From Morning Liquor Chronicles, June 24, 2012, by Happy McPhunster: Song lyrics are odd. Not that they’re odd like “Bend up and smell my anal vapor your face is my toilet paper” from the song Golden Showers by The Mentors.. They’re odd because they are often hard to parse and this difficulty results in making up lyrics that are infinitely less sensical than the intent of the original. Even if the actual lyrics become known – using the interweb thing, or because friends make fun when they hear you singing your moronic song customizations, we often just stick with the make believe words anyway. So, with a clunky segue, here is my list of people and their stupid and wrong made up lyrics: Jeff J (local broke idiot who accepts money at his regular bar for ingesting hideous food concoctions – such as a Tuna and orange sherbet shake): The song Oh, Sherrie by Steve Perry starts off with “You shoulda been gone.”  Not “Cinnamon dough.” If it were Cinnamon dough, it would need to be mixed with egg salad and beets in order for it to be truly meaningful to you.  Sharon F (chick from college who would laugh uncontrollably at the word “pee” and who looked like Fred Flintstone when Fred Flintstone dressed as a woman). The chorus in Good Lovin‘ by the Rascals is not “True love.”It’s in the name of the damn song. Pee. Rich N (my brother and my equal in terms of face-farting while the other party was asleep), you get a special mention for the AC/DC classic being reworked from […]

Browsing Posts published by Earwax Otoole

Fred Phelps needs semen
Posted by:
March 5, 2012


Pretty much everybody has heard of the Westboro Baptist Church. These friendly, neighborly church folk, when not knitting or offering you ribbon candy and recipes, enjoy protesting military funerals. For the Westboro flock believes that when a U.S. soldier dies in battle it is the almighty’s little accounting correction for homosexuality.

Vastly the opposite of the deceased hero, the pussy-ass war cry of Westboro is “God Hates Fags.” Whatever. Good job on taking the bottle of White Out to the “love thy neighbor” portion of them thar holy books.

The founder of the Westboro Baptist Church is a feller named Fred Phelps. Between his warshin’ up days at the crick and roadkill casserole potlucks, he organizes (with aplomb, sadly) some of the most nasty, vicious <a href=”http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dEQuW2v6U2o”>demonstrations</a> around.

The Bastard Squirrel editorial policy is to dislike everyone, of course… but no one group more than any other. But since Freddie Phelps is being a little unfair and hating a little too much, perhaps he needs a little love note of sorts. If you have time on your hands and have consulted your local/state/federal laws and it is permissible to fill up a little vial of man-cannon chowder and send it off to Fredzo (y’know he secretly wants to rub the lotion or he’ll get the hose again) as a message that God Hates Assholes, his address is: 3701 SW 12th Street, Topeka, KS 66604.

Hall of Stain none
Strip clubs CAN let you down
Posted by:
February 14, 2012

CA

While visiting Puerto Rico, my friend, Brian, in the Navy (not like Village People style, but the real Navy) wanted to go to a strip club – he loves them and finds them everywhere. That horndog son of a bitch could find a strip club in the public library.

With his nude-girl-GPS turned up to 10, we wander through some piss-trough of an alley off a side street in a section of Old San Juan I think they call “The Diaper.” If they don’t, they should. We find the place and it looks like one of those interrogation rooms they use in war movies. Rudimentary flat-topped, square building, clangy metal door, little chimney – dilapidated and about as enticing as planter’s warts.

Imposing fellow – wearing a derby hat, 6 feet wide and 5 1/2 feet tall, opens the door with an icy, emotionless swoosh. No cover he says. Okay, we can afford free. In we go. Typical film noir scene… five or six tables, a service bar, dimly lit, smoky, a few stoic GIs, and an impossibly small, doormat of a stage. With pole. We sit. Two beers plunked on the table – we didn’t order them. But beer is generally always good, even if it may have been left over from the last Eugenio Maria de Hostos day party. I took a sip, Brian took a sip, and we both looked at each other with that “did I just drink antifreeze” kind of facial squinting that seasoned drinkers understand telepathically.

We were in between dancers so that tine of this evening’s pitchfork was yet to be jammed in my ass cheek. Then it was. Dancer comes to the stage. She was short. Her hair was unkempt. She was wearing only a sash. It didn’t have any writing on it but it just as well could have said “Chorizo – 99 cents a lb.”

She takes of her sale-banner of clothing revealing a number of stretch marks and scars (I thought the scarring present in strippers that made them strippers was all of the inside, emotional variety). Also present, on on of the rolls was either a big cigar burn or a bullet wound. It seemed recent as it looked as though it had a little pus ooze. The dancing occurs – not exactly Jennifer Beals, Flashdance style. Mostly wriggling, like a worm after thunderstorm. Gross all around. In fact, there hasn’t been a greater abuse of a pole since the Warsaw Ghetto.

Brian and I, speaking telepathically still (again, not Village People, but just because we both know that this isn’t even “so bad it’s good,” it’s just so bad, like a compound fracture) get up to leave. We knew the beer wasn’t free, but fuck it – it was Drano and we didn’t ask for it. We threw like 4 dollars on the table so as not to piss off the Puerto Rican version of Oddjob working the door. It didn’t work. We tried to leave and he said “No, ten dollars.” We tried to explain and he repeated “No, ten dollars.” We knew the score and trying to argue was like pulling attitude with Judge Judy or trying to permanently change the rules of chess. We paid the $10 – EACH – we shortly came to find out and left. Not much more of a story to tell. However, it did illuminate a great bar concept. Never a cover, but a charge to leave. $10 in fact. May have to go back down to the P.R. and see if Oddjob wants the door gig.

Morning Liquor Chronicles none