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Posted: |
Nov 23, 2004 - 2:54 AM
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By: |
Ed Kattak
(Member)
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A.K.A.
Uncle Vic's Recipe for Disaster.
By Felton Shylark
Many moons ago, there were no moons, just many.
A Dark Sky populated the horizon.
A Dark Olive permeated the aroma of stupidity.
I smelled Green Eggs and Ham at one time.
Lemon Turnip Pie, with minced clams.
Conciousness is a mere afterthought.
While subconciously thinking about
The relief of one's self at the table
in front of those loved and lost.
Whithering, yet flacid in the wind.
Uncle Dom would have been Proud
of my gaseous tendencies.
He would have pinned a Texaco Star on Me,
and done an oil change, non-charged to boot.
For Uncle Dom was a true Texaco patriot.
Long live Texaco and the Texaco Star.
Long Live mamma Millie's 74 Nova.
Long Live Villa Nova, and Nova Villa.
Long Live the King.
Long Live Allan King.
Allan King and Uncle Dom are Synonymous.
The writer shall be anonymous.
Left and Right and Right and Left.
One makes Might and the other does Fright.
Reeces and Pieces and Meeces and Feces.
Hepa and Titus and Titus and Gorley Avenue.
Roger and Stauback and Morton and Downey Jr.
All love Little Debbie but none too Drowny.
Femurs and Tibulas and Rodents and Pus.
My oh My just what is the Fuss.
Fydrich, Martinez, Hraboski, and Tiant,
Griese, Czonka, Stabler, and Ted Hendricks,
Holy Cow, what happeneed to my appendix.
Gas and oil and Joe Capp.
This is enough to make me crap.
Please just help me fill in the gap.
Don't ever play me for the sap.
Words that mean nothing, and appear eager,
Fruitless encounters with fruits so meger,
All secretly longing for Bob Seger,
Intestinal flow, Colonel Hogan as We go.
Bewitched and Befuddled
Werner Kempler is no more.
Shiny and repugnant
Colonel Hogan is no more.
I had this massive pain,
Alas, No more Bob Crane.
Victor Buono alas has departed,
Victor French may have just farted,
Oh boy this poem is retarded.
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Posted: |
Dec 8, 2004 - 12:20 AM
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By: |
Ed Kattak
(Member)
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Charmin and Marcal and Depends and Pampers
Silly me, who just defecated in the hamper,
A pillow, a cushion, one does question,
That Beeferoni feeling of indigestion.
What was once grand and bold,
Now smells like it is too old,
Cloth, Sweat, Spewtum, and Tears,
The anus beckons and purports all fears.
To Have, To Hold, To Eat,
Jeez, you have smelly feet,
My ass so big, yet smells so subtle,
The head in a fog and ever muddled.
Hark, there's Albert Salmi,
Behold, some old salami,
Stares him in the face,
Like midgets in a race.
Same Year, Same Name, Same Job,
He was caught in a bathroom with Bob,
Ever wanting Taco Bell so less near,
Smelling so intently with much fear.
For He is the Whipple of my life,
His bowel movements filled with much rife,
Oomp, Ahhh, Ewww, Burrr,
Not Even a Cat Doth purr.
Lingering in the darkness with a mild stench,
He could not make a hit like Johnny Bench,
A raisin, some escarole, potatoes, a plum,
I say, this thread is so dumb.
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LOL GREAT!!
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Heres a little ditty perfomed by the Acid and Surf band Kendall and the ThaxTONES!
Sung to Dont Stop Believing-
Just a Soundtrack girl,
playin’ scores throughout the world
She bought a Goldsmith set
for a buck O’four
Just a clueless boy,
board and pissed of boots he sought
He bought a Bernstein score
and found it's no bore
They set up in a film chat room
The talk of scores of past performance
For the Omen they can share the fright
Hor-Ner goes on and on and on and on
Fanboys searchin,
up and down the internet
Thor pounces: "search the thread in the site"
Footlight people,
Buyin scores to find emotion
Hoardin’ soundtracks is their Life
Hopin’ Film-Scores got my Bill
Sheriff Joe wants to Kill
Bannin’ anyone who breaks the rules:
“just one more time!”
Search the bins, search the news
While the fanboys just haven’t a clue
Oh, the insult never ends
Ford pours it on and on and on and on
Fanboys searchin’
Up and down in the isle
In Tower searching there all night
Footlight, Personnel
Buy that score fast we are closing
Hoardin' soundtracks are their life
(chorus)
Don’t stop the Purchasin’ Have to have the Re-Re-Leases
Footlight people
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Posted: |
Dec 20, 2004 - 2:53 AM
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By: |
Ed Kattak
(Member)
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The wind is blowing in such haste,
like a toilet flushing all the waste,
Hormones, saxophones, pennies, and pierogies,
that aroma beckons the call of the dogies,
Bo Brinkman, Frank Converse, Larry Linville,
All showed promise, now way over the hill,
Correction, Linville is under the hill,
For he is the Devil's Pawn on the pill,
Erik Estrada, Larry Wilcox, Robert Pine,
These days just don't seem as fine,
For seemingly when the Chips are down,
Frank Cannon's no longer around,
I saw a Beanie Baby doth look like Vic Tayback,
My, life's a bitch, what a payback,
I see Vic Morrow and Vic Ferrano,
Could they be near the Verrazano?
Full good thoughts and some cheer,
Shit, I just need plenty of beer,
Ghostly images of Scott Baio appear,
Dear Lord, I need more beer!
Remain on the insane plane,
Before my mortal ass is grass,
I sing the body of Richard Kiel,
And Greg Evigan is bumming me for a meal.
Ginos, and Wuvs, and Top Burger I miss,
They never had a clean bathroom to piss,
My blowouts ran amuck and smelled so bad,
Ever Reminding of the 77 Ford Pinto I once had,
Mercury Montego, Chevy Chevelle, and mule,
I had no money for the fuel,
Long gas lines I waited on so hopelessly,
George Peppard yes, but gas lines were not cool.
Some of the people on this board are a bore,
Little creativity, a lot whining, and no core,
My dudonum and colon both agree,
That none of us are truly free,
OriginalThinker is the Avi of my life,
Where is he when you need his rife,
Someone whined, and now he is in glee,
For he is laughing at our boring stupid-it-e.
Jack Palance might have once said,
Once you stop breathing, ya know you're dead,
A dunce cap, a Nathan's Hot Dog, doth glisten,
Whilst I watch Dolph Lundgren just listen.
For life is the sanctity of has-beens,
You could learn a lot from Graham Chapman,
Too bad he just died too soon,
Well, maybe he was a raving loon.
Or just genious with a spoon,
Jack Klugman, Tony Randall, I thirst,
Who knew Felix would die first,
God I'm fat and my ass looks like liverwurst.
I yearn for the days of Perry Como,
Without thinking about wetting my bed,
I'm just so sad that he's dead,
For fear of spastic colons ahead.
Chuck Barris, Chuch Connors, Chuck Woolery,
Is there such a word as foolery?
Come may, Come now, Come later,
I am such a fan of Helen Slater,
The days have grown long and queer,
Like a stag film featuring Richard Gere,
A horse, a woodchuck, a solemn prayer,
Who died and left you the mayor?
For in the end we all just bitch,
Or maybe it's just a clever pitch,
Not to be alone shaking in the wind,
But gaseous and robust, with an itch.
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Oi Ed, what song is your above post supposed to go with?
Rich
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