Frank Zappa
Joe's Garage
Acts II & III

SCENE NINE
A Token Of My Extreme

Arriving at L. Ron Hoover's modernistic office / cathedral / warehouse / condominium complex, Joe is greeted by a pre-recorded message and a dramatically illuminated image on a wall-sized TV screen . . .

L. Ron Hoover:

Welcome to the First Church of Appliantology! The WHITE ZONE is for loading and unloading only!

Don't you be Tarot-fied
It's just a token of my extreme
Don't you be Tarot-fied
It's just a token of my extreme

Don't you never try to look behind my eyes
You don't wanna know what they have seen
Don't you never try to look behind my eyes
You don't wanna know what they have seen

Joe:
(Thinking to himself)

Some people think
That if they go too far
They'll never get back
To where the rest of them are
I might be crazy
But there's one thing I know
You might be surprised
At what you find out when ya go!

And thus, having rationalized his expedition to L. Ron's modernistic office / cathedral / warehouse / condominium complex, JOE seeks The Answer to his problem . . .

Joe:

Oh oh oh
Mystical Advisor
What is my problem, tell me
Can you see?

L. Ron Hoover:

Well, you have nothing to fear, my son!
You are a Latent Appliance Fetishist,
It appears to me!

Joe:

That all seems very, very strange
I never craved a toaster
Or a color T.V.

L. Ron Hoover:

A Latent Appliance Fetishist
Is a person who refuses to admit to his or herself
That sexual gratification can only be acheived
Through the use of MACHINES . . .
Get the picture?

Joe:

Are you telling me
I should come out of the closet now
Mr. Ron?

L. Ron Hoover:

No, my son!
You must go into
THE CLOSET
And you will have
A lot of fun!
That's where they all live
So if you want an
Appliance to love you
You'll have to go in there
'N' get you one

Joe:

Well . . . that seems simple enough . . .

L. Ron Hoover:

Yes, but if you want a really GOOD one,
You'll have to learn a foreign language . . .

Joe:

German, for instance?

L. Ron Hoover:

That's right . . .
A lot of really cute ones come from over there!
(Fifty bucks, please)

And a cheerful group of Appliantologists dance into the room wearing aluminum foil lab smocks, lock arms in a circle around JOE, making sure he pays in full, all the while singing with L. RON as he delivers his final instructions . . .

L. Ron Hoover:

If you been
Mod-O-fied,
It's an illusion, an yer in between
Don't you be
Tarot-fied,
It's just a lot of nothin',
So what can it mean?

If you been
Mod-O-fied,
It's an illusion, an yer in between
Don't you be
Tarot-fied,
It's just a lot of nothin',
So what can it mean?
(etc., etc., etc.)

SCENE TEN
Stick It Out

JOE leaves the First Church of Appliantology and sets out to try L. RON's expensive advice

Central Scrutinizer:

This is the CENTRAL SCRUTINIZER . . . Joe has just learned to speak German. Now, get this, here's why he did it! He's gonna go to this club on the other side of town, it's called THE CLOSET . . . And they got these Appliances in there that really go for a guy dressed up like a housewife who can speak German (you know what I mean) . . . so Joe's learned how to speak German, he goes in this place and he sees these little Kitchen Machineries dancing around with each other, and he sees this one . . . that looks like it's a cross between an industrial vacuum cleaner and a chrome piggy bank with marital aids stuck all over its body . . . it's eally exciting . . . and when he sees it, he BURSTS INTO SONG . . .

Joe:

Fick mich, du miserabler hurensohn
Fick mich, du miserabler hurensohn
Streck ihn aus
Streck aus deinem heißen gelockten
Streck ihn aus
Streck aus deinem heißen gelockten
Streck ihn aus
Streck aus deinem heißen gelockten schwanz
Ah-ee-ahee-ahhhhh!
Mach es sehr schnell
Rein und raus
Magisches Schwein
Mach es sehr schnell
Rein und raus
Magisches Schwein
Bis es spritzt, spritzt, spritzt
Feuer!
Bis es spritzt, spritzt, spritzt
Feuer!
Aber beklecker nicht das Sofa, Sofa!
Aber beklecker nicht das Sofa, Sofa!
Aber beklecker nicht das Sofa, Sofa!
Aber beklecker nicht das Sofa, Sofa!

Stunned by JOE's command of its native tongue, a gleaming model XQJ-37 nuclear powered Pan-sexual Roto-Plooker named SY BORG (previously thought to be the son of the lady who called the Police on cut two, side I), spindles over to JOE and says . . .

Sy Borg:

Pick me . . . I'm clean . . . I am also programmed for conversational English.

This stuns JOE, who stands there speechless for a moment. Smitten by JOE's animal magnetism, SY continues . . .

Sy Borg:

May I have this dance?

And JOE, looking sharp in his housewife costume with the napkin on his head and the yellow chiffon apron, responds boldly by repeating the entreaty originally delivered in Deutsch in its conversational English form, so that his intentions regarding the Appliance will be made perfectly clear . . .

Joe:

I've got a better idea . . .

Fuck me, you ugly son of a bitch
You ugly son of a bitch
Fuck me, you ugly son of a bitch
Stick it out
Stick out yer hot curly weenie
Stick it out
Stick out yer hot curly weenie
Stick it out
Stick out yer hot curly weenie
Weenie . . . weenie, weenie, weenie!
Make it go fast
In and out,
Magical Pig
Make it go fast
In and out,
Magical Pig
Till it squirts, squirts, squirts, squirts
Fire
Till it squirts, squirts, squirts, squirts
Fire
Don't get no jizz upon that sofa, sofa
Don't get no jizz upon that sofa, sofa
Don't get no jizz upon that sofa, sofa
Don't get no jizz upon that sofa, sofa

Whereupon, in order to prove to JOE that he is no ordinary Appliance, SY quotes a few lines of traditional American Love Poetry . . .

Sy Borg:

What's a girl like you
Doing in a place like this?
Do you come here often?
Wait a minute. . .
I've got it . . .
You're an Italian . . .
What? You're Jewish?
Love your nails . . .
You must be a Libra . . .
Your place or mine?
Your place or mine?
Your place or mine?
Your place or mine?

See the chrome
Feel the chrome
Touch the chrome
Heal the chrome
See the screaming
Hot black steaming
Iridescent naugahyde python screaming
Steam Roller!

SCENE ELEVEN
Sy Borg

Central Scrutinizer:

This is the CENTRAL SCRUTINIZER . . . Joe and his date are going back to the apartment to have a little party . . .

Joe:

Sy Borg
Gimme dat, gimme dat
Sy Borg
Gimme dat, give me the chromium leg,
I beg
Sy Borg
Gimme dat, gimme dat
Sy Borg
Gimme dat, give me the chromium leg,
Little wires, pliers, tires
They turn me on
Maybe I'm crazy
Maybe I'm crazy
Maybe I'm crazy, mon . . .

Stroking several of SY's gleaming appendages, JOE continues . . .

Gee, Sy
This is a real groovy apartment
You've got here

Sy Borg:

All government sponsored recreational services are clean and efficient

Joe:

This is exciting
I never plooked
A tiny chrome-plated machine
That looks like a magical pig
With marital aids stuck all over it
Such as yourself before

Sy Borg:

You'll love it!
It's a way of life.

Joe:

Does that mean maybe later
You'll plook me . . .

Sy Borg:

If you wish, we may have a groovy orgy

Joe:

Just me and you?

Sy Borg:

I share this apartment
With a modified
Gay Bob doll
He goes all the way . . .
Ever try oral sex with a miniature rubberized homo-replica?

Joe:

No, ah, not yet
Ah, is this him?

Central Scrutinizer:

This is him.
Your wish is his command
He likes you
He wants to kiss you always
Just tell him what you want

Joe:

Really?
Hi, little guy
Think I might get a tiny, but exciting
Blow . . . job . . .
Gimme dat, gimme dat
Blow job . . .
Gimme dat, give me de chromium cob.

Sy Borg:

Bend over.

Joe:

Gay Bob
Blow job
Gimme dat, gimme dat
Blow job
Gimme dat, give me de chromium cob

Sy Borg:

You'll love it!
It looks just like a TeleFunken U-47.

Joe:

Little leather cap and trousers
They look so gay . . .
Warren just bought some
Warren just bought some
Warren just bought some
Hey . . .

Sy Borg:

Bob is tired.
Plook me now,
You savage rascal
Ehhh! That tickles.
You are a fun person
I like you.
I want to kiss you always.

Joe:

Gee, this is great
How's about some bondage and humiliation?

Sy Borg:

Anything you say, master.

Joe:

Oh no, I don't believe it
You're way more fun than Mary . . .

Sy Borg:

You're plooking too hard . . .

Joe:

And cleaner than Lucille . . .

Sy Borg:

Plooking on me . . .

Joe:

What have I been missing
All these years?

Sy Borg:

Too hard

Joe:

Sy . . .

Sy Borg:

Too hard

Joe:

Sy . . .

Sy Borg:

Plooking too hard on me-e-e-e-e . . .

Joe:

Speak to me
Oh no . . .
The golden shower must have shorted out
His master circuit
He's, he's, oh my God
I must have plooked him . . .
Hey
To death . . .
Hey

Central Scrutinizer:

This is the CENTRAL SCRUTINIZER . . .
You have just destroyed one model XQJ-37 Nuclear Powered Pan-Sexual Roto-Plooker
And you're gonna have to pay for it!
So give up, you haven't got a chance.

Joe:

But I . . .
I, I, I, I, I . . .
I can't pay
I gave all my money
To some kinda groovy religious guy . . .
Two songs ago . . .

Central Scrutinizer:

Come on out son . . .
Between the two of us
We'll find a way to
Work it out

SCENE TWELVE
Dong Work for Yuda

Central Scrutinizer:

Hello there . . . this is the CENTRAL SCRUTINIZER . . . Joe was sent to a special prison where they keep all the other criminals from the music business . . . you know . . . the ones who get caught . . . it's a horrible place, painted all green on the inside, where musicians and former executives take turns snorting detergent and plooking each other . . .

(As the CENTRAL SCRUTINIZER chuckles to himself for a moment, FATHER RILEY, who became BUDDY JONES, steps into view in his new identity: FATHER RILEY B. JONES, Prison Chaplain, who, in a rather heavy-handed piece of imagery, is now entrusted with the job of singing this song as he assists the captured executives in their quest for new meat to plook, and, once having found these victims for the princes of the industry, trades them little blobs of sanctified lubricant jelly for cigarettes and candy bars while he holds them down so the execs won't have to work too hard when they stick it in.)

. . . Anyway, while he's in there he meets this guy who used to be a promo man for a major record company, Bald-Headed John . . . King of the Plookers . . .

Father Riley B. Jones:

This is the story 'bout
Bald-Headed John

Former Execs:

Dong work for Yuda,
Dong, Dong

Father Riley B. Jones:

He talks a lot 'n it's usually wrong

Former Execs:

Dong work for Yuda,
Dong, Dong

Father Riley B. Jones:

He said Dong was Wong,
'N Wong was Kong
'N Dong work for Yuda,
'N John was wrong

Former Execs:

Sorry John
Sorry better
Try it again
Dong work for Yuda
Dong, Dong
Sorry John
Sorry better
Try it again
He said Dong was Wong
And Wong was Kong
And Dong was Gong
'N John was wrong

Father Riley B. Jones:

John's got a sausage
Yeh man
John's got a sausage
Yeh man
John's got a sausage that will make you fart
John's got a sausage that will break your heart
Make you fart
And break your heart
Don't bend over if you are smart
He took a little walk to the weenie stand
John's got a sausage
Yeh man
A great big weenie in both his hands
John's got a sausage
Yeh man
He sucked on the end 'til the mustard squirt
He said, "Ya'll stand back 'cause you might get hurt"

Former Execs:

Sorry John
Sorry better
Try it again
John's got a sausage
Yeh man

Sorry John
Sorry better
Try it again
He said Dong was Wong
Wong was Kong
Kong was Gong
'N John was wrong

Sorry John
Sorry better
Try it again

Bald-Headed John:

Make way for the iron shaschige

Former Execs:

Sorry John
Sorry better
Try it again

Bald-Headed John:

I need a dozen towels so the boys can take a shower

Former Execs:

Sorry John
Sorry better
Try it again

Bald-Headed John:

Bartender, bring me a colada and milk

Former Execs:

Sorry John
Sorry better
Try it again

Bald-Headed John:

On second thought, make that a water . . .
HtO

Former Execs:

Sorry John
Sorry better
Try it again

Bald-Headed John:

Falcum . . .
Take me to the falcum!

Former Execs:

Sorry John
Sorry better
Try it again

Bald-Headed John:

I wave my bags
Did you wave your'n

Former Execs:

Sorry John
Sorry better
Try it again

Bald-Headed John:

Well how much did they wave?

Former Execs:

Sorry John
Sorry better
Try it again

Bald-Headed John:

Ah'm almost two kilometers tall

Former Execs:

Sorry John
Sorry better
Try it again

Bald-Headed John:

This girl must be praketing richcraft

Former Execs:

Sorry John
Sorry better
Try it again

Bald-Headed John:

Don't worry about the faggot
I'll take care of the faggot

Former Execs:

Sorry John
Sorry better
Try it again

Try it again,
Try it again
Try, try, try again . . .
etc., etc., etc.

Bald-Headed John:

Your Pomona is very extinct . . .
Yeah, I studied with the Dong of Tokyo
'N also with the oriental Kato . . .
My body contain uh water
I just loves the way these Copenhagens talks!
Driver, McDoodle . . .
Sausage
Salima
Salami
That looks like that stuff that Freckles lets out
Once a mumfth . . .

SCENE THIRTEEN
Keep It Greasey

Eventually FATHER RILEY B. JONES gets around to JOE with his little case of pre-blessed unguents . . .

Central Scrutinizer:

This is the CENTRAL SCRUTINIZER . . . Poor Joe. He's getting tired of bending over . . . but we tried to warn him . . . didn't we? Okay, Joe . . . you asked for it . . . here comes The Big One . . .

Joe:
(annointing himself as he sings)

Keep it greasey so it'll go down easy
Keep it greasey so it'll go down easy
Keep it greasey so it'll go down easy

Manx:

Roll it over 'n grease it down
I'll drive you through the heart of town

JOE (who is still wearing his housewife costume from when he first picked up SY BORG in The Closet) adjusts his little apron to a more advantageous position and sings . . .

Joe:

Hey, the good women, they sure has it tough
The good men, well there ain't enough
All the good girls are lookin' all the time
Good men is something that they can't find
'Cause if they find one miraculously
They try to be as lovin' as they can be
'Cause if they find one and let him go
Chances are they might not ever find one no mo'

Keep it greasey so it'll go down easy
Keep it greasey so it'll go down easy
Keep it greasey so it'll go down easy

Manx:

Roll it over 'n grease it down
I'll drive you through the heart of town

Joe:

A good lovin' man is hardest to find
A good woman needs to ease her mind
And I know a few that need to ease it behind
All y'gotta do is grease it down
'N everything is fine

Keep it greasey so it'll go down easy
Keep it greasey so it'll go down easy
Keep it greasey so it'll go down easy

Manx:

Roll it over 'n grease it down
I'll drive you through the heart of town

Joe:

A girl don't need
No fancy grease
To get herself
Some rump release
Any kind
Of lube'll do
Maybe from another
Part of you
Lube from the North
Lube from the South
Take a little slobber
From the side of your mouth
Roll it over
Grease it down
Here come that crazy
Screamin' sound . . .

Keep it greasey so it'll go down easy
Keep it greasey so it'll go down easy
Keep it greasey so it'll go down easy
Roll it over 'n grease it down, down, down
Grease it down . . .
Oh no! Here comes that screamin' sound again . . .

And sure enough the walls of the prison did reverberate with all sorts of screamin' sounds as lawyers and execs and promo personages all decide to jump on JOE for a spectacular high speed gang-bang leading to . . .

SCENE FOURTEEN
Outside Now

Joe:
(Somewhat exhausted)

These executives have plooked the fuck out of me
And there's still a long time to go before I've
Paid my debt to society
And all I ever really wanted to do was
Play the guitar 'n bend the string like
Reent-toont-teent-toont-teenooneenoonee

I've got it
I'll be sullen and withdrawn
I'll dwindle off into the twilight realm
Of my own secret thoughts
I'll lay on my back here 'til dawn
In a semi-catatonic state
And dream of guitar notes
That would irritate
An executive kinda guy . . .

And sure enough JOE dreams up a few of those guitar notes that every executive despises . . . those low ones . . . every exec knows it's only the records with the high squeally ones that get to be hits (except for Duane Eddy) . . .

Well, I guess that one did the trick
If they only coulda heard it
Half-a-dozen of 'em woulda strangled
While they was suckin' on each other's dick
But that was just a bunch of imaginary
Notes I played
Just a little extra somethin'
To keep me goin' from day to day
That's okay
I'll be gettin' outta here pretty soon
Then I won't have to live
In this ugly fuckin' room
Can't wait to see
I can't wait to see what it's like
On the outside now . . .
etc., etc., etc.

And JOE just lays there, dreaming imaginary guitar notes for years on end, until finally they let him out . . .

SCENE FIFTEEN
He Used To Cut The Grass

Joe:
(to himself as he walks out of prison)

I'm out at last
Boy, the world sure looks different
Wow . . . there's hardly anything fun to do
Since they made music illegal
But I'm hooked
I got the habit
I got to have it
I need to play
But there's no musicians anymore
They're all gone
Wait! I've got it!
I'll be sullen and withdrawn
I'll dwindle off into the twilight realm
Of my own secret thoughts
I'll walk through the parking lot
In a semi-catatonic state
And dream of guitar notes
To go with the loading zone announcements.

JOE wanders through the world which by then has been totally epoxied over, carefully organized, with everyone reporting daily to his or her appointed place in a line somewhere in front of a window somewhere in a building somewhere in order to collect his or her welfare check, which, when cashed, made it possible for the young ones to continue the payments for the obsolete and irreparable appliances their parents had purchased on the installment plan years ago, providing as security the future incomes of their children. The rest of these checks were used by the young recipients to buy fun things of their own on credit, most of which broke down or failed within moments of purchase and seemed to be stacking up everywhere.

Central Scrutinizer:

The White Zone is for loading or unloading only.
If you gotta load or unload, go to the White Zone.
You'll love it.
It's a way of life.

As JOE stumbles over mounds of dead consumer goods formed into abstract statues dedicated to the Quality of American Craftsmanship, dreaming his stupid little guitar notes, he hears, somewhere in the back of his head, the
voice of MRS. BORG, taunting him:

Mrs. Borg Voice:

Turn it down!
Turn it down!
I have children sleeping here!
Don't you boys know any nice songs?
I'm calling the police!
I did it!
They'll be here . . . shortly!
I'm not joking around anymore!
You'll see now!
There they are . . . they're coming!
Just listen to that mess, would you!
Every day this goes on around here!
He used to cut my grass . . .
He was a very nice boy . . .
He used to cut my grass . . .
He was a very nice boy . . .
He used to cut my grass . . .
He was a very nice boy . . .
He used to cut my grass . . .
He was a very nice boy . . .

Central Scrutinizer:

This is the CENTRAL SCRUTINIZER . . . Yes . . . he used to be a nice boy . . . He used to cut the grass . . . But now his mind is totally destroyed by music. He's so crazy now he even believes that people are writing articles and reviews about his imaginary guitar notes, and so, continuing to dwindle in the twilight realm of his own secret thoughts, he not only dreams imaginary guitar notes, but, to make matters worse, he dreams imaginary vocal parts to a song about the imaginary journalistic profession . . .

SCENE SIXTEEN
Packard Goose

Joe:
(Clutching the hood ornament of an ancient car)

Maybe you thought I was the Packard Goose
Or the Ronald MacDonald of the nouveau-abstruse
Well fuck all them people, I don't need no excuse
For being what I am
Do you hear me, then?

All them rock 'n roll writers is the worst kind of sleaze
Selling punk like some new kind of English disease
Is that the wave of the future?
Aw, spare me please!

Oh no, you gotta go
Who do you write for?
I wanna know
I believe you is the government's whore
And keeping peoples dumb is where you're coming from
And keeping peoples dumb is where you're coming from

Fuck all them writers with the pen in their hand
I will be more specific so they might understand
They can all kiss my ass
But because it's so grand
They best just stay away
Hey, hey, hey

Hey, Joe, who did you blow?
Moe pushed the button boy
And you went to the show
Better suck a little harder or the shekels won't flow
And I don't mean your thumb
So on your knees you bum
Just tell yourself it's yum
And suck it 'till you're numb

Journalism's kinda scary
And of it we should be wary
Wonder what became of Mary?

And no sooner has he wondered, a vision of Mary appears to him, delivering a little lecture . . .

Voice Of Mary's Vision:

Hi! It's me . . . the girl from the bus . . .
Remember?
The last tour?
Well . . .
Information is not knowledge
Knowledge is not wisdom
Wisdom is not truth
Truth is not beauty
Beauty is not love
Love is not music
Music is THE BEST . . .
Wisdom is the domain of the Wis (which is extinct)
Beauty is a French phonetic corruption
Of a short cloth neck ornament
Currently in resurgence . . .

And no sooner has she spoken (which is awkward and probably incorrect but what the fuck), enormous flabby short cloth neck ornaments obscure the horizon in a multitude, beating their ugly wings and working their hidden chrome snap attachments as they resurge in the direction of the White Zone seeking snack material near the Utensil Shrines of Greater America . . .

Joe:

If you're in the audience and like what we do
Well, we want you to know that we like you all too
But as for the sucker who will write the review
If his mind is prehensile
He'll put down his pencil
And have himself a squat
On the Cosmic Utensil
Give it all you got
On the Cosmic Utensil
Sit 'n spin until you rot
On the Cosmic Utensil
He really needs to squat
On the Cosmic Utensil

Now that I got that over with
I'll just play my imaginary guitar again
Hey . . . sounds real good!
Hey . . . get down, me . . .
Boy, what an imagination!
Love myself better than I love myself . . .
I think . . .
What tone!
Sounds like an Elegant Gypsy!
What is that!
Musk?
It's hip!

SCENE SEVENTEEN
Watermelon In Easter Hay

Central Scrutinizer:

This is the CENTRAL SCRUTINIZER . . . Joe has just worked himself into an imaginary frenzy during the fade-out of his imaginary song . . . He begins to feel depressed now. He knows the end is near. He has realized at last that imaginary guitar notes and imaginary vocals exist only in the imagination of The Imaginer . . . and . . . ultimately, who gives a fuck anyway? . . . Who gives a fuck anyway? So he goes back to his ugly little room and quietly dreams his last imaginary guitar solo . . .

(after the song ends)

This is the CENTRAL SCRUTINIZER . . . As you can see, MUSIC can get you pretty fucked up . . . Take a tip from Joe, do like he did, hock your imaginary guitar and get a good job . . . Joe did, and he's a happy guy now, on the day shift at the Utility Muffin Research Kitchen, arrogantly twisting the sterile canvas snoot of a fully-charged icing anointment utensil. And every time a nice little muffin comes by on the belt, he poots forth . . .

And if this doesn't convince you that MUSIC causes BIG TROUBLE . . . then maybe I should turn off my plastic megaphone and sing the last song on the album in my regular voice . . .

SCENE EIGHTEEN
A Little Green Rosetta

Central Scrutinizer:

A little green rosetta
A little green rosetta
A little green rosetta
A little green rosetta
You'll make a muffin betta
With a green rosetta
A little green rosetta
A tiny green rosetta
A little green rosetta
A little green rosetta
A little green rosetta
A little green rosetta
You'll make a muffin betta
Betta
It's really getting betta
It's betta, it's betta
With a green rosetta
Setta, setta
That's right, with a green rositti, too
Green rositti
A little green rositti
It's really, really meaty
A little green rositti

Betta, betta,
(Hey, really out there . . . really good)
It's really getting betta
It's betta, it's betta
With a green rosetta
Setta, setta
(Good God, give the drummer some)
Green rosetta

A little green rosetta
A little green rosetta
A little green rosetta
(Setta, setta, setta, etc. . . .)
(Make a muffin, make a muffin, make a muffin,
Make a muffin betta, make a muffin betta, etc. . . .)
With a green rosetta
A little green rosetta
(Etc. . . .)

Good God! You're really jammin'! Now the Reggae version, hey, for the People in the Third World . . . we haven't forgotten anybody on this song . . . for all of you French people . . . who think that you're outta sight . . . And for the people in Spain . . . who think the French people are where it's at . . . And for the people in Mongolia who always wanted to go to Spain for a vacation . . . And for those of you in Taiwan who got chumped, this chorus is for you: (Rang Tang Ding Dong, I am the Japanese Sandman . . . Take eight . . .)

Green rosetta
Green rosetta
a little green rosetta
(Against the Reggae beat, though . . .
No, it's still Reggae, but it's all backwards)

A little green rosetta
A little green rosetta
A little green rosetta
You'll make a muffin betta
(Etc., etc., etc. . . .)

Now you see, some places in the Third World it might be difficult to dance to this because the kerosene record player is not a very efficient device . . . And a lot of times they run out of, they run out of spunk right in the middle of the chorus . . . Causing the song to sound like this . . .

A little green rosetta

However we continue in spite of the fact that the fuel may be low on your record player. We suggest that in places like the Fourth World where things are really tough that you keep the record player going by rubbing two sticks together. And if all else fails, throw the record away . . . build your own green rosetta . . . try this recipe: We'll start with a lump of grass . . . the grass bone connected to the ankle bone . . . the knee bone connected to the wishbone . . . and then everybody moves to New York and goes to a party with Warren. Hey!

And we've flown in, at great expense, (triple scale, no less, ladies and gentlemen), Steve Gad's clone to play the out-chorus on this song . . . he's really outasite, in spite of the fact that the click track is totally irrelevant to what he's doing now. I'm listening to the click, yes I'm suffering with the click track right now . . . this guy is totally out of sync with it, but what the fuck. Ed Mann will call him up later, show him the sign. Okay, Vinnie, where is five?

They're pretty good musicians
They're pretty good musicians
They're pretty good musicians
They're pretty good musicians
But it don't make no difference
If they're good musicians
Because anybody who would buy this record
Doesn't give a fuck if there's good musicians
On it
Because this is a stupid song
AND THAT'S THE WAY I LIKE IT

A little green rosetta
A little green rosetta
A little green rosetta
A little green rosetta
You make a muffin betta
With a little green rosetta
A little green rosetta
Rosetta, rosetta, rosetta
(etc., etc., etc. . . .)

Al Malkin:

Zetta . . .