Tag Archives: Tracy Chapman

Rumors About Breakfast

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There’s this nasty rumor floating around out there in the ether that breakfast is the most important meal of the day. That’s just nasty. I don’t know where everybody came up with that nastiness.

Sure, breakfast is good. You know, cereal and waffles and eggy mcmuffs and shit. I’m not trying to say that breakfast isn’t good. If that’s what you think I’m saying then you need to fucking chill, guy. Like back the fuck up. You need to quit putting words in my mouth or I’ll put my boot in your ass. It’s the american way. Come at me bro. Come fucking at me. All I said was that it’s not the best. But it’s good.

I don’t even know how you would measure the amount of importance between breakfast, lunch, and din din. They’re all so unique and important in their own individual ways. It’s like apples and ba-nay-nays, kid. They’ve all got their own thing going. I mean, lunch has it GOIIIIIN ON. Sandwiches. Soups. Salads backstrokin’ in chunky bleu cheese. Dinner has spaghetti and meatballs with marinara sauce and some garlic bread. Maybe some Parm Cheese sprinkled ever so delicately. I’m talking a soft kiss of Parm Cheese like the touch of a woman. Shit’s out of control. Double O C. I’d like to see someone try to say that they don’t like sandwiches or spaghetti and meatballs with marinara sauce and some garlic bread with a straight face. Fat chance. As if. What to the ever. Pinch me cuz I must be dreaming. Never gonna happen. Not in my house.

Seems to me that everybody out there is making these wild claims about how important breakfast is meanwhile they have no empirical evidence to back up their statement. Hello, it’s the fucking scientific era. We’ve got a whole theory about how science works and how we can decide if things are important. It’s a strict set of principles to prevent a bunch of screwheads from making nasty claims like the one in question. See, there’s something about a hypothesis that you have to test. And then you observe what happens and then you’ve got yourself a theory. And theories are great. There’s a bunch of really good ones. There’s one about relativity. There’s one about monkeys turning into people and shit. And once a theory becomes important enough, the head scientist declares it a scientific law. He calls all his scientific friends over to his laboratory and everybody wears lab coats and they play with each other’s sphincters and have a gay old time. And that’s the best. Seriously. It don’t get much better than that. But as far as I can tell, this whole thing about breakfast has not gone through this process. Where’s the evidence? Where’s the proof? Gimme some thing I can see. Gimme something to talk about. Gimme some lovin’. Gimme one reason to stay here.

I feel like what maybe happened was somebody got all pissed off at lunch and in a fit of emotional, irrational thinking declared breakfast the most important, just to get under lunch’s skin. Now, I don’t know about you, but that seems a little childish. Last time I checked, we’re not in middle school any more so leave your fucking bullshit drama at the door. Seriously. Take off that faggy Eastbay backpack, unzip the front pocket, slowly remove your bullshit drama, then kindly eat a whopper size portion of cock. Cuz we don’t need that shit. Sure, lunch can be a taffy-pulling cunt from time to time. I’ll admit that sometimes I get the urge to go get lunch, hack it up into little pieces, and feed it to the stray cats that live in the cardboard boxes behind the Best Buy. But that’s only because I don’t have the patience for lunch’s ‘tude and I’m a felinophile. Is that a crime? Not if I don’t get caught. Anyways, what I’m trying to say is, yeah, me and lunch bump heads sometimes but you don’t see me dragging breakfast into the matter with some vile slanderizin’.

I suppose that it is also possible that whoever started the rumor just made a premature judgement. Since breakfast is first and all, I bet he was like “Holy cow, these Honey Bunches of Oates are fucking delicious. Breakfast is important.” Except he never really gave lunch and dinner a fair crack at it. He just went ahead and blew his “important” load early at like 7:30 in the morning like a horny schoolboy who is now gonna be late for class. I’m a firm believer that whenever you are trying to decide on something as important as being important, everybody in question should get a fair chance to state their case. That seems like the least you could do. Innocent ’til proven guilty, ya jackweed.

Maybe that’s just the democratic side of me. It’s my red, white, and blue showing. And let me tell you one more thing, those colors, the red, white, and blue ones that I was just talking about, they don’t run. I’m as American as they come. Shit girl, I got a gun in my backpack right now. And if you don’t believe me, I’ll show it to you. Maybe I’ll even let you hold it. You’d like that wouldn’t you? That cold steel between your fingers? The power to just shoot anybody in the nads that you wanted? Right in the nads. That’s what being a god feels like.

You know how people say guns don’t kill people? That’s not true. They kill people all the time. I’ve killed like nine people with my gun. Not like little kids or anything, I’m not some sort of weirdo. They were elder folks on the verge of dying anyway. I could sense death was upon them. Looming like a dark aura. And those cats behind Best Buy told me it was the right thing to do, so I went ahead and put those old fuckers out of their misery. You should have seen them, pushing around shopping carts, reading the label on the can of peaches, being fucking old.  They had it coming and I don’t regret it for a second. In fact, I should be praised for my humanitarianism. I should be given a trophy by the mayor or a root beer float party or something. Or at the very least say something about it in the newspaper.

You know that’s the problem with the news these days. Their priorities are all fucked up. It’s like…Elian Gonzalez? Who gives a shit? Everyday with the Elian Gonzalez stories. I’m so sick of hearing about him. I get it, he floated over in an old tire and watched his mom get eaten by sharks, let’s move on. Take the kid to Disney World, get his picture taken on Splash Mountain, maybe get him one of those turkey legs in Frontier Land, go watch the animatronic bear jamboree, and let’s talk about something that really
matters. LIKE GLOBAL WARMING. It’s hot as shit outside and nobody is saying anything about it. It’s April and it’s 85 degrees and I’m sweating my dick off. Literally. Sweating. My. Dick. Slap. Off. I got no dick now.

How am I supposed to procreate? I’ve always dreamed of starting a family but that dream is squandered. SQUANDERED. Now if I want to start a family, I’m going to have to adopt and that shit sucks. There’s a reason that those kids real parents didn’t want them. Probably because their heads were too big or they’ve got two left hands. I don’t want one of those orphan babies, I want a normal baby. One from my now non-existent penis.

I guess I could always just steal a baby from the hospital or something. I’m not sure how strict their security is. I bet they have video cameras at least. So I’ll have to wear like a mask or a bandana. I think the key to stealing a baby from the hospital is all about confidence. If you just pretend like you’re the legit and play it cool, nobody is going to fuck with you and you can just stroll right on out with your own little bundle of joy. By the time anybody notices that baby is gone, you’ll be a third of the way to Costa Rica in an all white, linen suit. Like Panama Jack. Except Costa Rica. Costa Rica Jack.

See, in Costa Rica nobody gives a fuck. They don’t have police or rules or indoor pluming ormoney. It’s just like a bunch of chill ass fuckers chilling out like a motherfucker. And when I say “chill ass fuckers” I don’t mean they fuck asses. Sure, some of them probably have. I’d be willing to bet that there are a handful that fooled around in the anal department but I doubt they’re all into that. I’d have to see some statistical evidence before I jumped to that conclusion. Some cold hard evidence. And that’s what I’m getting at people. E-vi-dence.

See, we’ve got a whole scientific process we have to go through before we can declare an entire sovereign nation a bunch of ass fuckers. It’s a strict set of principles to prevent a bunch of screwheads from making nasty claims like the one in question. See, there’s something about a hypothesis that you have to test. And then you observe what happens and then you’ve got yourself a theory. And theories are great. There’s a bunch of really good ones. There’s one about relativity. There’s one about monkeys turning into people and shit. And once a theory becomes best enough, the head scientist declares it a scientific law. He calls all his scientific friends over to his laboratory and play with each other’s sphincters and everybody wears lab coats and they have a gay old time. And that’s the best. Seriously. It don’t get much better than that. But as far as I can tell, this whole thing about breakfast has not gone through this process. That’s all I’m saying.

My Diddy Says

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My Diddy says marriage is between a man and a woman and that gay marriage ain’t real marriage. He says, cuz marriage is hard work. It ain’t no fun boys club. He says, if he could hang out all day with Mr. Frank and Big Jimmy, eating pork sandwiches, listening to Steely Dan, talking about Project Runway, maybe rubbin each others’ feet, and getting fancy haircuts- he would in a goddamn heartbeat. But that just ain’t marriage. It just ain’t. Marriage ain’tsposed to be fun like that. And there’s no good reason why one man should ever jaculate while looking into the eyes of another man, unless you’re watching the Alabama game and Saban is on the screen. Got 14?

My Diddy says Lennie’s mom’s juicebox shoots out hot fire. And that ever since Mumma passed last year from the die-beats, he’s had to find solace in the arms of another woman. He ain’t proud of it. But he’s a man, he says. With needs. I don’t judge him for that. I don’t think Jesus Christ Our Lord, Amen would either. And I’m pretty sure Mumma’d be ok with it. I can see her now, upstairs in heaven’s kitchen, looking down on Diddy as he takes Lennie’s mumma to the dick rodeo, smiling, sayin’ “That’s my Terry, still hasn’t lost his touch.” ‘Sides, it’s her fault for eatin’ so much Ladyfingers and dyin’ and leavin’ us to fend for our lonesome.

My Diddy says Obama is a Muslim and we don’t like Muslims cuz of the twin towers. He says that’s why we went to Iraq. Says if Reagan were still president, the 9/11 would have never happened, that it was all Obama’s fault. He says Reagan would have caught those Muslims and beat their asses blue as a baboon and then cut em up into little pieces while all of America watched and let blood spray all everywhere like a fountain and then he’d pop their eyeballs out and let the secret service and everybody take turns fuckin’ their eye sockets til they cum a bucket-full and then he’d bury em under the crawl space of the White House in garbage bags. Kinda like in Dexter, he says. Diddy loves Dexter.

My Diddy says condoms are gay.

My Diddy says Cam Newton took that money. No matter what the NCAACP or whoever says. He says cuz Auburn has got a crackerjack team of Jews that did a real good job of hiding all that money so nobody would find out. Jews are real good with money, he says. They just sit around all day counting it and rolling around in it and putting it in their mouth holes cuz they like the taste. He says Jewish men menstruate. And the Jews and the black people (like Cam Newton and Obama) made an unholy alliance to work against the white people to destroy college football. It ain’t right, he says.

My Diddy says he’ll kill Mr. Dickenson, my biology teacher, if he tries to teach evolution again. The one true way, truth and the light, God The Father Almighty created heaven and earth and that anybody that says different is searchin’ real hard for a swift kick to the dicks and balls, he says. If Mr. Dickenson is so smart then how come he says his grandiddy was a monkey? Monkies ain’t smart. My diddy says if Mr. Dickenson wants to make evolution sound more logical he should have picked a smarter animal to be his grandiddy. Like a dolphin. My diddy says dolphins are smart like us people. If they had robot voice boxes, like Steve Hawking, they’d be able to speak their minds just like the rest of us. Says they are the only other animals on Earth that have gay sex for pleasure and plus, if we all came from monkeys, then we’d all look like blackies. They may have descended from monkey’s, Diddy says, but us whites were put here by The Lord God after he made us outta clay, breathed life into our lungs, and Adam and Eve did the ol’ slide in to home plate and super-soak the catcher’s mit.

My Diddy says liking Tracy Chapman ain’t a crime. And don’t let anybody tell you it is. Just cuz it’s dyko-rock don’t mean it don’t got no musical quality. He says lesbians have great taste in music: Bob Segar, REO Speedwagon, and of course the one, the only, 4 Non Blondes. Diddy says the first time he saw 4 Non Blondes was at the 1993 MTV Spring Break Beach House. He was loaded up on cocaine and vodka-frescas but when they performed their acoustic version of “What’s Up?” it penetrated his soul like a flaming javelin of truth.  Said he never really listened to music before that moment. Sure he had HEARD music but he never really LISTENED. Not like he did on that faithful day. He absorbed those butchy sounds with every fiber of his being and let the music flow within him and without him. And he didn’t get enough neither. Followed ‘em all the way to the Lilith Fair. He said those lesbian women opened his mind to how society could be if the testosterone fueled patriarchy would quit gagging the world with it’s throbbing veiny cock. He says that’s a metaphor. Yep, Lilith Fair changed em something powerful. He even got to go backstage and meet Jewel. Never been more nervous in his life. Diddy says her teeth are even more fucked up than they look on the TV. Like somebody curb-stomped her Canadian ass. You’d think that after selling billions of cassette tapes all around the world that she could afford at least some of those invisible Invisalign braces. Guess she’s too busy winning Grammy’s for all that.

The Big Mouth Billy Bass and the Economic Downturn

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The economy is fucked up, you guys. Seriously. Shit is crazy. Ain’t nobody got jobs. Gas is 63 bucks a gallon.  Three consecutive weekends, tickets to Biebs 3D has been sold out when Sharon and I got to the theatre. You know things are bad when Randy leaves American Idol. What the fuck else does he have to do? Play bass?* That’s not even a real fucking instrument jackhole, it’s just a guitar that’s missing two strings. I mean, honestly. Dubs t fuck is going on around here? Last time I checked, this was America. Land of the free, home of the blind. Helen Keller? Ever heard of her? So what happened? Folks wanna blame Wall Street, they wanna blame the government (or as I like to call them, ” dot gov”). People wanna say that it’s the Chinese, the Jews, W the President, the Baldwin’s, whoever. Everybody is blaming everybody, like a turd just floated to the surface in the h-tub, and no one is looking at the facts or trying to fix the problem. No one but your neighborhood friendly bloggers here at LouBegaCalled. That’s right dipsticks, we done solved the economy. Peep this.

Wasn’t it just 10 some odd years ago that America was on top making that sweet, sweet cheddar cheese skrilla, not a care in the goddamn world? Footloose and fancy-free? What had happened? What has changed? What could’ve happened in ten years that could have caused the economy to collapse? I’ll tell ya. I’ll tell you right now. 4 words. BIG. MOUTH. BILLY. BASS. Boom. Take a minute and wrap your mindtits around that, and let a brother explain.

Think back. What was the one thing everyone had in their homes back in the late 90′s/early 2000′s?  Whose living room wasn’t complete with the joy of song coming from an electrical singing trophy fish that hung on the wall? That’s all I’m saying. You bring back the BMBB, and you bring back this country. I know what some of you are thinking. That the Billy Bass was serving a purpose back in those days, creating a sort of redneck backwoods-rape feng shui, distracting us from the horrors of terrorism and the aftermath of 9/11.  What possible use could one get out of a BMBB in today’s ever-changing technological metropolitan world? How bout you shut the fuck up for two seconds and I’ll tell you? For instance, I use my Big Mouth Billy Bass as a sybian while the hubby is away, riding it to full orgasm, as it’s tail fin slaps my juicer, all the while bellowing Take Me To The River. And that’s just one example! We start getting these back into folks’ homes, we start to see real economic  change in this beloved country, our United States. Urrybody gon’ be making money hand over fist, just the way I like my handjobs.

If there is anything we can learn from Billy it’s this: Don’t worry be happy. It’s like Alan Greenspan says, money = happiness. That’s why they call these things depressions. We need to not be afraid to spend that shit! That’s the only way to both be happy and get this economy bumpin’. And I know some of you are thinking, “Hey Lou Bega, money can’t buy you happiness.” Who the fuck told you that? Your poor parents? Yeah, thought so. Rich families are too busy taking the yacht to Barbados for the weekend to instill that value in their children. Pretty sure it can buy you happiness. Case and point: go buy 4 BMBB, hang them on the wall in the basement, smoke some DMT, press the little red buttons, and enjoy.

* For those of you that haven’t read the March 2007 issue of Bass Player, former American Idol judge Randy Jackson is a well known session bassist playing with such artists as Journey, Urethra Franklin, Tracy Chapman, Mariah Carey, Bon Jovi, Herbie Hancock, Bob Dylan, Billy Joel, Roger Waters, and George Michael. He was not in the Jackson 5.