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.
Rocky Mountain High in . . . Texas? Not Yet (Redux)
25 Febby Roger White
So I’m sitting, slightly askew, on the couch the other evening, wincing through the throbs of a pulled lower back, trying ever so hard to catch glimpses of “60 Minutes” in between intermittent stabs of electric pain. Note to self: It takes two people to move the wife’s giant potted sago palm. Big, green, aggressive bastard.
Lo, mi amigos, there on my favorite TV news magazine was a rerun of an investigative piece on the burgeoning business of cultivating and selling, shall we say, pungent herbs in states such as Colorado and California. And it hit me as I was watching this how pervasive the proclivity of pot production has grown since this show was first aired. As of this here writing, folks, the medical use of (cannabis…shhh!) is legal in 33 states, and the recreational use of (cannabis…shhh!) is legal in 10 states. Present state stubbornly excepted, of course.
It’s interesting to note that although an air of legitimacy is lent to this state-sanctioned drugstore doobage—with barcodes on individual plants and white-coated THC technicians advising patients on characteristics and properties of each strain—that vestiges of the headshop hippie days still linger, specifically with the nicknames attached to different types of product. Some samples: Jack Frost, Blue Dream, Purple Haze, Skywalker Special, Accidental Tourist, Gracie Slick, Agent Orange—and yep, there is still Acapulco Gold.
Try as I might, I’m having a bit of difficulty envisioning an elderly glaucoma sufferer, say, an 85-year-old grandmother with a walker, toddling into her corner Hash-n-Dash. But here goes:
Eighty-five-year-old Grandmother With Walker: “Hello, Doctor Stoner.”
White-coated THC Technician: “Please, Mrs. Baker, I’m not a doctor, just a technician. Call me Moon Skye. How’s the glaucoma this week?”
White-coated THC Technician: “Tell you what. We’re out of Lemon right now, but we’re having a special on Night Train Nebula.”
Eighty-five-year-old Grandmother yadda: “Oh, that Night Train makes me paranoid. Do you have any Blue Monkey Balls?”
White-coated THC blah etc.: “Sorry, Mrs. Baker.”
Eighty-yadda so on: “Oh, all right. Half-ounce Night Train then. And do you have any papers?”
White blah etc.: “Sure thing, Mrs. B.”
Eighty-yadda-zzzz: “Groovy.”
Yet, as I squirm here on my couch, twinging with what feels like lower back labor pains, I must settle for a measly couple of ibuprofen, seeing as how Texas doesn’t square with a great many other states’ views on pain-relieving plants and such. I know we’re the big, fat belt buckle of the Bible sash and all, but if cooler heads prevailed in the Legislature (get it? heads?), we’d see the obvious benefits—namely, crazy stacks of Benjamins in state coffers.
And don’t quote me on this, but I bet we’d see a reduction in violent crime and speeding offenses. In fact, I’d predict a spike in tickets and warnings issued for driving too far under the speed limit. And I imagine there’d be a quantum leap in late-night sales of Doritos and caramel corn.
Texas being Texas, of course, we could put our own brand on the business. The possibilities would be practically endless: Texas Tea, Lone Star Lids, Dallas Dimebag, Galveston Ganja, Houston Homegrown, Beaumont Buds…you get the idea.
Editor’s note: As of this writing (2-25-19), there are three licensed dispensaries of marijuana for medical purposes in Texas. According to the Texas Tribune: “Though marijuana bills haven’t made a splash in sessions past, shifting politics and public opinion is giving lawmakers and advocates reason to believe the 2019 session might be different.” We shall see. But don’t hold your breath, so to speak.
Roger White is a dude abiding with his far-out old lady, a long-haired hippie dachshund, and a cat who digs Miles Davis. For, like, further adventures, man, visit oldspouse.wordpress.com.
Tags: Blogging, commentary, Health, Life, Lifestyle