dressing to undress

reprinted from issue 4 of screaming nipples—a mock fanzine i maintained about myself, for my own amusement, and never attempted to circulate or share with anyone else, before a hiatus a few years back—here is the cover story that details the making of this album. it was written in september of 2003, with tongue planted firmly in cheek, and sometimes delving into some less wholesome areas as well.

MERRY FUCKIN’ CHRISTMAS:

AN UNDERGROUND HOLIDAY CLASSIC

While most students were either paying attention in class or attempting to see through the clothes of another through sheer force of will, one sleep-deprived guy was crafting a demented slaughter of all things yuletide. Danborn Loincet traces the evolution of the CD that ejaculated in the face of every department store Santa.

After unleashing their fourth CD in the space of four months—YOU’RE A NATION, still considered either a stoner’s paradise or their worst nightmare—Papa Ghostface took a break, and Johnny West went about discovering the true essence of Jesse Topliffe; it was October of 1999, and he would soon find himself waist-deep in one of the most unexpected collaborative musical experiences of his life. While sporadically recording and bolstering Jesse’s songs, Johnny began and quickly abandoned his projected fourth solo CD after recording only two songs. Sleep Deprived—the first track attempted—gave some indication of the not-yet-hairy guy’s mental state, with repeated cries of “all I wanna do is sleep”.

“I’d fallen into this routine of staying up pretty late,” Johnny recalls, “so most school days followed a pattern: first I was disoriented, everything was amusing, and some people thought I was high, or else I was close to falling asleep in class; around lunchtime, I’d start to lose steam, but eating would help me get my second wind; then I usually felt fairly normal until around 2:00 in the afternoon, when all my energy seeped out through my ears and I could have fallen asleep standing up.”

While perhaps not entirely healthy, the ever-present sleep-deprivation served Johnny’s muse quite well; he filled notebooks and countless sheets of loose-leaf paper with increasingly skewed lyrics, and his improvised work was crawling toward some kind of early peak. A cursory comparison between the patchy SONGS FOR DEAD SKIN and the monumental YOU’RE A NATION (both recorded within barely a month of one another) makes it clear just what a difference sustained fatigue made; by the time of the latter album’s inception, Johnny’s daily life had taken on an almost hallucinogenic, otherworldly hue. The music was soaked with a feeling of having stayed up for several days straight and, instead of crashing, tapping into a jittery, uninhibited place. And then there came a throwaway epiphany.

“In the middle of one of my classes, I got the idea—mostly as a joke—to take a bunch of well-known Christmas songs and rewrite them as vulgar, sex-infested bits of filth. I started writing out some titles, having a good laugh, not thinking anything of it.” But after rewriting Silver Bells as Xmas Smells over two days in his first-period math class, Johnny began realize that he had the makings of his next solo CD: an intentionally radio-unfriendly assassination of overplayed holiday standards. There were many times when, during the Christmas season, he had been forced to listen to “Whitney Houston asking if I heard what she heard, and all of that schlock. And it got to the point where it didn’t make me feel particularly festive…it was just nauseating. So I relished the chance to do something that completely destroyed the whole Christmas Pop thing.”

The first song to be recorded (on November 11) was, appropriately, the first one to be written. Johnny conjured holiday images of a different kind as he sang of “Little froggies humping doggies / Full of sexual delight”. And those were just the first words out of his mouth. He went on to establish that his penis could sing, and rhymed “large skyscrapers” with “pig-rapers” (sic), ending the jaunt with a reverberating belch. Parts of Henry the Horny Hamster were recorded that same evening. The next day, energized, he overdubbed bass, keyboard-drums, harmonies, a throwaway guitar solo and a brief piano flourish on top of his live piano/vocal. It was a shame most of the people he was living with would never be able to revel in the unbridled romantic energy of this music.

Johnny: “I was living in a house on Kildare with my father, his fiancée, her daughter and their dog. Things had soured pretty quickly, and the atmosphere at home had become pretty tense and unpleasant as we discovered that living together hadn’t been such a great idea after all. So I spent most of my time either in my bedroom, or in my music room.” The workspace was a 10 x 12 room that was cut off from the rest of the basement it occupied. In his unfinished yet lengthy memoirs of some of his musical adventures of the time, Johnny remembered just how crammed it was:

My Clavinova CVP-59, which served as a multi-purpose digital piano, sat against one of the walls. On top was a Yamaha W-5 synthesizer. A Shure SM58 microphone sat in a tripod stand on the left side of the Clavinova. Beside these were my bongo and African drums. Beside the drums was my Arp Omni-2 synthesizer. Its D key after middle C had a habit of sticking up, and I didn’t play it that often. Two Shure SM57 microphones were also in the area, relaxing on their respective stands. Moving in this circular fashion, my massively cluttered desk was next. Along with an abundance of papers and CDs, this piece of furniture also held a Roland VS-880 EX digital mixer, and the attendant CD burner. A rarely-used Genexxa microphone found itself somewhere in between, accompanied by another rented tool: a Digitech guitar effects processor. My typewriter sat in the midst of it all, like a laughing monument amused by its surroundings. Beside my desk was my arsenal of stringed instruments: an Ovation acoustic guitar, a Stage Stratocaster, a rented Les Paul Standard and a rented Fender Jazz Bass. Two long shelves sat above the desk. The first held various ornaments of dementia, and a tape case. This held nearly a hundred cassettes of mostly improvised music from 1994 to 1999. Inside of my desk were nearly another hundred tapes of “unreleased” material. The tapes ranged from ninety minutes to two hours in length. When all of these tapes and songs were added up, one was left with quite a frightening assortment of songs. The shelf beneath held a Panasonic radio that worked as my monitoring system. It also provided a second headphone output. And that was basically my studio setup at the time.

Johnny is more succinct now: “I had eight tracks to work with on my mixer, and two of those were reserved for bouncing, which was necessary in order to get the music onto a CD. So I essentially had six tracks to play with, and no outboard compression or EQ, save for the guitar effects box. I didn’t know anything about compression or EQ. I accidentally figured out how to limit my vocals about half-way through recording the album, which allowed me to finally scream without grossly overloading everything, but the fact that I was using a boom box in lieu of studio monitors resulted in a lot of bass-heavy mixes. I was just learning to squeeze as much as I could out of the limited palette that I had.”

On November 13, he wrote and recorded one of his own contributions to the bloated holiday oeuvre—Xmas Sex. A touching acoustic ballad complete with African drums, three-part harmony and a bit of piano, it featured Johnny revealing just how horny the Christmas season made him. “It was then that I really started to feel I was doing something important,” he says.

As Johnny went about writing and recording his piece de tastelessness, a few people came into his life and touched him. Really…they had to have shaken hands at some point. One such person was Lanny McMoustache, who was a student in Johnny’s computer science class for about two days. “His real name was Adam,” remembers Johnny, “and I can’t recall his last name without consulting a yearbook. Actually, I don’t believe I ever did shake his hand. Nice try, though. Anyway, because he was one of the only guys at Walkerville with what looked to be a moustache, Goce renamed him accordingly.” Goce Illievski was another man behind the scenes, and became something of an hour-a-day friend. He and his buddy Jeff got wind of the project Johnny was working on, and Goce ended up providing the sheet music for Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas (which promptly morphed into something a bit different). After Lanny left the fold, Goce spotted him working at McDonald’s and suggested that Johnny write a song in his honor. All the while, Adrian Grabarczyk watched from the sidelines, bathing everyone in his Chronic Mouthwash Breath. It was strong enough to pass for some horrible cologne, but meant for the gums and such.

Johnny worked with the fervor of decapitated poultry, somehow never getting caught in the act of writing lyrics (or scribbling unintelligibly in an attempt to stay awake) during class. Sometimes he would record several songs in one night. Sometimes he would record nothing at all for a week or more. Anything was game within that isolated little music room, and some still speculate that there were Wednesday night orgies, though no one can be sure who may have been present. One thing that is clear is that, on the evening of November 28, 1999, Santa Claus paid Johnny a visit in all his nonexistent glory. The resultant interview was both revealing and unsettling, as Santa unsheathed more than just his soul. Who would have guessed that his voice was thick with some kind of Russian/Austrian hybrid accent, or that he was a major figure in the world of foreign film? Johnny maintains that this was one of the most memorable moments for him, even if it ended in hospitalization.

Pressure from Goce and Jeff to finish the CD before Christmas vacation drove Johnny to start working at an even more stringent pace, and he wrote the lyrics for his ragged take on The Twelve Days of Xmas during French class (where his naked self-portrait had raised eyebrows and white blood cell counts the previous month). Everything came to a head on the evening of December 16, during which Johnny recorded the final four songs and wondered all the while if specialty shops were selling penis-shaped candy canes. As the last strains of Have Yourself a Scary Little Xmas filled that crowded little room, a fragrant little dog named Seamus was battling constipation, brought on by a cursed grain of rice.

Johnny: “MERRY FUCKIN’ CHRISTMAS ended up being one of the most structured things I’d ever done at the time. For most songs, the template was already there, and all I had to do was write lyrics that fit and then spend a few seconds figuring out the basic chords.” Improvisation ended up seeping into every track in some form, though, and there were a few true Johnny West originals thrown in for good measure: holiday guilt-trip commercial savagery in the shape of Xmas Cancer Kids; the aforementioned Xmas Sex—“a celebration of sexuality during Christmas”—and the title track, which appeared in two drastically different versions (both of which were improvised). There was a bit of something for everyone abnormal, from a capella sojourns to quasi-jungle music on downers, and with more emphasis on the piano than anything Johnny would do in the following four years.

A few additional songs were recorded along the way but deemed sub-par. It’s That Time oozed family love with lyrics comparing a woman’s singing to the penis of a dead fly. Part original, part Dean Martin and part Tom Jones pastiche (the refrain from What’s New, Pussycat? was recast as “What’s up, sugar tits?”), it built to a climax of raw screams, but didn’t quite fit in with the other tracks. Let It Grow had potential as a romantic ballad, but lost steam during the bridge; “I never knew what exactly happened in the middle of that song,” Johnny confesses. Several other songs were written but never made it to the recording stage, including Shitty Tree, I Sure Hope Somebody Kills You and BBQ Xmas Blues (a.k.a. Testicles Roasting on a Barbecue). Also during this time, the lyrics to a number of eventual Papa Ghostface classics were written, including Filth of Your Love, Headkicker and Be Sorry, as well as Johnny’s own Promises. It was a fertile period. In the words of Mrs. Nihilist-Poet, an imagined art teacher: “It was as if wood was shedding its skin and we were all absorbing the slivers, giggling like merry chunks of octopi.”

True to his word, Johnny presented copies of MERRY FUCKIN’ CHRISTMAS to Jeff and Goce on December 17, the last day of school before Christmas vacation. Goce dug the guitar-playing on The Twelve Days of Xmas, but he seemed a bit shaken when he learned that Johnny didn’t play the instrument in a conventional manner. Other students asked to hear the CD throughout the day as well, and no one seemed capable of keeping a straight face while listening. Well, no one except for Adrian, who deemed it sacrilegious that Johnny would portray the Pope in such an unflattering light on Joy to the Squirrels (I Shagged the Pope). Perhaps if he had read the liner notes or listened to the CD, instead of just glancing at the song titles, he would have felt Johnny’s love. Alas, it was not to be. Instead, Goce got on Adrian’s case about his porn star boots, and the thought of his exposed scrotum caused irreparable damage to quite a few grade eleven libidos.

Then, almost immediately, it spread. “Jeff told me he made a copy for his brother, and Goce might have made a copy for his sister or a friend, and that seemed to initiate a kind of pass-it-on system of distribution,” says Johnny. “I think I made a copy for Adam Peltier as well, and that was about it. I didn’t find out until much later that the three people who had copies of the CD took it upon themselves to spread the music around, and the people they shared it with did the same, and it just sort of snowballed from there. But I think Adam and David Foot are probably the true heroes of this story, because those two guys put a lot of work into making copies for other people and corrupting as many innocent minds as possible, though I had no idea they were doing it at the time.”

People Johnny didn’t know and had never even seen before began approaching him.

“You’re John West!” one girl informed him, before telling him his Christmas CD was “fucking hilarious. The first time I listened to it, I was laughing so hard my parents came into my room because they thought I was dying or something.”

Another student told Johnny that he listened to the CD with his father all the time. “You must have a very open-minded father,” Johnny told him.

A guy named Colin that Johnny kind of knew thanked him for lambasting Bruce Springsteen’s version of Santa Claus Is Coming to Town; “I work at Wal-Mart, and they play that song so much it makes me want to kill myself!”

Within weeks, it seemed like almost every student at Walkerville either had a copy of MERRY FUCKIN’ CHRISTMAS or had a friend or sibling playing it for them. “I didn’t learn until a few years later, when I was out of high school, just how many people ended up hearing that CD and talking about it,” chuckles Johnny while rubbing Vicks Vapo-rub into the eyes of a crying prostitute. “It’s kind of incredible to me, almost like it was some kind of underground movement or something. There were a few guys who would give me a bit of a hard time before I made that CD, just talking shit and trying to get me riled up, and suddenly they were treating me like I was this incredibly cool guy they were in awe of. At the time it seemed bizarre, but now I can see that it might have had something to do with them hearing the album and re-evaluating the power I was keeping in check beneath my pants.”

One of the people who gave Johnny a hard time was Mike Baker. “He just liked trying to piss me off, usually by telling me my music was shit. At the same time, he always listened to my CDs whenever I would bring them to our Computer Science class. He told me the hidden track on YOU’RE A NATION was the most brilliant thing he’d ever heard me do, which I didn’t see coming. One day he was listening to Fuckin’ around the Xmas Tree, and my scream was so loud that the entire class could hear it even though he was listening on headphones. The teacher chewed him out a bit about the volume, and a few people were snickering.” It wasn’t long before Mike told Johnny that his brother had his own show on CJAM, and suggested that he give him a CD for some possible airplay. Nothing ever came of it, but the shock remained palpable.

Not one to remain standing where he had soiled himself, Johnny began work on the next Papa Ghostface CD with other-musical-half-guy Gord Thompson once the year had ended itself, and the two-man outfit gave an unhinged performance at Walkerville in March of 2000. After a few failed attempts, they had finally managed to join the Air Jam lineup, an event that Johnny has described as similar to a talent show, “but mostly without the talent”. The two guys popped up near the end of a show that had been dominated by tape singers, and Johnny went ballistic.

“There had been some unnecessary problems with the organization of the show, and I think Jesse was responsible for fucking things up the most, though I doubt it was intentional. He was unable to perform in May, leading someone to decide that the show should be bumped ahead to March, with a second Air Jam show held in May. We got thrown into the first show, so our plans to flesh out the sound with an actual band were no longer feasible. At first I wasn’t sure if I even wanted to play anymore, but secondhand marijuana fumes must have changed my mind, because I decided to use my frustration to my advantage.”

Hence his psychotic intro rant, in which he told the audience how he felt “jerked around” and, hazarding a guess that maybe some of them were feeling a bit jerked around as well, invited them to scream along with him when he gave the signal. While he and Gord played Pacing the Cage (the first song they ever wrote together), Johnny shredded his vocal cords, coming on like a crazed preacher hopped up on amphetamines, and beat the shit out of the pathetic little keyboard he was saddled with. During the song’s climax, he addressed the audience again, screaming “Let it out! Let it all out! Let me hear you!” The entire school responded with a series of collective primal screams. Gord just strummed his acoustic guitar, looking terrified.

The guys drew a standing ovation and-a-half (the half reserved for a partially-improvised version of Ballad of Bob and Marie), and Jesse was one of the first people out of his seat each time. He greeted Johnny in the wings afterward, wearing an expression of astonishment that looked somewhat alien on his face. “That was fucking amazing!” he said, throwing his arms around Johnny and his harmonica. “I fucking love the way you play guitar!” This was unusual, coming as it was from a guy who had belittled Johnny’s “fucking lap guitar” technique just months before.

Then came more hair, more music and the thing they call humidity, closely followed by summer vacation.

When Johnny and company returned to Walkerville in September of 2000, at least two people were eagerly anticipating the follow-up to MERRY FUCKIN’ CHRISTMAS. “Jeff and Goce started asking me what the next Christmas CD was going to be like, and some ideas were thrown around. Jeff came up with the title Christmas in the Ghetto, and a touching exchange: ‘Thanks, dad—a tire iron!’ He also suggested I overhaul Must Be Santa, focusing on the line ‘Who only comes once a year?’ I didn’t even know if a sequel was going to be made, but we had some good laughs.”

There was some initial activity, starting around September 18, including lists of new songs to destroy and their potential titles. Lyric fragments were written for Xmas in the Ghetto, Hear the Horny Dropouts Sing and Come All Ye Dickless, with We Three Pimps the only finished lyric (containing such striking images as “rubber dildo stuck in a tree”). On September 20, Johnny even wrote out a mock-advertisement for the hypothetical CD, which would be given the title CHRISTMAS UNDER THE COVERS. Alas, it was not to be, and all related activity dropped off almost immediately. There were too many other things going on musically, between the occasional Guys with Dicks session, the occasional Papa Ghostface session, the occasional Johnny West solo recording, several projected solo albums that were never to be (Angry Music and Downbeat among them) and ceaseless songwriting, both in and out of the classroom. Closer to Christmas, Johnny briefly began to entertain the idea once more, playing around with undeveloped ideas like Elmo’s Christmas Blues and Mr. Curry’s Christmas (a radio special focusing on the Walkerville Guidance Councilor, who had achieved a certain degree of fame based on his eerie likeness to a man-sized woodchuck). On the fourth of December, Jesse paid Johnny a visit during lunchtime and threw a few balls of crumpled newspaper into the waning fire, suggesting the two of them record a Christmas album together that was “crazy, but not as crazy as that last one you made”.

Again, the idea fizzled out, despite Goce’s and Jeff’s protests. It had already been done once, and Johnny didn’t want to fall into a pattern of diminishing returns. More than two years later, the same resolve holds true. “I still occasionally think about making another Christmas-themed CD, but it’s mainly just a curious, hypothetical thing, wondering how it would turn out. I’m much more musically proficient now than I was in late 1999, and I’ve got about fifty times the equipment I had then, so the outcome would certainly be a lot more musically accomplished and sonically pleasing. But I don’t know if I could top MERRY FUCKIN’ CHRISTMAS in terms of inspired insanity, and I just don’t have the motivation to concentrate that much energy on something that I’ll almost never listen to. When Christmas comes, I’ve already got a substitute for all the saccharine contemporary shit I grew up listening to. And I can laugh about the fact that other people have enjoyed it, a lot of them probably stoned out of their minds while listening, wondering what drugs I was on at the time. Meanwhile, I was just sleep-deprived and inspired.”

And we can all swoon at the thought of Santa giving a riveting performance in The Last Testicle, a life-altering art house film if ever there was one.

TRACKS:

xmas smells
henry the horny hamster
xmas sex
little virgin boy
xmas cancer kids
stupid shit
joy to the squirrels
interview with santa claus
santa claus is horny for clowns
fuckin’ around the xmas tree
the 12 days of xmas
merry fuckin’ xmas
’tis the season (to be horny)
whorehouse in the sand
the night before xmas
dick in a sock
lanny mcmoustache
have yourself a scary little xmas

STUFF TO LISTEN TO:

Henry the Horny Hamster

Dick in a Sock

LYRICS:

(warning—most of these songs are as sex-filled, politically incorrect & offensive as possible, which was the whole idea. some of the improvised lyrics that don’t appear here are even more out-there.)

XMAS SMELLS

little froggies humping doggies
full of sexual delight
everywhere there’s a feeling of christmas
masturbation…french persuasion
you can smell the cologne
& there’s still something else that’s quite clear

christmas smells
christmas smells
this christmas weather is shitty
ding-a-ling
mine can sing
soon it will be christmas day

springs of daylight…hot transvestites
makes me wish i were gay
everywhere there’s a feeling of christmas
large skyscrapers & pig-rapers
doing…how do you say?
some young shithead just pissed in his beer

christmas smells
christmas smells
i feel incredibly shitty
ding-a-ling
mine can sing
soon it will enter a hole
push-push-push!
feel the rush!
soon it will be christmas day

christmas day
christmas day!

HENRY THE HORNY HAMSTER

you know dickie & thomas & stupid & shitty
thelma & betty—their tits were so pretty
but do you recall the most horny hamster of all?

henry the horny hamster was a very horny guy
& if you saw him naked it would surely make you cry
all of the other hamsters used to make him strip & dance
they never paid attention to the bulges in their pants

then, one foggy christmas eve
betty came to say
“henry with your dick so big
won’t you fuck me like a pig?”

then all the hamsters loved him
& they shouted out with glee
“henry the horny hamster
won’tcha please have sex with me?”

then, one shitty afternoon
dickie came to say
“i heard what you did to betty
could you suck on my spaghetti?”

then all the hamsters loved him
& they shouted out with glee
“henry the horny hamster
you’re gonna have sex with me!”

suck on my willie!
make me feel like tinsel!
don’t step on the candycane!
no! it’s too late!
you broke it!
now it’s no good!

XMAS SEX

this christmas i’m gonna have sex
with every woman i can get my hands on
it doesn’t matter if they’re ugly
i’ll still stick it to them on any vacant lawn

CHORUS:
christmas sex
not any ordinary sex
not the same as bonin’ a t-rex
you use a condom
nudity
some lovely growths in front of me
i could even do a tree
i’m just so horny
i’ll have sex with anything in front of me

this christmas i’m gonna be so naughty
with every female elf i can find
i’m gonna take mrs. claus into a public bathroom
& stick my dick in her behind

you might say i’m a nympho
& you’re probably right
but what else would you have a horny guy do
on christmas night?

REPEAT CHORUS x 2

i just want a piece
i got a thing for santa’s niece
i think her name might be elise
she sure looks tasty
& i’m sure that she would smile
if i included her in a pile
of nymphomaniac pedophiles
or would that be too hasty?

LITTLE VIRGIN BOY

a little virgin boy was touching my bum
i turned around & said, “would you like some gum?”
he smiles & said, “no thanks
pa rum pum pum pum…
i like your bum”

i asked him why he didn’t fancy a femme
he said, “there’s nothing that i like about them”
i felt the urge to coucgh & spit out my phlegm…
then i saw a femme

she said, “little virgin boy, you’re so very smooth”
she walked beside him & his buttox did soothe
his moaning gasps, they came a little too soon…
she shot him the moon

we walked past a motel & she led him in
his quest for manhood was about to begin
then he glanced back & sighed, “take care of my skin…
& forgive me my sin”

i heard glorious noise that night inside of my head
that boy became a man—his old skin was dead
he could have remained the same, but gave in instead…
he was easily led

STUPID SHIT

stupid shit
grandfather’s tit
all is done
all is writ

young titanium dickless supreme
sun-up cleaners from another extreme
jerk off gently in peace
jerk off gently in peace

rabbit snot
mechanical rot
all is scum
that’s what we got

throw up cannons erupt in applause
gettin hard-ons for dominique dawes
jerk off gently in peace
jerk off gently in peace

grassy plains
vulgar terrain
drug bust nuts
shaggy mane

david weave roth without any hair
still looks strapping in long underwear
jerk off gently in peace
jerk off gently in peace

JOY TO THE SQUIRRELS (I SHAGGED THE POPE)

joy to the squirrels
my dick fell off
that thing just pissed me off
it fell onto the concrete
& bounced at my fight
the testicles blew in the wind
the testicles blew in the wind
the testicles blew in the wind

i’m gonna hurl
i drank too much
i’m lucky i’m not dead
they said there was no hope
i’d never shag the pope
but i proved all of them wrong
yeah, i proved all of them wrong
yeah, i proved to all of them that they were wrong

i kidnapped him & squeezed his ass
he smiled his toothless smile
he took off his clothes
i saw his wrinkly toes
& vomited in disgust
i vomited in disgust
i vomited in disgust

now i’m in jail
my name’s been changed
some guy thinks i’m his girlfriend
he waits till i’m asleep
& then screams like a sheep
i don’t like crap in my ass
i don’t like crap in my ass
i don’t want his fucking sperm inside my ass!

SANTA CLAUS IS HORNY FOR CLOWNS

you better watch out
just zip up your fly
keep your clothes on
i’m telling you why
santa claus is horny for clowns

he’s makin’ a tape
& watchin’ it twice
he’s gonna find out
who’s got fuzzy dice
santa claus is horny for clowns

he sees you when you’re sleeping
he hides when you’re awake
he takes a lot of picture stuff
& he beats off with a rake

FUCKIN’ AROUND THE XMAS TREE

fuckin’ around the christmas tree
with my lady baby bop
prostitutes lined up where you can see
they might suck your lollipop
fuckin’ around the christmas tree
you are feeling like a king
later we’ll have come pumpkin pie
that’ll make your penis sing

you will get a big erectile feeling when you hear
voices singing “we’re so horny
coat our dicks with pepto bismal”

fuckin’ around the christmas tree
have a horny holiday
everyone taking off their clothes
in the sexy stripper way

THE 12 DAYS OF XMAS

on the first day of christmas, my sperm bank gave to me
a penis in a dead tree

on the second day of christmas, my sperm bank gave to me
one horny ape
& a penis in a dead tree

on the third day of christmas, my sperm bank gave to me
three shitty toothpicks
one horny ape
& a penis in a dead tree

on the fourth day of christmas, my sperm bank gave to me
half a burrito
three shitty toothpicks
one horny ape
& a penis in a dead tree

on the fifth day of christmas, my sperm bank gave to me
five bags of fece
half a burrito
three shitty toothpicks
one horny ape
& a penis in a dead tree

on the sixth day of christmas, my sperm bank gave to me
a dead possum’s earlobe
five bags of fece
half a burrito
three shitty toothpicks
one horny ape
& a penis in a dead tree

on the seventh day of christmas, my sperm bank gave to me
lamb anus tofu
a dead possum’s earlobe
five bags of fece
half a burrito
three shitty toothpicks
one horny ape
& a penis in a dead tree

on the eighth day of christmas, my sperm bank gave to me
stepfather sandwich
lamb anus tofu
a dead possum’s earlobe
five bags of fece
half a burrito
three shitty toothpicks
one horny ape
& a penis in a dead tree

on the ninth day of christmas, my sperm bank gave to me
stupid toenail clippers
stepfather sandwich
lamb anus tofu
a dead possum’s earlobe
five bags of fece
half a burrito
three shitty toothpicks
one horny ape
& a penis in a dead tree

on the tenth day of christmas, my sperm bank gave to me
oral fantasia
stupid toenail clippers
stepfather sandwich
lamb anus tofu
a dead possum’s earlobe
five bags of fece
half a burrito
three shitty toothpicks
one horny ape
& a penis in a dead tree

on the eleventh day of christmas, my sperm bank gave to me
spinal meningitis
oral fantasia
stupid toenail clippers
stepfather sandwich
lamb anus tofu
a dead possum’s earlobe
five bags of fece
half a burrito
three shitty toothpicks
one horny ape
& a penis in a dead tree

on the twelfth day of christmas, my sperm bank gave to me
some old sperm i gave them
spinal meningitis
oral fantasia
stupid toenail clippers
stepfather sandwich
lamb anus tofu
a dead possum’s earlobe
five bags of fece
half a burrito
three shitty toothpicks
one horny ape
& a penis in a dead tree

‘TIS THE SEASON (TO BE HORNY)

’tis the season to be horny
fa fa fa fa fa, fa fa fa fa
gettin’ sweaty in the morning
fa fa fa fa fa, fa fa fa fa
making out with perry farrell
fa fa fa, fa fa fa, fa fa fa
sperm collection in a barrel
fa fa fa fa fa, fa fa fa fa

deck the halls with balls o’plenty
fa fa fa fa fa, fa fa fa fa
an easy way to make some money
fa fa fa fa fa, fa fa fa fa
little nuggets coat the fish pond
fa fa fa, fa fa fa, fa fa fa
i wonder if some penguins are blonde
fa fa fa fa fa, fa fa fa fa

’tis the season to be horny
fa fa fa fa fa, fa fa fa fa
porno movies in the morning
fa fa fa fa fa, fa fa fa fa
listening to perry farrell
fa fa fa, fa fa fa, fa fa fa
i’ve got my sperm in a barrel
fa fa fa fa fa, fa fa fa fa

there once was a possum in a bucket
he stubbed his winky & said FUCK IT
then it got stuck in his zipper
possum had the hots for flipper

WHOREHOUSE IN THE SAND

licorice thong—do you get me?
you’re so hot
you better pet me
a beautiful smile
you put me on trial
but we could build a whorehouse in the sand

all the folks would enjoy it
the government would destroy it
it would be so nice
sweet paradise
if we built a whorehouse in the sand

in the cabin, we could take some acid
we’ll pretend that we are flying clowns
i’ll ask, “are you buzzin’?”
you’ll say, “yeah, man!”
& we can do the deed when we’re in town

look at her—she adores me
there was no one before me
there things i know
a bird told me so
but he couldn’t build a whorehouse in the sand

there’s a light shining through me
it was then that you knew me
before i found fame
all things seemed the same
until i built a whorehouse in the sand

in the cabin, we could take some acid
we’ll pretend that we are flying clowns
i’ll ask, “are you buzzin’?”
you’ll say, “yeah, man!”
& we can do the deed when we’re in town

licorice thong—do you get me?
i’ll go fast if you let me
the voice of a man
who never ever ran
& one who built a whorehouse in the sand

the voice of a man
who never humped stan
& one who built a whorehouse in the sand

DICK IN A SOCK

prostitute, prostitute, dick in a sock
little wee sack & little wee cock
larry’s in kansas with his girl jenteal
when he has intercourse, it must be unreal

prostitute, prostitute—it’s five o’clock
time for your daily shine
waxes & lubricants spread to the beat
that’s my dick in a sock

the night time is the right time
to blast your balls to hell
jingle bell time is a swell time
to play a little game of kiss & tell

giddy-up, dickless horse
pick up your feet
be careful with that sock
it shakes & it jiggles & it giggles so sweet
that’s my dick in a sock

the night time is the right time
to blast your balls to hell
jingle bell time is a swell time
to play a little game of kiss & tell

velcro beats zipper & zipper beats rock
let’s all go smash the clock
waxes & lubricants under the sheets
that’s my dick in a sock

LANNY MCMOUSTACHE

lanny mcmoustache had a moustache the size of montreal
he did a dance
& he shit his pants
but he only came in the fall

lanny mcmoustache liked to run through fields gay
saying, “touch that thigh
sonny, don’t you cry
i’ll be back again someday”

all the kids cried when he died
& never did return
they watched as his innards took flight
as they were burned

lanny mcmoustache
as a corpse, he looked so gay
saying, “dry your eye
laddy, don’t you cry
i’ll be horny everyday”

all the kids cried when he died
never to return
they watched as his dick took flight
as it was burned

lanny mcmoustache
all along, he had been gay
they spit in his eye
he made them all cry
but his hair would always stay!

HAVE YOURSELF A SCARY LITTLE XMAS

have yourself a scary little christmas
let your dick take flight
from now on, all condoms will be out of sight
have yourself a scary little christmas
have sex everyday
from now on, all sex toys will be miles away

here we are, as in naked days
kevin bacon days of gore
sexy friends who are dear to us
gather near to us once more

through the years, we’ll all have sex together
if our friends allow
don’t get your dick ripped to shreds by someone’s plow
& have yourself a scary little christmas now