Holy Moly

Why, exactly, do fundamentalist preachers read passages from the Bible and ask their flocks to turn to their Bibles and read the same freaking passage they're saying? Did some huckster preacher pull a fast one once?

PREACHER: Yeah, uh, in the Book of Second Evasions it says ... "Give all your money to me, the guy with the bad haircut." Yeah. Chapter 11 verse whatever. That's exactly what it says. "Thou shalt givest all your money to me." Something like that. Come on. Cough up, you stupid rubes.

So, the rubes get cheated out of all their stuff. Then, one day, one of the few yokels who could actually read looked the passage up. Lo and behold, there AIN'T no such passage. The Book of Second Evasions doesn't exist! Sadly, the PREACHER has already left town with all their money. They rubes vowed ...

RUBES: Goldang it, next preacher reads something, we's gonna look it up! We ain't fallin' for that shit again!

Hence, the read-what-I'm-saying-in-the Bible tradition in the fundamentalist community. OK, fine, the preacher isn't bullshitting you, like Lucy telling Linus that the music in the radio comes from a tiny little orchestra trapped inside. The stuff he's saying is actually in there. But that's a pretty low standard.

Preacher need to try harder. Why don't they?

It seems to me having a captive audience shouting "Amen" is a bad relationship to begin with. Imagine comedians playing to audiences that never stopped laughing, no matter how crappy the joke was. Comedians would get lazy. Standards would go down. What fundamentalist Christianity really needs is sacred hecklers.

PREACHER: What does God want for us?

HECKLER: He wants you to shut up.

PREACHER: He wants us to be happy.

HECKLER: It'd make God happy if you'd FUCKING SHUT UP.

PREACHER: Hey -- you wanna get up here and do this? You think this is easy.

HECKLER: Yeah, I do. But that's OK. I've got a real job.

Congregation laughs. HECKLER gets up, bows, blows kisses, leaves.

The sermons would get better. Real fast.

Popcorn would also be nice.

And while we're on the subject ...

An open letter to Charlie the Tuna...

Stop trying to get an audition with Starkist. It's not an audition. Yes, the name of the product includes the word "star." That doesn't mean they want to make you a star. They don't want to put you in show business, you idiotic Phil Silvers lookalike. THEY'RE GOING TO KILL YOU. They're going to chop you up into little pieces and put you in a can. That's what the Starkist people do to tuna. Unlucky dolphins too. Do you want that? Is a death wish at work here?

I don't think so. You're not suicidal. You're a dreamer. But it's time to stop dreaming. It's time to accept your life as it is. A career in cinema does not await you, Charlie. You're a fish who wears sunglasses and a beret. Get used to it. And stop tugging on that hook before they kill you.

Sorry, Charlie.

Trix are for rabbits.

Give the fucking rabbit some Trix. For the love of God, people, he's on the fucking box.

The rabbit is a gentle soul. Trusting. Creative. For some reason -- and you could hit me in the head with a rock and I still couldn't explain it -- he isn't bitter.

The rabbit is a bright-eyed, eternal optimist. He has sunshine in his heart.

Yet, the children deprive him of Trix. Their reasoning? Identity. Apparently, the rabbit can't have Trix BECAUSE HE'S A RABBIT. That's it. "Silly rabbit. Trix are for kids!" That's their line of reasoning. Trix are for kids. The rabbit is not a kid. He can't have Trix. Well, QED. Silly rabbit! Yeah, he's silly. He's a rabbit. He wants something that IS NOT MEANT FOR HIM. He aspires beyond his station. What a fucking idiot! Clearly, stuffing "fruit-flavored frosted corn puffs" in your digestive track is a privilege reserved for human children. So they laugh at him. Like the arrogant children of white plantation owners mocking slaves. "Silly slave. Mint juleps are for white people."

The rabbit doesn't argue. He strives for Trix with subterfuge and stratagems. He doesn't pull out an AK-47 and mow the children down while screaming with rage. He wears disguises. He sends fake telegrams. It never works.

Inevitably, the little shits say, "Silly rabbit, Trix are for kids." And he takes it. He keeps on smiling.

One of these days, I promise you, the rabbit is going to snap.

Give the fucking rabbit some Trix. Please.

Before it's too late.

Dad's Company

(to the tune of "Bad Company" by Bad Company)

A nepotist, a slacker I am called

I go to work, and just stare at the wall

Arrive at twelve, and then I’m gone by one

But no one speaks

‘Cause I’m the boss’ son

(That’s what he tells me)

It’s Dad’s company

I can’t deny it

Dad’s company

Till the day he dies

I got my car

And my expense account

Those escort gals

Make my expenses mount

Convention fun

Las Vegas and LA

Put the drinks on me

My daddy's gonna pay!

That’s what he tells me …

It’s Dad’s company

I can’t deny it

Dad’s company

Till the day he dies

Rockin' In Sea World

(to the tune of Neil Young's "Keep on Rockin' in the Free World")

There's a whale in the tank
And his name's Shamu
There's a lot of freaky things
That this whale can do
He can jump through hoops, bounce balls off his nose
He can swim in circles, he can tickle your toes
But he'd rather eat penguins, he feels kinda hosed

Keep on rockin' in Sea World
Keep on rockin' in Sea World
Keep on rockin' in Sea World
Keep on rockin' in Sea World

They got a souvenir shop and an ice cream stand
It's all overpriced, and you're forced to stand
The kids are whining 'cause they want to buy shit
You hate this trip and what's become of it
Three hundred bucks and they're screaming "it sucks"
It's another family weekend you cannot get back
Another step closer to your first heart attack

Keep on rockin' in Sea World
Keep on rockin' in Sea World
Keep on rockin' in Sea World
Keep on rockin' in Sea World

Blessed Insurance

(to the tune of "Blessed Assurance")

Blessed Insurance,
Whole life or term
What we would pay
Reflects what you'd earn
It's a big risk pool
You place your bets
If you drop dead
Your loved ones collect

This is my story, this is my song
Selling insurance, all the day long!
This is my story, this is my song
Selling insurance, all the day long!

Rage Against the Schween

BILLY -- a SoCal punk in his mid-teens - trucks along listening to a CD on his scratched-up Walkman. He hears a disembodied ANNOUNCER's voice.

ANNOUNCER: Say Billy, what're you doing?

BILLY: Listening to the self-titled "Rage Against the Machine" CD.

ANNOUNCER: Ever wonder where that CD comes from?

BILLY: No.

ANNOUNCER: I'm glad you asked!

A giant robot claw grabs him by the leg and drags him into the next scene.

ANNOUNCER: It comes from the Machine, Billy!

BILLY: Eagggghhhh!

The claw holds BILLY over a giant, cube-like Machine full of moving parts.

ANNOUNCER: Look at it hum, Billy!

BILLY: Put me down!

ANNOUNCER: It's spitting out Rage Against the Machine CDs, Rage Against the Machine T-shirts, Rage Against the Machine bumper stickers, Rage Against the Machine bobbleheads. Isn't that something?

BILLY: I guess.

ANNOUNCER: I don't like your attitude, Billy.

BILLY: OK, uh. Wow that's some Machine!

ANNOUNCER: Yes, it is, Billy. It's making music industry executives and angry leftist frontman Zack de la Rocha rich! But the Machine doesn't run itself, Billy. The Machine must be fed.

BILLY: What do you feed it with?

ANNOUNCER: Why, you Billy!

Tosses him at the Machine. A metal mouth opens up. Swallows Billy.

ANNOUNCER: Goodbye Billy! Remember what happened to Billy, kids.

BILLY: (muffled) Fuck you, disembodied Announcer voice!

ANNOUNCER: "Rage against the machine" all you want. But don't piss the Machine off!