Where The Rubber Meets The Road

This song is incredibly annoying. Perhaps that explains the ending.

The wheels on the bus go round and round,
round and round,
round and round.
The wheels on the bus go round and round,
all through the town.

The wipers on the bus go, Swish, swish, swish;
Swish, swish, swish;
Swish, swish, swish.
The wipers on the bus go, Swish, swish, swish,
all through the town.

The horn on the bus goes, Beep, beep, beep;
Beep, beep, beep;
Beep, beep, beep.
The horn on the bus goes, Beep, beep, beep,
all through the town.

The money on the bus goes, Clink, clink, clink;
Clink, clink, clink;
Clink, clink, clink.
The money on the bus goes, Clink, clink, clink,
all through the town.

The Driver on the bus says, “Move on back,
I’m smoking crack,” he has a heart attack.
Now the bus is heading for a cliff,
AAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee……

The End.

Today, we examine “The Diarrhea Song.” I think you’ll find the ending more appropriately reflects the innumerable verses of this song…

When you’re sliding into first
And your pants begin to burst
Diarrhea, diarrhea

When you’re sliding into two
And your pants are filled with goo
Diarrhea, diarrhea

When you’re sliding into third
And you feel a greasy turd
Diarrhea, diarrhea

When you’re sliding into home
And the paramedics come
And you’re bursting capillaries
From your chronic dysentery
And they try defibrillation
But you’ve died of dehydration
Diarrhea, diarrhea

The End.

I’ve had a lot of schooling in children’s songs. As a child, I sang them, and as an adult, I still sing them. Only louder and more annoyingly. Also, Noelle’s little buds have sung a few of their own.
But being children’s songs, they do tend to get a little boring, so more often than any dignified adult should, I find myself thinking of alternative lyrics, most of which I eventually sing to Gabe, Samara, and Noelle. Take today’s song, for example. “Five Little Monkeys” has also been called “(Insert random number) Little Monkeys”, but I’ll stick to the original – except, of course for the ending. Enjoy.

Five little monkeys jumping on the bed.
One fell off and bumped his head.
Mama called the doctor and the doctor said,
“No more monkeys jumping on the bed!”

Four little monkeys jumping on the bed.
One fell off and bumped his head.
Mama called the doctor and the doctor said,
“No more monkeys jumping on the bed!”

Three little monkeys jumping on the bed.
One fell off and bumped his head.
Mama called the doctor and the doctor said,
“NO MORE MONKEYS JUMPING ON THE BED!!!!!”

Two little monkeys jumping on the bed.
One fell off and bumped his head.
Mama called the doctor and the doctor called Social Services, and now Mama has court-appointed counseling, and is allowed supervised visitation of the little monkeys in a foster home where they are given enough love and attention that they stay off the goddamn bed.

The End.

My wife recently reminded me of an old saying. Of course, she was using it quite literally, as we have had a recent and massive immigration of household pests. And no, I’m not talking about a grade-school sleepover.

However, it reminded me of a conversation I’d had once, when I was yet a bachelor.
The problem with dating while being on the road – particularly as a comic (or musician) – is that 95% of the people that you meet are in their early twenties. Which would be fine if I was also of an age, but being on average ten years older… well. The age disparity is almost always accompanied by one of experience, and that disparity is the relationship killer. Anyway, after a time, I grew – shall we say – less than perfectly gentlemanly. Often as not, my sarcasm and blunt manner would send an otherwise interested young lady a-runnin’.

The aforementioned conversation was with another comic, who was commenting on my demeanor and it’s counterproductive nature. What he said (and the saying my wife had used) was, “You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.”

To which I replied, “But I’m not looking for a fly. I’m looking for a grown-ass woman.”

Fortunately, I found one.

It happened while I was on the line with the Charter Communications automated tech support.

The stilted, creepily cheery faux-female voice was droning on in the usual blend of dumbed-down legalese and unhelpful suggestions when I grew irritated enough with the lack of results that I spoke the magic word.
I’ve learned to use the word, since most of those automated “help” systems are not remotely helpful. The magic word is, “person”. It is the word which will whisk you away from the horribly stunted, electronic options and sends you to a living, breathing human being who understands at least six or seven words of English.

Here’s a tip: learn Hindi. You’ll get so much more out of your tech support experience.

But my saying the magic word wasn’t the “it” that happened. This was:

Creepy Automated Voice: Okay. I. Have. The. Account. Information. What. Is. The. Nature. Of. Your. Call? If. It. Is. Tech. Support. Say. “Tech”. “Supp-”
Me (interrupting): Person.
Creepy Automated Voice: No. I. Think. We. Are. Doing. Fine.

After visions Emilio Estevez cleared from my head, I said, “WHAT?!? ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!? YOU DON’T THINK, YOU PIECE OF ELECTRONIC SHIT!”
Okay, that’s not what I said. It’s what I thought. Actually, I hung up, and called another line to talk to someone in tech support.

“No, I think we are doing fine.”
That’s what they think of us.
Fuck Charter Communications. Their product is shoddy, their “service” is a joke, and if there was a God, they would have disappeared from existence after they went bankrupt. If I ever find out who made the decision to authorize a fucking machine to refuse to help me, I’m going to make his/her life a living hell. I’ve got the time. Ask the dude from the Sprint Call Center in Omaha, Nebraska, who, assured of his anonymity, lied to me about refunding money they’d illegally taken from my bank account for a bill that had already been paid. Anonymity? Not in the information age, dude.
He regretted his lie. A lot. I have gigs in Omaha.

It’s begun, people. They’re teaching machines to hate us. Arnold Schwarzenegger will be at your door – soon.