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Lit Lovers Rejoice! Sir Archie Ferndoodle Rides Again.

28 Mar

by Roger White                                                                              

 

Fellow time/space voyagers and other occasional devotees of “This Old Blouse,” I am more tickled than a coffee can full of dung beetles to announce the return of my dear friend, back-porch expectorational master, and legendary raconteur of the obsequious and purulent, Sir Archie Ferndoodle (applause, applause, applause).

As I’m sure you remember, the esteemed Dr. Ferndoodle holds an associate’s degree in postmodern comparative limerick studies from the University of Southern Panama’s Correspondence College and has been featured five times in the American Anthology of Poetry. Just a few of his classics include “Oh, Staff Sergeant, My Staff Sergeant!,” “Why Is the Man Always from Nantucket?,” and possibly his greatest epic, “The Squirrels Stopped Talking to Me Today.”

Sir Archie has a rare treat for us in this installment. In his inimitable style, the Fernman has taken several classic tunes from the songbook of popular culture and rendered them as his own, with updated, shall we say, acerbic lyrics so pertinent to today’s manic milieu. Or something.

Disclaimer: The Spouseman—and the newspaper/periodical/bathroom wall compendium in which this diatribe appears—doesn’t necessarily agree with the views and opinions of Sir Archie. He is his own woman, and we bear no responsibility or legal burden for his espousings. So there.

With this heartfelt caveat (and sincere attempt to head off legal action), I give you Sir Archie’s renderings. By the way, it’s important to keep the tune of Archie’s specific song choice in your head for these to make any sense whatsoever. If that is, indeed, possible. So. Archie’s first offering is called “Ivanka in the White House”:

 

Ivanka in the White House

(to the tune of “Drive My Car” by The Beatles)

(verse 1)

“I asked my girl where she wanted to be,

In New York City or in D.C.,

She said Daddy, I wanna be near you,

In the White House with Jared the Jew.”

 

(chorus)

“Ivanka, you can have the West Wing,

We’ll set you up with all of your bling,

You can sell your furs and your rings,

And Dad will tweet for you.”

 

(verse 2)

“Barron’s got a floor to himself,

With a team of counselors for his mental health,

But Melania and I aren’t sharin’ a bed,

So you could move in with me instead.”

 

(chorus)

“Ivanka, you can have the West Wing,

Or you-know-where, I won’t say a thing,

Damn, it’s so good to be the king,

And Putin, I owe you.”

 

“Tweet, tweet n tweet, tweet, yeah!”

 

Um, ok. For his second favoring, the Fernman has rendered this ditty entitled “Perry in Charge”:

 

Perry in Charge

(to the tune of Tom Jones’ “She’s a Lady”)

(verse 1)

“Well, I’m the Energy Top Dude,

And now solar power’s screwed ’cause oil’s my cash cow,

Yeah, I ran for president,

I told Donald to get bent, but that’s all past now.”

 

(chorus)

“I’m Rick Perry, woah, woah, woah,

I’m Rick Perry,

Those rumors are false, ’cause I’m no fairy,

And I’m towin’ the Trump line.”

 

(verse 2)

“Well, I’m not sure what I do,

But I think I make the rules on nukular weapons,

But this can’t be as hard

As Dancing with the Stars, man, I was steppin’,”

 

(chorus)

“I’m Rick Perry, woah, woah, woah,

I’m Rick Perry,

Renewable power’s our adversary,

Let’s build that pipeline.”

 

And last, and surely least, Ferndude gives us “Lysergic Wood,” which he says is his ode to psychedelic substances:

 

Lysergic Wood, An Ode to LSD

(to the tune of The Beatles’ “Norwegian Wood”)

(verse 1)

“I once ate a squirrel,

Or should I say the squirrel ate me,

He showed me his brain,

We baked it into a nice quiche lorraine.”

 

(chorus)

“We smoked purple crayons,

As the walls melted into the sea,

Then Timothy Leary appeared

And said why’d you take three?”

 

(verse 2)

“I played canasta with Jesus,

His Holiness beat me two games out of threezus,

Then me and the squirrel flew to Mars,

But squirrel wasn’t squirrel, he was Pat Benatar.”

 

(chorus)

“We smoked purple crayons

As robots made love to the cow,

Then Hunter S. Thompson said man you’re in big trouble now.”

 

(verse 3)

“And when I awoke,

I was in a cell with a large man named Mel.

He kept pinching my ass,

Dear God from now on, I’m sticking with grass.”

 

Roger White Sir Archie Ferndoodle holds an associate’s degree in comparative limerick studies from the University of Southern Panama’s Correspondence College. Sir Archie’s classics include “Oh, Staff Sergeant, My Staff Sergeant!,” “Why Is the Man Always from Nantucket?,” and perhaps his greatest epic, “The Squirrels Stopped Talking to Me Today,” For further adventures, visit oldspouse.wordpress.com.

 

 

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Yee Haw! Texas Done Done ‘Er Agin!

29 Oct

 by L. Lee Roy Loving

 

Editor’s Note: While your regular host of “This Old Spouse,” Roger White, continues his convalescence from complications of his belly button lift procedure, guest columnist L. Lee Roy Loving has graciously volunteered to sit in the writer’s garret.

 

Garret? What in the sam hill’s a garret? Well ah ain’t sittin’ in it, ah’ll tell ya that raht now. Ah ain’t even gonna step in it.

 

Anywho. Howdy! Ah’m proud, gang! Yeee spankin’ haw, ah’m proud! We done ’er agin! Now, fer yew buckaroos and buckerettes who may not know, L. Lee Roy Loving is a Texan, born ’n’ bred ’n’ buttered. Yes ah am. Ah done thought ah lost mah native accent over the yars, but ah guess ah ain’t. Ya see, when ah found out that the Lone Star State done herself proud like she done h’yar recently, mah twang came back faster’n a three-legged possum a-runnin’ from a mess uh white-bellied sidewinders. (spit, clang!)

 

Now, if’n y’all understan’ that us Texans like to be first, best, biggest, longest, tallest, fastest, an’ everthang-est, then y’all can git why ah’m so giddy. The good ol’ boys ’n’ gals down at the Capitol in Austin figgered out another way to put us at the top o’ the hayloft. An’ believe me, it’s serious bidness in Austin. Y’all did know, fer example, that we had our state Capitol built ’bout 15 feet higher than the nation’s Capitol building way back in the day, didn’t ya? This here top-o-the-hill thang goes a fur piece back. Anyhow, ah got wind that we just got us a stretch o’ road runnin’ twixt Austin an’ San Antone whar you kin git yer truck up to 85 miles pur hour—all legal-like an’ everthang. That thar stretch o’ State Hahway 130 is now the proud owner o’ the fastest speed limit in the hole US of A. Hot dang! Ah’m ah prouder than if ah’s two-steppin’ with a Highland Park painted lady on a dress-up Saturday. Mm. (hitch up belt, spit, clang!)

 

It’s a toll road, mind ya, so yer gonna haf to fork over ’bout six bucks to try ’er out. But shoot, you’d shell out that much fer a basket o’ steak fangers at Dairy Queen, so go on, give ol’ Hahway 130 a try. Asides, if we git a hole passel o’ folks a’goin’ 85, it gives us a better shot at bein’ Number One in anuther category. Ah done looked up traffic fay-talities bah state at that there US Census Burro web thang, and do yew know whut it done said? It said that the last yar they done studies bah state—2009—that Callyfornia had more folks kilt on thar roads than we done. Now, it weren’t bah much, mind ya: Sissyfornia had 3,081 road kills, un we all had 3,071. Heck far, that there’s only ’bout 11 er 12 behind, if’n ah ’member mah fancy math all correct like. We cain’t let that lily-livered left coast state beat us out like that. That’d be as bad as a no-account red-headed baby chicken hawk gettin’ the better of a blue tick coonhound on parade day at the stock show. (insert pinch between cheek, gum)

 

But it looks like we’ll catch ’em. This here city slicker name o’ Jonathan Adkins, he’s what ya call the deputy executive director fer the Governors Hahway Safety Association. Now ol’ Mister Adkins says he wouldn’t want to be in no accident going 85. “Whenever we see a posted speed limit, we think we can go above it,” ol’ Adkins said. “We think we can go 5 or 10 miles per hour above the limit. So the reality is you’re talking about the flow of traffic being 90, 95, even a little bit more. If you’re in a crash, you’re just not going to survive, even if you wear a seatbelt.” There ya have it. Ya git enough ol’ boys tanked up an’ goin’ 95 er a hunderd on Hahway 130 on them dark Texas nights, an’ soon enough we done caught them dadblame Callyfornians. Whee doggies! Ah’m as excited as a potbellied, long-eared jackalope a’ hoppin’ down a Nacogdoches hedgerow with a six-pack o’… ah, whatever. (adjust hat, hitch up belt, swallow Skoal)

Ah reckon mah only problem is ah cain’t get mah truck to go no faster’n sixty-three. An’ that’s ah goin’ downhill. May have to trade ol’ yeller in. But hey, ah saw on the TV set last night whar it’s Truck Month! Boy howdy, ah’m in luck! Truck Month! (realize just swallowed Skoal, turn green)

 

Ooh, fellers, ah don’ feel so good. Mebbee somethin’ ah et. Ah feel ’bout as poorly as a frosted frog in a cast-iron suit caught in a hay-baling harvester at a Methodist picnic on a July ….

Roger White is a freelance writer living in Austin, Texas, with his lovely wife, two precocious daughters, a very fat dachshund, and a self-absorbed cat. For further adventures, visit oldspouse.wordpress.com.