end.

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Mold Injected Plastic!

Old film footage. Black and white. Bad sound. A cornball barbershop quartet sings with a fake Irish accent. The tune is basically lifted from "Tooralooraloora," but slightly changed. They sing with feeling. Gushy feeling.

Melted plastic is injected in a cunning mold.

Once it's cooled, it's then inspected

Packed and shipped and sold.

Molded plastic, it’s fantastic,

Worth its weight in gold.

Mold-injected plastic ...

A wonder to behold!

It’s there in everything you see.

It’s there in all you do.

Mold-injected plastic

It’s like a friend so true!

"Plastics, lad," the wise man said--and it's still true today!

Our polymeric plastic land, the grand old USA

All you ages past of stone and copper

Iron, bronze and brass ...

This is the Age of Plastic

So you all can kiss my ass!

It’s there in games and toys and guns.

It helps us fight the war.

Mold-injected plastic

Makes life worth living for!

These plastic treasures never rust or stain or chip away.

Your sturdy ice chest will survive

From now 'til Judgment Day!

From your child's platoon of army men,

To wife's dildo 'neath the bed,

Mold-injected plastic ...

Will be here when they're dead!

When Jesus Christ returns to earth

We know what He will do

His sandals will be neoprene

Sure, His white robe is plastic too!

This bizarre jingle is part of a longer series of sketches involving the JACK GETZ character, who works at an advertising agency. Their latest, biggest account, is the American Mold-Injected Plastics Manufacturers Association. Mr. P. Laydo, the crew-cutted, beefy head of the AMIPMA, plays this scratchy, black and film -- dating back to the early 1960s -- to the folks at the agency. (The more surreal verses involving Jesus Christ and dildos are in Jack's imagination as Jack nods off in sheer boredom.) Then, Jack snaps awake. Mr. P. Laydo is shouting, "Well, what did you think?" Before the creatives can answer, the beefy CEO says he wants to create a hip, new, "cutting-edge" image for mold-injected plastic that young folk can relate to -- you know, like that stuff on MTV. Can you do it? Well, sure. Jack's just the man for the job! Jack winds up creating a series of campaigns, ripping off James Bond, the Beastie Boys, Cyndi Lauper, pretty much any cultural detritus he can throw in the blender, including the "What would our world look like if all the mold-injected plastic disappeared?" bit that they already did on "Amazon Women on the Moon." it goes on for pages and pages. The guy hates Jack's stuff and, ultimately, goes back to the cornball barbershop quartet. Jack gets fired.

The Ballad of Slade Killgun

They called him Slade,

Slade Killgun.

He truly was an evil S.O.B.

Slade, Slade Killgun.

A psycho-killer out of Western history.

First Slade would shoot you,

Then he’d cut you.

Yeee-hawww!

And string your guts for all the world to see.

Oh, he was evil and inhuman,

A psycho-killer out of Western history.

But folks all loved him

‘Cause they were greedy.

And Slade’s exploits

Gave this town publicity.

Yep, thanks to Slade, each hotel were filled to bursting

With Texas Rangers who wore a badge like me.

Not to mention bounty hunter scumbags,

Dime novelist scribblers,

And crazy whores

Who dreamed of death in agony.

All them folks, good, bad and ugly,

Spent their coin

With goddamn liberality.

Slade was your pal …

His knife made money!

What’s a body here or there?

Ain’t nothing free.

You folks all loved him

‘Cause you were greedy.

And Slade’s exploits

Gave your town publicity.

Then, one fine day, old Slade commenced to riding

And cracked his neck on a branch from a rotten tree.

Kee-rack!

A certain Sherriff found him there a-hanging

And told the Mayor …

“Let’s keep this shit twixt you and me.”

You two ‘suckers buried Slade but kept it quiet.

And kept on killing.

So the tourists wouldn’t flee.

You’d hack up victims

Then count the profits.

This shit went on for years

I’m sad to say.

Your whole damn town

Knew what the deal was.

Now I do, too.

Starting now

You boys had best commence to pray.

Seems old Slade blew up the dam

Back up the river.

And your whole goddamn town

Got washed away.

Slade’s final act of sick revenge, boys

At least that’s what

Them papers gonna say.

They called him Slade,

Slade Killgun.

He truly was an evil S.O.B.

He couldn’t help it; but you folks could.

I’m gonna keep you out of Western history.

Silence of the Lambs

(to the tune of the Doors' "Riders of the Storm")

His name is Lecter don't you know
He will kill you nice and slow
If you see this man today
He will chew your face away
Silence of lambs

Redneck Baudelaire

by Jethro Floyd Stillwater III

Now that Jesse Helms is making sure that art cleans up its act, several arts grants have gone to some "down home" types to counteract the influence of New York-based, liberal, secular, humanist, bleeding heart, commie-pinko highbrows. Recently, a major grant was issued to Jethro Floyd Stillwater III of the Alabama Institute of Animal Husbandry to support his ongoing translation of 19th-century French poet Charles Baudelaire. Wha? magazine is pleased as punch to include an example of Stillwater's work. Here is his translation of Baudelaire's poem, Spleen.

Bad Liver
Pluvus got mad at the whole town
Cause his son urinated
On a big floating verse of cold stamps
And all over them spooks
Just a rotting in the cemetary

My cat gits a pint outta my pickup
Getting all agitated like a repo man
With a corpse in his Ford Galaxy
Just a howling like a gouty old poet
A crying like one of them buried spooks

The bourbon makes me cry
And I hear granny's clock a tickin'
But that there depends
On the joy you get
From selling perfume

My old dead home is like one of them dogs a foaming
That I gotta take to Doc Jenkins
For that heartworm treatment
Turns out he had rabies and I had to put him down
Like Old Yeller
Next thing you know, this dame I met
Run off with "Beau" the butler
Cause a fancy lady
Will stab you in the back every time

ORIGINAL TEXT:

Spleen
Pluviôse, irrité contre la ville entière,
De son urne à grands flots verse un froid ténébreux
Aux pâles habitants du voisin cimetière
Et la mortalité sur les faubourgs brumeux.

Mon chat sur le carreau cherchant une litière
Agite sans repos son corps maigre et galeux;
L’âme d’un vieux poète erre dans la gouttière
Avec la triste voix d’un fantôme frileux.

Le bourdon se lamente, et la bûche enfumée
Accompagne en fausset la pendule enrhumée,
Cependant qu’en un jeu plein de sales parfums,

Héritage fatal d’une vieille hydropique,
Le beau valet de coeur et la dame de pique
Causent sinistrement de leurs amours défunts.

Originally published in the Sarasota Arts Review.