FZ: Thank you! Now this is a, this is an instrumental song, it's a tender, slow-moving ballad sort of a song, that carries with it the implied message that the complete woman must also have an asshole.
FZ: AlrightAll right, look here folks: We're gonna play another song for ya, but, uh . . .
Napoleon: Well . . .
(FZ: Sharp! A blues in G.)
(Napoleon: Blues in G?)
(FZ: No, in A. Hah?) Merely a blues in A, folks.
Oh, Yeah-uh.
Talk about it.
FZ: Goodnight.
Baby, it's cold outside.
It's up to your knees outside.
Baby, you're gonna freeze outside.
(Cold, yeahuh.
Can y'all feel it?)
Take your clothes off and you'll freeze your balls off outside.
Oh, lord, oh.
Oh, lord, lord, lord, lord,
WaaahWow!!
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? . . . So . . . So . . . Excuse me . . . Ha ha ha! Mm-mh . . . So . . . Ha ha ha . . . Ha ha ha! Who gives a fuck anyway? So he goes back to his ugly little room and quietly dreams his last imaginary guitar solo . . .
Good night . . .