13 MP3 Songs in this album (44:32) !
Related styles: Rock: Comedy Rock, Rock: Garage Rock, Mood: Funny

People who are interested in "Weird Al" Yankovic Allen Sherman George Carlin should consider this download.


Details:
Hi! This is Steve. Welcome to the Extended Liner Notes for Pardon My French! Once again, Iâm excited by the fact that I can write all the liner notes I please in a Word document, and place this document in the âenhancedâ portion of your CD for you to read. I am free to express myself in words and phrases without limit, without worrying about printing costs and fancy folding of inserts in jewel cases. What an age we live in! If I could just get my stupid smart phone to work, this would be a great time in history!

Pardon My French! is my twenty-third CD of music and comedy. On this CD I return to the part of my creative persona that I fondly call âmy ultra-profane self.â As you may know, in my usual collections of songs I sometimes say (or sing) a naughty word or two. But itâs only every fifteen years or so that I come out with a whole collection of wall-to-wall profanity and disgustingness. Not since 1997âs Falling Standards have I gone quite this overboard with the naughty thoughts and harsh language. But hey, I gotta do what I gotta do. Sometimes you have to get in touch with your inner Carlin. Sometimes you have to say âwhat the fuck.â Sometimes you need to say it several hundred times, and make it all rhyme. Well, maybe thatâs just me.

This collection comprises songs I wrote in 2011 (for the most part⦠some of them were started in 2010). A lot was going on the the world while these songs were created. My personal world was rocked by divorce, while the country (and the world, and I) struggled with economic crappiness, global warming, tea partiers, terrorism, the loss of Christopher Hitchens, and the return of Sarah Palin.

So all year long I wrote songs, and posted some of them online (at www.thefump.com, for instance). And now that I have a dozen of them, I made an album. Crazy how that works out.

If you like these songs, feel free to let me know by visiting www.stevegoodie.com, choosing the Adultsâ Section, clicking on âWrite To Steve,â and dropping me an e-mail. Thanks for listening⦠I really appreciate it!

SG 12/23/2011



1. Dr. Dementoâs Intro
The good doctor has been on the air since before I was born, and I am honored to have him kick of this album. His kind words on his show about my song âIf You Want To Say Fuck, Say Fuckâ were touching and flattering beyond my descriptive abilities. He was further generous in allowing me to include those words here. Thanks Doctor! I feel better already!


2. If You Want To Say Fuck, Say Fuck
This song was inspired directly by the standup comedy of Louis CK, and indirectly by lots of other people and art and stuff. Hereâs what I mean by this ridiculously profane song: If you smash your thumb with a hammer, and then you say âgoshdarnit!â it is my contention that you are just as guilty as if you had said âgoddammit!â out loud, because that is what you were thinking. And if youâre thinking it, and if youâre going to hell for thinking it, then you may as well say it out loud.

The song âIf You Want To Sing Out, Sing Outâ by Cat Stevens came to my mind as I was thinking, âif you want to say goddammit, then say goddammit!â And that led me to think of the movie âHarold And Maude,â for which Cat supplied the songs. Naturally, the video that came from this song became an homage to âHarold And Maude.â And that video is on this disc â you can watch it on your computer!

Acoustic guitars: SG
Vocals: SG

Well, if you want to say damn, say damn
And if you want to say hell, say hell
Cause if you say darn or H.E. Double-Hockey-Sticks or dang
It means the same thang (and we know what youâre thinking, shithead)

And if you want to say goddammit, say goddammit (goddammit)
And if you want to say motherfucker, say motherfucker (motherfucker)
Cause if you say doggonnit or dagnabbit or mary mother of god
You know what you are (youâre a dork, at best, or a damn hypocrite, at worst)

You can censor yourself
And think you wonât go to hell
But if intent is a sin
You're fucked before you begin
Youâre going down anyway
You may as well mean what you say
Straight down, itâs the thought
Thatâs what counts, dude youâre caught
Itâs all mind control

Well if you want to say fuck, say fuck
And if you want to say cunt, say cunt
Youâre free to say what you want
So donât be a⦠p-p-p--- birth canal (they actually call it that!)

If you want to say poop, say poop
But if you want to say shit, say shit
You'll offend someone irregardless
You know that you will (with your pathetic stupid grammar, if nothing else)

We can say what we want
Thatâs why we live in this cunt-try
Youâre offended by this song (I can tell)
But hey youâve listened this long
And for that youâre going to hell
Is that brimstone I smell
Oh geez, ah ah ah
It's all hooey, ah ah ah
Go back to playing farmville (you braindead waste of millions of years of evolution)

If you want to say goddam motherfucking shit on a stick
Then say goddam motherfucking shit on a stick
Youâll feel better if you just do it
You know that you will
You know that you will
Youâre going to hell
You know that you will
Go to hell
So you might as well
Say what you fucking mean

Lyrics Ó 2011 Steve Goodie ASCAP
Music Ó 1971 Cat Stevens


3. What's In My Hotdog
Aaron Raitiere and I got together one day early in 2011 to write three kids' songs in two hours (or something like that). And we actually did come up with three (mostly) completed songs. This one got me so excited that I immediately recorded it and posted it on www.thefump.com, where it got a good response. It's so totally gross (albeit quite non-profane) that I feel it belongs on this collection of adult songs. Ain't that weird?

Guitars: SG
Banjo: SG
Jews harp: SG
Piano: SG
Bass: SG
Drums: SG
Tympani and percussion: SG
Keyboards: SG
Vocals: SG

No one seems to know, no one seems to know, no one seems to want to knowâ¦
But I want to know, I got to know, oh I need to know⦠whatâs in my hotdog

Whatâs in my hotdog, whatâs in my hotdog, whatâs in my hotdog
No one wants to know

Thereâs earlobes eyelids, elbows and fingertips
Dog nose, pig glands, frog bits, and chicken lips
Hog butts, peanuts, cow guts, brainsâ¦
Toe jam, turkey spam, vericose veins

Whatâs in my hotdog, whatâs in my hotdog, whatâs in my hotdog
No one wants to know
Whatâs in my hotdog, whatâs in my hotdog, whatâs in my hotdog
No one wants to know

Thereâs moose colon, horse bladder, anything that goes splatter
Half ton of puppy tongues, bucketful of camel lungs
Big hairy goat tails, dirty donkey toenails
Stuffed into an fabulous, edibile, delectable, deep-fried, something died⦠intestinal shellâ¦
Intestinal shellâ¦

Now I knowâ¦
Whatâs in my hotdog, whatâs in my hotdog, whatâs in my hotdog
I was better off not knowing
Now chunks I will be blowing
And cookies Iâll be throwing
My insides will be showing

I guess I really didnât need to knowâ¦
Whatâs in my hotdog
Whatâs in my hotdog
Whatâs in my hotdog

I think I got a fever
Iâm feeling kind of strange
My head feels like a whoopie cushion
My hands are a little clammy
I really want to die

Uh, maybe we should take you to the hotdog factoryâ¦
You could be the secret ingredientâ¦
Yeah!

Music and lyrics Ó 2011 Steve Goodie ASCAP and Aaron Raitiere ASCAP


4. Before He Tweets
When the honorable Congressman Anthony Weiner got carried away with social media in April of 2011, his story screamed for a funny-song treatment. The brilliant M. Spaff Sumsion and I wrote this song via e-mail, and I recorded it and made a simple video for it, all in the space of two days. Funny what time-sensitive subject matter will do for my creative bursts. For those of you who aren't familiar with the original song of which this is a parody, check out Carrie Underwood's "Before He Cheats" on the interwebs. BTW, Spaff and I have never met, or even spoken on the phone. Ain't that intriguing?

Guitars: SG
Bass: SG
Drums: SG
Fiddle: Tim Lorsch
Piano: SG
Keyboards: SG
Vocals: SG

Right now, the congressman is sending out some pics to some chicks, but thereâs collateral damage
Right now, constituents are seeing all his sweet little tweets about his stimulus package
Right now, he's going deep on the issues with a fine citizen who just happens to shoot porno
Like we don't know

But now it's looking like Weiner might get the shaft
Heâs been taking it hard, but the press just laughed
Right-wingers, tea-baggers, and the liberal elites
They say the beltway bugger got his ego stroked
If you friend him on Facebook you might get poked
Maybe next time he'll think before he tweets

Right now, the whole world is trick-or-tweeting screen grabs of some abs and a tumescent Weiner
Right now, he's probably texting that he wants to pat you down like a TSA screener
Right now, he says he's never seen 'er, and there ain't no misdemeanor 'cause he didn't Charlie Sheen 'er
But now he's gonna come clean (-er)

'Cause he wants to hold your congressional seat
He's the other white meat, the kind that can't be beat
It's a 21st century Lewinsky legacy
He keeps his budgetary tool there in his lap
He's ready to bridge your partisan gap
Maybe next time he'll think before he tweets

Was she a campaign donor, a Seattle Washington-er
Seems when he tried to phone 'er, he said, hi, this is John... Boehner
(wait wait, don't hang up... hold on... wait! Operator, can you reconnect me... fast! Operator! Hello! Dammit! Hello? God, I was so close! Crap! Come on! Hello?)

He'd be a totally rock-solid New York mayor
Reaching out to touch, every tax-payer
If he can keep it up, between heartfelt apologies
Until then he's just hoping they don't indict
That'd suck, that'd blow, that'd totally bite
Oh, maybe next time he'll think and hit delete, yeah yeah
Maybe next time he'll think before he tweets
Blah blah blah blah, OMG, what an idiot

Lyrics Ó 2011 Steve Goodie ASCAP and M. Spaff Sumsion
Music Ó 2007 Josh Kear and Chris Tompkins


5. You Rich Motherfuckers
This song literally came to me in my sleep. I awoke with the chorus banging away in my head, and I immediately recorded a rough version of it. This was four months before the CD came out, and it wasn't until just before the release that I finished the recording and added this song to the album. It's the most politically appropos song on here, but I just wasn't sure it was done, or whether it was even remotely funny, or whether all the stuff about the pope even made sense in the middle of such a song. Ultimate, though, I said fuck it, and put it in. And it's become one of my favorites. To me it feels like an old-time union picket-line song, or something.

Guitars: SG
Vocal: SG

Oh oh, you rich motherfuckers
Oh oh, you rich motherfuckers
Oh oh, you rich motherfuckers
You donât give a shit about me

If youâve got a billion dollars
Then youâve got more than you need
With all that clout youâre not thinking about
A million babies you could feed

If youâve got a billion dollars
You got it off of somebody else
But you donât care, you think itâs quite fair
To keep it all to yourself

Oh oh, you rich motherfuckers
Oh oh, you rich motherfuckers
Oh oh, you rich motherfuckers
You donât give a shit about me⦠or anybody

Oh oh, you rich motherfuckers
Oh oh, you rich motherfuckers
Oh oh, you rich motherfuckers
You donât give a shit about me

And speaking of babiesâ¦

Hey old man in the vatican
Have you heard weâre pushing seven billion
But you keep telling everybody itâs a sin
To use any kind of protection

Now the babies are starving and they keep on coming
And coming and coming and coming and coming
And all this over-population
Turns out itâs tied to copulation

Weâve been fruitful and multiplied
Thatâs one commandment weâve satisfied
You decided that meat on Friday is fine
Can I get a condom, can you change your mind

And while youâre helping stem the tide
Could we get a little bit of spermicide
Or if thatâs too much, could you at least
Quit covering up for your perverted priests

Oh oh, you holy motherfuckers
Oh oh, you holy motherfuckers
Oh oh, you holy motherfuckers
You donât give a shit about me⦠or anybody

Oh oh, you holy motherfuckers
Oh oh, you holy motherfuckers
Oh oh, you holy motherfuckers
You donât give a shit about me

Now back to the rich and the money theyâre hoardinâ
They couldnât care less what we canât afford, un-
Less they can buy the latest jet
They think they just havenât quite made it yet

And they call me socialist they call me queer
They say I just donât belong around here
And thatâs expected, Iâm not surprised
But I just canât believe all the support for these guys

Millions and millions of average kids
Say itâs un-American to tax these pigs
They think someday they might be that fat
They want to protect the money they plan to grab

Well news-flash kids, youâll never get that much
They guys with the bucks wonât give it up
And youâre helping the jerks who are holding you down
And theyâll sell you out, cause you donât count

Oh oh, you rich motherfuckers
Oh oh, you rich motherfuckers
Oh oh, you rich motherfuckers
You donât give a shit about me⦠or anybody

Oh oh, you rich motherfuckers
Oh oh, you rich motherfuckers
Oh oh, you rich motherfuckers
You donât give a shit about me

Ó 2011 Steve Goodie ASCAP


6. So Weird
This song was mostly written and recorded on July 22, 2010. I had this crazy notion to take a 24-hour block of time and see how many songs I could write AND record in just that time. I began at noon on July 22nd, and made it till about 7 am the following day before collapsing in exhaustion. Seven
songs came out of it, and this is one of them. I updated it just a little bit in December 2011, and here it is. It's one of two "ballads" on this CD, written for my then-wife, and it really did come from the heart. And I still mean it.

Guitars: SG
Bass: SG
Drums: SG
Percussion: SG
Piano: SG
Vocals: SG

Most of your girlfriends have a man with a normal career, or a job
And most of your girlfriends have a man who would never even think of shooting a video in a cemetery, like I did

I donât know why Iâm so weird, baby

Most of your girlfriends have a house thatâs the same color outside all the way âround outside
And most of your girlfriends have a man who doesnât look at the riding mower as a viable alternate source of transportation

Oh, Iâm sorry Iâm so weird, baby

Last week, I was up on the roof at 6 am
Making another dumb youtube
God Iâm weird!

Most of your girlfriends have a house that doesnât even faintly resemble a barn
And most of your girlfriends have furniture that matches and doesnât fall apart when the wind blows the wrong direction

Oh, I donât know why Iâm so weird, baby
Iâm so weird

And the whole world can see me on the internet
Wearing overalls and a wedding dress at the same time
Thatâs pretty weird

Oh, Iâm sorry Iâm so weird, baby
Yeah, I donât know why Iâm so weird

Ó 2011 Steve Goodie ASCAP


7. Plumbing
Another song from the 24-hour experiment of 2010, this one also got updated just a little bit for 2011. Based on actual events, this is one of the most honest songs I ever wrote. I really do hate hate HATE
plumbing. It's always a horrible mess, and I am never quite sure I got it right. I used to wonder why plumbers charge so much. I don't wonder anymore.

Guitars: SG
Bass: SG
Drums: SG
Vocal: SG

Itâs dripping
Itâs leaking

Canât afford the plumber to come out here in his truck
And tell me all the stupid things Iâve done
With his router and his wrenches and his calculator
I better try to get it fixed on my own

Itâs dripping
Itâs leaking
I hate plumbing
I canât⦠quite⦠reach it⦠DAMMIT!

Thereâs something in the drain or in the line out to the sewer
This crap is coming back and now the place smells like manure
So Iâm gouging and Iâm plunging like a real manâs gotta
And Iâm taking a bath in nasty black water
Oh, itâs nasty!

Itâs dripping
Itâs leaking
I hate plumbing
I canât⦠quite⦠seal it⦠DAMMIT!

My wife likes to watch as I struggle and I swear
She says I look cute with all the gunk in my hair
Now here come the kids to ask a lot of questions
I can barely contain all the cursing Iâm repressing

No, Daddy donât need help
Yes, Daddy can fix it
No, Daddy isnât mad
Yes, Daddy can handle it

Itâs dripping
Itâs leaking
Itâs pouring down on me
I hate plumbing
I hate plumbing
I hate plumbing!

Ó 2010 Steve Goodie ASCAP


8. What Do You Get The Girl Who Has Everything
I swear this song started out as a normal, sweet song. Rob Wolf and I got together one day with the intent of writing a gentle, sensitive song. And this is what we got. God help us. Please donât judge Rob (who is a VERY nice guy and would NEVER write anything like this), or anyone else involved with this song. Please blame only me. Iâm the one whoâs stupid enough to release this abomination.

Guitar: Pete Roze
Bass: SG
Drums: SG
Piano: Rob Wolf
Saxophone: Bryan Cumming
Vocal: SG

What do you get the girl who has everything
Sheâs been around the world, thereâs nothing she hasnât seen
Sheâs got all kinds of rings, from all kinds of flings
What do you get the girl who has everything

Sheâs got chlamydia, sheâs got crabs
Sheâs got scabs on the scabs⦠on her scabs
Sheâs all sore, âbout the sore, on her lipâ¦.s
Sheâs got five or six simplex-es-es-es

And Valentineâs day is just around the corner
I need the perfect gift, just what the doctor ordered

What do you get the girl who has everything
A penicillin sampler, some syringes and vaccines
Cause Iâm afaid that when she pees I might feel a little sting
What do you get the girl who has everything

Her mono became stereo and then quad and five-point-one
I tried to make her smile with some Azithromycin
That gal-o-mine, needs some calamine, and Iâm glad to foot the bill
Money canât buy love, but it buys lots and lots of pills

What do you get the girl who has everything
A vat of boiling water, some ointment and saline
I know I shouldnât go there, but Iâm riding on a shwing
What do you get the girl who has everything

Sheâs got two or three quarts, of liquified warts
What do you get the girl who has everything

Sheâs been around the world, and I like sloppy seventeenths
What do you get the girl who has everything
I mean everything
What do you get the girl who has everything, Jack

Ó 2011 Steve Goodie ASCAP and Rob Wolf ASCAP


9. Getting Old
Iâm old. So very very old. And so is my good friend Tim. In fact, heâs a bit older than I am. HA! Anyway⦠we decided to write a song about how dreadfully old we are. And here it is. God, Iâm old. And where are my pants?

Guitars: SG
Bass: SG
Drums: SG
Percussion: SG
Piano: SG
Vocals: SG

Why did I come in here, I really canât recall
Iâm in the kitchen, in my boxers, and I got no clue at all
My glasses have gone AWOL, I donât stand a snowballâs chance
Cause without them I canât find them, or my car keys, or my pants

This getting old, is getting old
These senior years ainât what Iâd call gold
Out to pasture, past my prime
Sidelined, before my time
This getting old, is getting old

I never noticed my joints, till they all started aching
My old tackle box is full, of all the pills Iâm taking
Iâd like to cap the genius, who invented child-proof caps
I used to have a future, hell I used to have some pants

This getting old, is getting old
My wife and I donât talk, we yell, our hearing aids donât work so well
When she starts nagging me
I take out the battery
This getting old, is getting old

Every cop and doctor is less than half my age
My boss just finished high school, and he just started to shave
Our kids never visit, grandkids never write us
Theyâre texting and theyâre tweeting, but weâve got the arthurit-is

I canât touch my toes, hell I canât see my toes
My head of hairâs beyond repair, and itâs coming out my nose
Itâs all downhill from here, straight into the hole
Without my pills I get the shakes, without my pants Iâm getting cold

This getting old, is getting old
We can live without our marbles, but not the remote control
Hate to think what might await us now
Mr. Johnsonâs on hiatus (ow)
This getting old, is getting old

Oh how I miss⦠the⦠pants

Ó 2011 Steve Goodie ASCAP and Tim Panyard ASCAP


10. Resolution
This year I will not write any more songs about New Yearâs resolutions.

Guitars: SG
Bass: SG
Drums: SG
Vocals: SG
Backup vocals: SG and Barbara D.

All right, this year I swear I'm gonna quit smoking, quit drinking, and start freakin exercising!

You say youâve made a resolution, well you know
We all want to lose some weight
At fat camp youâre an institution, well you know
We all know youâll clean your plate
When thereâs a box of jelly donuts
You wonât be going for the alfalfa sprouts

Donât you know itâs New Yearâs Eve, tonight
Someone brought some Krispy Kremes, all right
Willpowerâs gonna leave, at midnight

You need a liver substitution, well you know
Iâm still using mine right now
OâDoulâs might be a good solution, well you know
You wonât get drunk, but you might drown
And even your sponsor, down at the local AA
He bet fifty bucks youâll be plastered on New Yearâs Day

Donât you know itâs New Yearâs Eve, tonight
Someone brought some Irish Creme, all right
Moral fiberâs gonna leave, at midnight

You know I don't want to be in bad taste or speak out of turn or anything, but I would rather see terminally ill, unable-to-function Dick Clark doing the countdown, than Carson freakin Daly, my God, I miss you Dick Clark! You put the stroke in the stroke of midnight, buddy!

Youâre sucking down the air pollution, well you know
Those filters donât do crap
Theyâll stunt you till youâre Lilliputian, well you know
Soon youâll be breathing through a flap (in your freakin neck⦠have you ever seen Beetlejuice?)
Tonight youâre quitting for sure, and you swear youâre done
Tomorrow youâre wheezing and hacking and yakking up lungs

Donât you know itâs New Yearâs Eve, tonight
Have a hit of Ecstasy, all right
Intestinal fortitudeâs gonna leave, at midnight

All right, tonight, get tight, hereâs a light
Canât quite, get it right, despite, what your drunken sponsor says,
Who do you think youâre kidding?
All right!

Lyrics Ó 2011 Steve Goodie ASCAP and Tim Panyard ASCAP
Music Ó 1968 John Lennon and Paul McCartney


11. My Face
Facebook. Myspace. I put them together. Youâre welcome. And by the way, the facebook posts that are acted out here are 100 not-made-up. People actually wrote this stuff in a public forum, and they actually wrote MUCH MORE that I didnât have room to include in this song. Sigh.

Guitars: SG
Bass: SG
Drums: SG
Vocals: SG
Percussion: SG
Voices: Jenny Casey and Lynda Drewry

The world is full of idiots, you must agree
So glad Iâm not one of them, oh no not me

You spent three years on your page
Pimping out a sweet myspace
And you just canât face
Letting all that work go to waste
Itâs got every song you ever wrote
Every jpeg and stupid viral joke
You just keep on denyinâ
But myspace died in 2009

Now Iâm on facebook and you canât stand
How the whole damn world is my new best friend
No one comes to your pimped-out page
But theyâre all over me, all night and day

Everything gets obsolete, everything
No exceptions, youâre not that special, see
Iâm on facebook
Youâre on myspace
Letâs get together
And get on my face

Erica posts: What would cause a recurring yeast infection?
Cathey posts: If it's continuous, it's not totally healing.
Would grooming cause it? I did douche the last two cycles and bam here I am.. again..
If you have not treated it, Walter could be passing it back to you. You should see a doctor.
You can put plain unflavored yogurt on your vaginaâ¦

Why you gotta go and publicize everything
Way more than I ever really need to see
Iâm on facebook
Youâre on myspace
Letâs get together
And get on my face

Everything gets obsolete, everything
No exceptions, youâre not that special, see
Iâm on facebook
Youâre on myspace
Letâs get together
And get on my face

Ó 2010 Steve Goodie ASCAP


12. My Pal The Murray

This song is 0 profane, but it still belongs on this CD.

You see, there's always been something about "Albuquerque" that made me want to do my own version. Maybe because it's so random and cartoon-y. Maybe because it's so wordy and full of crazy harmonies. Maybe because it's eleven minutes and twenty-two seconds long. Maybe because it would justify some really long-winded commentary [like this]. Hard to say for sure. But it's been awhile since I put together an eleven-minute song.

About three years ago I had a lawn-mower-related adventure that simply wouldn't fit into a three-minute song. There were just too many ins and outs and what-have-yous to cram in.

You know, now that I think of it, I've never put together an eleven-minute song. I mean, who would?

Behold... I have now assembled the opus you are privileged to enjoy. Please note that 94 percent of my version of this song is literally autobiographical, particularly the culminating moment at 7:30 - it's
absolutely true. Every now and then I stretched 6 percent of the truth for "entertainment value," hoping to instill a bit of that "humor" everyone seems to like so much. But the vast bulk, the remaining 94 percent is pure, unadorned, humiliating reality. That's right. I'm an idiot.

Please also note that the structure of this parody matches Al's song, beat for beat and chord for chord. It would have been really simple to add or remove a bar here and there, in order to make the "lyrics" fit more easily... but no. This parody is true to the original, down to the nanosecond. And there are exactly 682,000,000,000 nanoseconds in this song. So that's a lot of dedication right there, gosh darn it.

Guitars: SG
Bass: SG
Drums: SG
Vocal: SG
Backup vocals: SG, Barbara D, Walter Cherry, Jace McLain
Backup yelling: SG, Jace McLain, and Jesse Smith

Way back in 2008, before the economy collapsed and George Carlin died and Sarah Palin became a household word, I lived in a cute little gingerbread house right around the corner from the I Dream Of Weenie hotdog stand. You know the place. Well anyway, everything was swell, with my happy happy family in our gingerbread house, except for the undeniable fact that every single day, 24/7, I made a whole lot of noise playing the drums.

Awww â loud freaking drums, every day and night... I was driving everyone crazy...

So I got on Craigslist and I typed in âhouses with recording studios inside them,â and would you believe it, I found about 150 of âem. So I said to my sweet wife, how would you like to come househunting with me? And she said, âWhat??!! I canât hear you!!â I guess all the drumming had made her a little deaf. Well we took a snare drum and a drumstick and we went from house to house, and inside each house she beat on that snare drum as hard as she could, and if I could hear it outside, we went on to the next house. Until finally we found the perfect home, with finished pine floors and walls that were oh so sound-proof. And I asked the guy what he wanted for it, and he told me, and I said, âokay, but you have to throw in that Murray riding mower I see out back.â And he said, âsure!â Wocka wocka doo doo yeah!

Well let me tell you people, that Murray riding mower was my dream come true, and it was about to become my new best friend. Back at the old house, Iâd been mowing the lawn with a push mower, and that yard was huge, and I was always miserable. So it was amazing when I realized, after the home loan went through, that I now had a new special friend...

My Pal The Murray (riding mower), My Pal The Murray (lawn tractor)

See, Iâd never even been on a riding mower before. And I gotta tell ya, it was really great. But hereâs the thing... the folks who were about to buy our old house, well, they were really excited to live there, and one day before that sale was final, I went by the old house to check the mail, and I found the new owners-to-be in the backyard planting geraniums. I didnât want to be a jerk, cause itâs not like they were writing on the walls with poop or anything... but still, they didnât own the house yet. So I said, âhey, no big deal, but if you want to work in the yard, give me a call first, okay?â And they looked kinda embarrassed... you know why? Iâll tell you why...

Cause the sale hadnât closed, so technically they were trespassing
No the sale hadnât closed, so technically they were trespassing
No the sale hadnât closed, so technically they were trespassing

Ah ha ha ha, how could that possibly come back and bite me on the butt?

So Iâm back at our new house, mowing the new lawn with my new best friend Murray. Heâs awesome! This new yard has no trees to get in my way, and the property goes all the way around the house, so I can mow in great big circles without stopping for branches or roots or delapidated flower-boxes or bikes or roadside trash or used hypodermic needles or big flaming bottles of psoriasis ointment or anything!

A few weeks pass, and the old house is about to sell... the real estate people call it âclosing.â You know, I donât know why they call it âclosing.â Why canât they call it âsellingâ like any normal halfway intelligent English-speaking carbon-based life-form? Am I wrong here? Am I wrong? Anyway... then I realize I havenât mowed the lawn at the old house in nearly a month, and itâs about to âclose.â I think to myself, âI should mow that lawn for the new owners, cause I canât call and ask them to mow it, cause I chewed them out for planting flowers.â And then I think, âI donât have a way to transport Murray (the riding mower) eight miles from the new house to the old house.â And then it hits me... I could drive Murray to the old house! Yeah! Murray goes, what, like five miles an hour? So I should get there in under two hours, mow the lawn in like 45 minutes, and get home in another two hours. What a delightful way to spend a day. Sure beats working.

So I get on mapquest and I plan my route, and Iâm new to this part of town so I donât know all the back roads yet, so I get a hat and some sunglasses and a potted fern and some rechargeable batteries and my catcherâs mitt and a bag of raisins and my lucky lucky autographed glow-in-the-dark snorkel and my cell phone... and finally Iâm ready to go! Then I realize, I need to plan a gas stop on my route. Iâd feel pretty stupid if I ran out of gas on a lawn mower. And AAA wouldnât help. You know what theyâd say? Theyâd say...

If you get yourself a car, weâd be glad to help you out
But we canât send a towtruck out to fix a lawn mower
If you get yourself a car, weâd be glad to help you out
But we canât send a towtruck out to fix a lawn mower

Even your Pal The Murray, your Pal The Murray

So I make sure Iâm gonna pass at least one gas station, and I grab my credit card and all that other stuff and at 8 am I hit the road. Iâm rolling along, and since itâs probably illegal to drive a lawn mower on public streets, I pretend Iâm mowing each lawn I pass. I soon realize, however, that this mower really goes about 3 miles an hour, so this is going to be a longer excursion than Iâd planned. No problem...a rockstar like me can take the whole day off if he wants.

I make a wrong turn, I have to backtrack, and that costs me about a half an hour. Man, this thing is slow. And loud... I never realized before how loud this mower is. I get a call from my attorney, and stop the mower to talk to him about the closing coming up. Everythingâs fine, Iâm still a bigshot, and I start the mower and I go on. I come to a busy street, and I take advantage of the sidewalk. Iâm mowing the sidewalk, feeling good, and as I go along, a cement wall appears on my right. Iâve got a wall on my right, a curb and a busy street on my left... and suddenly I see, right in the middle of the sidewalk... a mailbox.

Some jerk has planted a mailbox in the middle of the sidewalk, and I canât get around it. I have to back up a block, take Murray out in the street, and drive that block again. And now I notice I have an audience for this part... the cast of King Of The Hill is standing around, staring at me. Hey, donât any of you guys have a job to go to?

Two hours in, I stop for gas. I whip out the credit card, put in two bucksâ worth, and ignoring the laughter and cruel jokes from the other drivers around me, I head back out on the open road.

You know, when youâre only going 3 miles an hour on a really loud internal combustion vehicle and pretending to mow lawns, you notice some things that you might ordinarily overlook. Like how there are kids on schoolbuses in the middle of the day, and they are way way higher up than a shmuck on a lawnmower. And theyâre waving at me and making really unnecessarily rude gestures with their hands... little things like that.

Speaking of school, my route takes me by our kidsâ school. I hope to God theyâre not looking out the windows as I roar by, 120 decibels at 3 miles an hour. I mean, thatâs just what I need. Itâs not bad enough that Iâve grossly underestimated the time-commitment involved in this stupid plan, or that I forgot to put on my Old Spice stick deodorant this morning, or that I have a tiny bit of mint dental floss stuck between my upper right molars which is driving me crazy, or that I just remembered that I have hay fever and even though Iâm just pretending to mow all these lawns the pollen is way up in my cerebral cortex now, and all I can do is sneeze into the wind and pretend I have a handkerchief the size of a tablecloth at the Sizzler... now I gotta worry about the kidsâ friends tormenting them for years to come about their idiot parental unit who is driving by on a really loud lawn mower. In a stupid hat.

Iâm hot... Iâm tired... Iâm ready to mow the lawn at the old house and get done what I came to do. Iâm getting closer... I can see the old place... itâs right up there... oh man, there it is! And as I arrive, four hours after setting out, I see the new owner-to-be, and heâs just finished mowing the lawn.

And I said, âWhoa! What the? Are you kidding me?â And he said, âUh... I guess I should have called you.â

And your Pal The Murray, your Pal The Murray

We both felt pretty stupid. We just stared at the newly cut grass... and at the two lawn mowers... and at the twenty-seven eight-by-ten color glossy photographs with the circles and arrows to be used as evidence against us... and at the two lawn mowers...

I said, âI have to mow something. He said, âwell, I havenât done that fenced area in the back yet.â I said, âOkay, Iâll get that!â And I drove the mower over there, and I realized that Murray wouldnât fit through the gate. So I mowed that area with the push-mower.

And I thought, I gotta mow something. So I took Murray over to a patch of grass by the alley, and little did I know that, sticking up from the ground through the long grass, was a steel rod. And I hit that steel rod, and the mower stopped.

It died with a very unsatisfying crunch. I did get it started again, but the part of the mower that actually cuts grass was no longer working. Now I was driving a very loud go-cart. It was the Mr. Bean moment of my life. And I had a four-hour, really loud trip home ahead of me, another chance for the kids to see me driving a lawn-mower in front of their friends, more schoolbuses full of nasty staring monsters, and the very real possibility of getting lost or running out of gas, and that evil mailbox just waiting for me. Oh man... I hate it when Iâm stupid...

And now, years later, when Iâm driving around with friends in the car, I show them the Route of Ultimate Stupidity. âYou see that? Thereâs where I pretended to mow that fat guyâs lawn. Thereâs where I had to go down that 45 mph curved stretch with no sidewalk, hoping not to get hit by a truck. Thereâs that mailbox I wound up setting on fire. Thereâs where I had heat stroke and threw a rod and accidentally put borscht in the gas tank.â

But I guess the whole point I'm tryin' to make here is...
I hate geraniums!

That's all I'm really tryin' to say
And, by the way, if one day you happen to be making some kind of exciting real estate deal, unloading a piece of crap gingerbread house to get a goofy-looking barn-type of a house with a recording studio in it so that you can play the drums all night long, just make sure that your new house is a sweet little home... a little place with a new friend that makes a lot of noise...

Like my Pal The Murray, my Pal The Murray
My Pal the Murray, Pal the Murray
My Pal the Murray, Pal the Murray
My Pal the Murray, Pal the Murray
My Pal the Murray, Pal the Murray

I said "P" (P) "A" (A) "L" (L) "the" (the) "Murray" (Murray)

Pal The Murray, Pal The Murray, Pal The Murray, Pal The Murray
Pal The Murray, Pal The Murray, Pal The Murray, Pal The Murray
Pal The Murray, Pal The Murray, Pal The Murray, Pal The Murray
Pal The Murray, Pal The Murray, Pal The Murray, Pal The Murray
Pal The Murray

Heh heh, I play drums


Lyrics Ó 2011 Steve Goodie ASCAP
Music Ó 1999 âWeird Alâ Yankovic ASCAP


13. Dire Straits
This closing song also came from the great 24-hour experiment of 2010, and got updated in December 2011. I was trying to sound like early-80s Dire Straits (the band) â before âMoney For Nothingâ made them international celebrities. I'm pleased with the result. The lyric used to be about a tragic breakup and how desperate it can make one. I changed that entirely for this CD, and made it a song about how we are our own Big Brother when we post every single thing on twitter and facebook, etc. I think it's a fitting addition to this technology- and frustration-laden album.

Guitar: SG
Bass: SG
Drums: SG
Piano: SG
Vocal: SG

I blog everything I do
When I fold my socks, and brush my teeth
Guess I like the attention
Makes me feel pretty neat

I friend everyone on facebook
Theyâre all following my tweets
And I wonder how the government
Got all that intel on me

Every cell phone is a camera
Every friend is a spy
Everywhere you go, anytime
Youâve got an airtight alibi

We friend everyone on facebook
Hey everybody, read my tweets
Weâre just helping our Big Brother
Get all the intel he needs




And thatâs the end of the CD. Wasnât it fun? Or at least mostly non-irritating? I think we should listen to it again⦠what do you say?

And in case I havenât said it enough before, Big Thanks to Barbara, Jace, Walter, Aaron, Tim, Bryan, Tim, Pete, Rob, Megan, Lynda, Jenny, Al, Josh, Chris, and everyone else who lent a hand (with or without their knowledge) to this here thing. I really appreciate it!

Love and kisses,

Steve