Here at the World’s Shyest Band’s Myspace site, we always listen to what our “fans” have to say. Some of them say things like, “I’m not a fan, don’t call me that!” (ha-ha! We know you’re just ribbing us, you crazy guys!). Others say, “Please quit posting these lame-ass blogs!” (ha-ha! What a buncha characters!).
Yes, and now and then, someone comes forward with a sweetly moving personal story of hearts touched, of lives improved, of souls inspired and transformed by our music…
Well, actually, this has never, ever happened. Not once. So we make up the stories ourselves, such as how Trevor “Teensy” Terwilliger got his groove back. Read Teensy’s touching tale NOW (see below) and keep a box of tissue nearby because you’re gonna cry, I promise. It’s like chicken soup for the tear ducts, I’m telling you … whatever that means.
Oh, and, then, once you’ve read it, why not give the songs a listen … please? Just this once, for God’s sake? What the hell else do you have to do on a Monday morning? Don’t try to tell me you’re working. That’s bullshit, and we both know it. You’re playing on Myspace, looking for hot new girls or guys to add as friends, posting comments on your pals’ pages that only your pals understand because they’re “inside jokes,” which, frankly, pisses us off because you never post comments on OUR page, inside jokes or not, and we have feelings, too, you know….
Anyhoo …. take it away, Teensy!!!!
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Ordinarily, I don’t fill this blog page with writings that did not emanate from my own stupendous brain (or Quentin’s, which is far more stupendous), but I shall make an exception in this case. I wag my tail, metaphorically speaking, in honor of the author of these little ditties, however metrically dubious they may occasionally be:
I love my master;
Thus I perfume myself with
This long-rotten squirrel.
I lie belly-up
In the sunshine, happier than
You ever will be.
Today I sniffed
Many dog butts-I celebrate
By licking your face.
I sound the alarm!
Paperboy-come to kill us all-
Look! Look! Look! Look! Look!
I sound the alarm!
Mailman fiend-come to kill us all-
Look! Look! Look! Look! Look!
I sound the alarm!
Meter reader-come to kill us all-
Look! Look! Look! Look! Look!
I sound the alarm!
Garbage man-come to kill us all-
Look! Look! Look! Look! Look!
I sound the alarm!
Neighbor’s cat-come to kill us all!
Look! Look! Look! Look! Look!
I lift my leg and
Whiz on each bush. Hello, Spot -
Sniff this and weep.
How do I love thee?
The ways are numberless as
My hairs on the rug.
My human is home!
I am so ecstatic I have
Made a puddle.
I hate my choke chain -
Look, world, they strangle me! Ack!
Ack Ack Ack Ack Ack!
Sleeping here, my chin
On your foot – no greater bliss – well,
Maybe catching cats.
Look in my eyes and
Deny it. No human could
Love you as much I do.
The cat is not all
Bad – she fills the litter box
With Tootsie Rolls.
Dig under fence-why?
Because it’s there. Because it’s
There. Because it’s there.
I am your best friend,
Now, always, and especially
When you are eating.
You may call them fleas,
But they are far more -I call
Them a vocation.
My owners’ mood is
Romantic- I lie near their
Feet. I fart a big one.
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The World’s Shyest Band is positively mortified to announce that FOUR NEW SONGS have been posted on The Lapse page. Why should you care, you wonder? We have no idea. We would, in fact, appreciate it if you wouldn’t listen to them because we find all the attention pretty embarrassing. But if no one’s left any “funny” comments on your page lately and you just can’t read one more bulletin titled “PLEASE COMMENT MY PICS!,” then visit The Lapse and torture your hapless ears with such utterly forgettable tunes as…..
“Freaks in Love” - Who says The Lapse can’t write a rocker? Well, everyone, actually. But do we give a damn? Yes, yes, we do. It hurts our feelings, frankly. Which is why we wrote this song, in a vain attempt to prove everybody wrong. But we probably failed….
“Every Word You Said” - When love finally falls apart, sometimes it’s the little details that you remember…
“The Rain Queen” - She died young before her time….
“Forget Everything” - Love doesn’t follow any rules and it’s not always what it’s cracked up to be…
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Millions of Myspace members have asked for it. “Please, dear God, PLEASE, make The Lapse go away and leave us alone,” they beseech. “Their ‘beats are not the least bit ‘phat.’ They lack ‘shizzle’ and ‘bling.’ They don’t even have the good sense to sport rakish goatees like REAL rock-and-rollers.”
How humiliating. And yet we soldier on, two middle-aged Mississippi guys thumbing our noses at the collective wisdom of the 50 Cent-worshipping masses, gamely writing, recording and, yes, now posting THREE NEW SONGS!!! That’s right, kiddies, THREE NEW SONGS of love lost, love won and love yearned for, including:
“Ole Miss Girl” – She’s heartbreakingly beautiful and fated to marry a jerk. Where she BELONGS is “at the end of these two arms”…..
“She’s All Alone” – Once the most popular girl in school, she now wears “a painted smile ’cause she didn’t have a smile of her own.” But this aging beauty gets one last chance at true love….
“The Holy Happening” – They may be “saved in the blood” of Christ, but even kids in a Holiness church have hormones…..
So what are you waiting for? Beat the weekend rush and check out these new songs NOW at www.myspace.com/thelapse! Don’t worry, no one will ever have to know…..
Rick/The Lapse
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Several years ago I received, as a gag gift, a Fake Orgasm Keychain. Push the itty bitty button (and, yes, the button is pink, as it should be), and a recording plays – a woman’s voice, feigning ecstacy, building up slowly, steadily to an exquisite crescendo of blissful moans and wails, punctuated by the occasional shriek of sheer joy to our Maker.
This keychain is good for practical jokes, but it also has embarrassed me publicly more than once, such as in the canned foods aisle of the Big Star grocery store, where, with an errant waggle of my finger, I accidentally “set her off” amidst the Beanie Wienies and Spaghetti-O’s … much to the bewilderment of my fellow shoppers, I might add. And once the Fake Orgasm Keychain gets started, you can’t turn it off. THERE IS NO OFF BUTTON. You just have to stand around and wait for the “big moment” to arrive. There isn’t a damn thing you can do to stop it.
Well, it struck again on Wednesday morning. I’m pulling out of my driveway, office-bound, when I see my landlady standing nearby, waving at me. She is a petite, mild-mannered, kind-hearted woman of middle age who speaks in a whisper. I stop, we chat a minute or two, and I offer to write her a check for my rent. “Have you got a pen?” I said. Then, I remembered that I usually keep a pen in the storage compartment next to the driver’s seat.
Sadly, the storage compartment is packed with random CDs and empty CD holders and assorted other junk, and at the very bottom lies … the Fake Orgasm Keychain …. which I haven’t seen or heard in six months, at least. Knowing no better, I start rummaging through all the junk, and, not unpredictably, the keychain suddenly erupts.
“Oh …. Mmmmm …… Unnnnhhhh ….. Oh, yes…..”
My landlady has wandered off to HER vehicle, fortunately, looking for a pen, but by the time she starts walking back, Madame Orgasmo is just getting warmed up.
I’m frantically trying to shove the storage compartment’s lid closed, but it’s so packed with disheveled CD cases that the lid keeps popping back up.
“Oh! Oh! Oh, God! OHHHHH!”
Thinking fast, I switch on my car stereo, and loud music (The Lapse) blares from the speakers. I let the music play for a few seconds. The landlady is standing there, looking at me with a bemused expression. I switch the stereo back off, thinking, “OK, surely the gal’s finished by now.”
But, no. In fact, it is climax time. We’re talking exploding fireworks and fountains here. We’re talking Jenna Jameson at the peak of her talents.
“OH GOD! OOOHHHHHHHH! AHHHHHHHH!!!! YESSSSSSS!”
At last, I decide to (so to speak) come clean. “I’m sorry, someone gave me this fake orgasm keychain and I accidentally set it off,” I explain, staring miserably at the steering wheel.
“Oh, neat. Can I see it?”
Reluctantly, I start fishing through the storage compartment again and finally manage to extract the Fake Orgasm Keychain from the rubble. By now, the climax is over, the keychain has fallen silent, and somewhere in that imaginary world, the satisfied woman is happily smoking a cigarette and wanting to discuss where their relationship is going.
I hand the keychain to my landlady, who immediately pushes the little pink button. Madame Orgasmo commences to wailing and shrieking again. The landlady smiles.
Madame Orgasmo says, “Ohhhh ….. ohhhhh, God! Oh, yesssss!”
My landlady pushes the button again.
Madame Orgasmo declares, “UH-HUHHHHH! UH-HUHHHHH!”
My landlady keeps mashing the little pink button, then stares at the keychain, eyebrows cocked. She is no longer amused.
“OHHHH, YESSSSS! OH, GOD, YESSSSSS!”
And, finally, my landlady raises her head, looks at me and says, in that meek near-whisper of hers: “Um … how do you turn it off?”
“That’s the problem,” I admit, red-faced. “It can’t be turned off. It just has to run its course.”
“Here, take it back,” she says, shoving the keychain back into my hands. She turned and walked away. She was probably shaking her head in disgust, but I was too embarrassed to look at her, so I’ll never know for sure.
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