GREAT MOMENTS IN ADVERTISING

In the 50's A small ad firm put several entrepreneurs on the map with their direct no nonsense approach to slogan and corporate image design. Let's listen in on history in the making, shall we...

The Boss: Okay, what's on deck?

J.B.: Well sir, the client is Melvin Spitz and he wants to open a restaurant on the side of the highway.

Hodgkins: A hamburger-stand type of thing, Sir.

The Boss: Okay so what does he wanna gonna call his place?

J.B.: Well he had some ideas he thought were really clever...

The Boss: Oh brother, let's hear 'em.

Hodgkins: "Highway Burgery" "The Skid Mark" or "Burger Brake" and it's spelled like the brakes of a car...

The Boss: Oh my god, I hope we're not too late to save this man from himself... Okay what did you guys come up with?

J.B.: Well sir, you have so much more experience with this, we were hoping you'd tell us...

The Boss: WHAT THE HELL AM I PAYING YOU BUMS FOR?!?! AT LEAST TRY TO USE YOUR BRAINS!!!!

Hodgkins: ...Uh, M-M-Melvin Spitz by the side of the highway?

The Boss: You're both fired! Get the hell out of my office!

Hodgkins: Yes sir, Sorry sir.

The Boss: Get back in here! We've got work to do. Now first of all nobody wants to go eat on the side of the highway. People like to go "in" somewhere. makes 'em feel special.

Hodgkins: Melvin Spitz "in" the highway?

The Boss: Oh I can see it now, "Can I take your order? Vroom Screeeeech! ‘SPLAT!" We gotta put Melvin in a nice place! Talk to me boys.

J.B.: How about a house, no a room, "Melvin Spitz in a room?"

Hodgkins: No J.B. the boss wants us to think outside the box remember?

The Boss: Actually Hodgkins, thinking outside the box never seems to work for you guys. Just think inside the box.

Hodgkins: "Melvin Spitz in the Box!"

The Boss: Better, but the names gotta go. He needs a catchier name, something with some pizazz.

J.B.: Steve in the Box?

The Boss: You call that pizazz?!

Hodgkins: Clyde in the Box?

The Boss: Even worse! Come on you guys, I'm falling asleep over hear.

J.B.: Ralph in the Box?

The Boss: HORRIBLE!

Hodgkins: Vinnie in the box?

The Boss: Look you guys are jacking me around here, What the hell do I pay you bums for? You ain't doing Jack for me!

J.B.: That's it! "Jack In the box!"

The Boss: You just earned your paycheck J.B., Ship it!

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

FAUX PAS-MOBILE

In 1989 Ford introduced a sporty little coupe with a name that really should have been nixed before it ever hit the showroom floor. The scene opens in a meeting at the Ford Motor Co. Creative Department.

Henry Jr.: Okay Billingsly, we're at the deadline here. Manufacturing needs a name for the new sport coupe so they can start casting the logos. What have you got for me?

Billingsly: Well sir, we have narrowed it down to three choices: The Ford Pony, The Ford Slingshot, or my personal favorite The Ford Probe...

Henry Jr.: Are you kidding me? Those are the choices? Those are the worst names I've ever heard in my life!!! Who the hell is gonna buy a car called a "probe?" What are you thinking billingsly?

Secretary: Sir, It's your wife on line 7...

Henry Jr.: Put her on speaker...

Secretary: Uh, Sir, I think you'd better pick up.

Henry Jr.: (click) What's the problem Stephanie?...

Secretary: Your wife is very angry sir, apparently she found a pair of my panties under the seat of your other car sir... I'm sorry... She's talking about a divorce.

Henry Jr.: Uh, I gotta take care of some personal business Billingsly, meetings over.

Billingsly: But Sir, the deadline, what are we going to call the car?

Henry Jr.: Look, I don't care about that right now! Just... do whatever you want, get outta my office!

And thus the Ford Probe was born. At least it represented the first example of truth in advertising as the Ford Motor Company really stuck it to it's customers with this lemon.

The Mashugga Megillah of the Bialy

by numbsain

A beautiful thing, a real bialy is. It's like a bagel but without the hole in the middle. A good thing, that; If I'm shelling out my dough, Some schmuck taking dough out of the middle of my bagel, I don't need! What do they think, out of my tuchus there's money flying? I should be so lucky. To impress a lady, I would just moon her. God forbid I should be robbed by a homosexual pervert.

But as I was saying, No, instead of a hole, a little indent and some chopped onions and poppy seeds for an extra bonus they put in there. But the starter dough they use, is what makes a bialy "a bialy." And from my mouth to your ear, 150 years ago, in a little town in Poland called Bialystok, that starter dough was first created.

Just a little putz, my grandfather was, when one day, from the bakery he owned, his father came home and the most delicious bread rolls they ever ate, he had with him, a basketful of. To my grandfather, a little wad of dough, he handed and said:

"Menachem, dis dough, with yaw life you should guard. Ven you grow up, a bakery of your own, you vil have and oy, such a success it'll be, with starter dough so good as dis."

A bissel of dough, a teenage boy is supposed to care about?

Weeks and weeks, in his pocket the dough sat and, of course, all the time rising and when it got too big, with his fingers, my grandfather would smoush it down. To read an assignment in front of the class, he was asked by the teacher one day. Standing in front of the class, the bulge in his pants, one girl in the front noticed. Like a puppy dog after that, this young goyeh started following him around. Long story-short, married they ended up, and soon, to America they moved, all because of that dough. Enough gelt to buy a whole new wardrobe, they had, with parents like hers, so rich they were. But the pants wit the dough, he kept always and all the way across the ocean, In a suitcase, in the pocket of the pants, the dough kept rising. Nearly bursting out from the suitcase, the dough was by the time they arrived. "Oy! What is dis? In the garbage, that suitcase should be. A disgusting thing like that i need? Feh!"

So into the trash bin it went. Well, from working at his father's Chinese restaurant down the street, this young Chinese boy came walking along. "In the garbage, they throw pants so good as these?" the boy said in astonishment. Back to his mother, he brought them to be cleaned. "Mazel tov, bubeleh! A fortune we can make with this dough from the pocket of those pants." She told her son.

Now, a pretty good egg roll they made, sure. But a fortune? ...eh, not so much. Troubles like you wouldn't believe, the father was having and the Chinese restaurant... Feh, kaput it went after a year. To clean out the place, they came, the new owners did. And still there, in a pot, was the dough. So big it was getting by then, the owners daughter thought: "Such a waste. Food is food, better I should keep some." So in a little bag she put a smidgen and into the purse.

As luck would have it, sent by a nice man who owned a little bakery, a love letter was waiting when she got home. Who knew? She agreed to meet with him and on their date, still in her purse, the bag of dough was, so to him, she gave it. The best bagels in the world, he made with that dough, so good, a little hole, he didn't want to put, so "No hole!" he said. "Maybe just make a little dent and... I don't know, I could smoush some o' these onions in there, that's good." And that's the history of the bialy as we know it.

Rome, Circa 25 B.C.

Bonus and Meniscus at the Vomitorium, Part I

by Guinness

"Hail, Bonus!" shouted Meniscus from across the forum. "Where you beheaded?"

"It's Sunday, you fool, and as customary, I intend to conjoin with Ignoramus at the vomitorium to gorge myself until filled to the gullet, purge, and repeat until my esophogus is squeaky clean."

"Oh, but of course! My cousin Virus is visiting from the rivalous region of Gaul, and would enjoy an orgy of food and drink...may he attend?"

"Virus? Never heard of him and do not care to have my purge ogled by strange Gauls."
"Oh, it is but my regret. What thoughts have you of the young fellow, Stimulus Terminus?"

"Ah, yes, indeed, bring that one along. I could use a bit of purging at the other end, provided either Ramses, Trojan or Magnum are packing the sheepskins, that is." Bonus dismissed Meniscus with a brusque wave of his heavily braceleted arm.

"Very good, we shall see you at XII sharp then!" called Meniscus after the retreating toga.

The vomitorium teamed with sweating, curly-haired men, some togas hanging off the shoulder, mouths greasy with game juices, wine, grapes and figs. In the center, a stone edged circular recepticle received the exodous of anal and gastric passages. Heaven on Earth, the epitome of man's societal modernization! As Meniscus entered, he spotted Hippopotamus gorging himself with a roasted leg of mutton, Status keeping tabs on the victual levels, Census counting heads, Sinus sneezing vomit from his nasal passages, Hiatus passed out under the fruit table, and his good friend Meniscus with Stimulus Terminus. Fabulous, he thought, and strode to the beverage table... "A shot of tetanus, make it a double."

As Bonus swallowed his beverage, a rucous arose amidst the patrons. Projectilus Vomitus was hurling colorful streams of fruit juiced pork back in a glorious five foot arc which landed dead center into the recepticle. A slightly built toga'd figure underneath the arc screeched "ROJECTILEPAY OMITVAY!" in a female voice. Every good citizen of Rome knew women weren't allowed in the vomitorium.

"Ceasar! er SEIZE HER!" the crowd clamored.

end of part I.

Ask Schopenhauer's Ghost: The Video

Helpful relationship advice from a dead, cynical existentialist philosopher.



by Spec & Goldmind

From the Book of Guinnessis, Ch. VII, vs. XI.

By Guinness

"How Jesus Christ was Named"
The True Story - abridged

Sayeth the Lord:
Circa 0 A.D., a virginal vessel who was so nameth Mary, conceived by the hand of thine Lord, a Child. With haste, she was, by the hand of thine Lord thy God, betrothed to the able and gifted servant of thine Lord, the town carpenter, Joe, who believeth, through the wisdom of thine Lord, that she remaineth intact. Some nine months passeth, and whilst the Virgin was able to conceive without spermatazoa, and the Carpenter wielded his hammer with God given potence, and wast never without good wood, they foundeth themselves without a crib for the approaching Child.

The Virgin and the Carpenter undertooketh to seeketh a birthing place. They knocketh upon several doors of thine Lord's servants, and were consistently refuseth admittance, they hath traveled for some time, and reeketh of body odor, mule and fowl breath. By the will of the Lord our God, they didst happen upon a meager residence of beasts.

"A manger!" exclaimeth Joe "Poifect!" [manger, French, verb, translation "to eat"]. Mary layeth herself down in the hay, and moments later, a three month old, curly headed cherubic Jew boy layeth himself in the manger.

Three drapery-cladeth men with darkened skin didst then arrive. "We are nameth Goldmind, Franky Sense and Merve, and we bestoweth humbly our native gifts upon this Holy Child. We humbly ask, what is the name bestown upon the Son of God?" Mary arose, palms facing the bright star which shineth over Bethlehem, face tilted downward [picture the statue in Vito and Giavanna Consiglione's front yard], and she didst shrieketh "Jesus Aitch Christ! I'm tired, d'ya mind if I catch some sleep already!"

The three departeth the starlighted manger and carried forth throughout the land the name of the Holy Son, Jesus Christ.

end.

Archeologists Discover Recording of Psychiatrists Performing Rap Concert

Editor's note: The following is a startling transcription of a recently discovered phonographic recording of psychoanalysts Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung engaging in what appears to be the first "rap" ever recorded.

Now Si-gi-Sig-mund Freud that is the name I use
I said I come from a line a' bril-liant Jews
So don't be mes-sin' with me. So don't be raisin' the Reich.
'Cause I am the def psych doc who repair ya Mic.

Now twenty years ago, you know my Uncle Fred
Well now he snuck all up, into ma' ver-y bed
And just what happened there, ya' know I cannot say,
But it affect ma' view right to this very day.

So now my protégée, you know he ain't so dumb
da brotha go by the name o' DJ Jung.
So Jung an-a-lyze, So Jung take the mic,
Jung diagnose them brothers now with all your might.

My name is Jung! I got the lung!
So y'all sit back and listen to ma’ crafty tongue.
I'm gonna break ya down, transfer it right
Gonna blind you all, wit' psy-chi-a-tric light

Yo syn-chro-nic-ity…yo ancient ar-che-type…
I'll make sucka-PhDs-grab-fo-their-baby-wipes
Collective con-scious-ness…project ma’ thoughts all night
Super-ego, Id…I conquer ever’ fright

Well NOW ya know, what cha deal-in' with
So take our rap to heart or you become a myth
And take two of these, because you are a wreck
Freud and Jung are done…here's your

check…check…check

~Goldmind, numbsain

The Littlest Justice

As the history of our republic unfolds, our judicial branch continues to produce generations of scholars who cloak the profession in vests of honor: John Marshall…Benjamin Cardoza…Learned Hand. These juristic giants are, however, microscopic in comparison to the man who stood a mere 8 inches tall. A man whose hypnotically poetic name hints at an intelligence so vast it could only be understood in German: the little known, Cormorant Chewink Crane.

Cormorant Chewink Crane’s meteoritic rise to our nation’s highest court began on Christmas in 1907. On that auspicious day, Crane witnesses his grandfather, a Yale-educated sugar baron, slip into a fatal coma while roasting acorns and playing his Jew’s Harp. The elder Crane had finally succumbed to rabies, a disease unwittingly contracted when the family’s pet Hungarian Partridge pecked its way through a sugarcane pen and, confused and emboldened by the rapid influx of sucrose, attacked the elderly Crane’s ear, mistaking it for a scarlet berry. The untimely death was catalytic: Cormorant swore to his comatose grandfather that he would immediately quit his job as a cigar-store Indian and become a respect jurist.

True to his word, Cormorant Crane completed a lengthy legal apprenticeship in 1908 and went to work as a prosecutor in New York City. Within a year, a fortuitous event brought Crane to the attention of then-President Theodore Roosevelt. In 1909, while hiking through a forest in New Guinea, Roosevelt was savagely ambushed by a flock of Shamrock Macaws. Recognizing the opportunity, Crane extradited the flock to America for prosecution. Although unable to pin charges of racketeering or attempted murder, Crane was successful with charges of tax evasion and the birds were sent to Alcatraz. By summer’s end, Crane had been appointed to the federal bench.

Steadily, Crane gained confidence in his ability to disguise tenuous ideological assertions as opinions grounded in law. His burgeoning skill was never more apparent than in his clever handling of a hybrid trust in the landmark decision, Gibbons v. Goblin. In Goblin, Gibbles Gooble, a zookeeper suffering from lycanthropy, declared a trust giving one of the zoo’s gibbon’s legal title and broad discretionary powers to hold a bag of crackers in trust for the Goblins, a family of plumhead parakeets. The case reached Crane’s court when Gables Goblin, one of the parakeets, filed a motion to terminate the trust and thereby prematurely reach the delicious salty crackers. Gibbon argued that because Gibbles gave Gibbon broad discretionary powers over the Goblins trust, the trust implicitly indicated it was Gooble’s material purpose not to terminate the trust. Dissecting the issues with his scholarly scalpel, Crane concluded that the power to sell crackers did not signal a protective intention on the part of the zookeeper to prevent the parakeets from terminating the cracker trust. On appeal, Goblin was upheld. Impressed with Crane’s mastery of trust law, Herbert Hoover nominated him for a recently vacated seat on the U.S Supreme Court.

Basking in the glory of his prestigious nomination, Crane returned to his hometown to receive a plaque memorializing his accomplishments. No one, however, could have anticipated the tragedy that would soon unfold. As the festivities were winding down, an opposition member of the Senate Confirmation Committee handed Crane a red helium balloon. Too light to prevent it from lifting him off the earth’s surface, Crane gracefully floated into the stratosphere, waving to the crowd as he ascended. He was never seen again.

For the past 50 years, sailors traveling the Atlantic have reported seeing a small man floating across the horizon. Some claim he visits their anchored ships while they sleep, resolving their unconscious conflicts. Although such tales are of dubious authenticity, Crane’s spirit undoubtedly lives on. That spirit continues to inspire generations of law students who have come to recognize that, within each of us—particularly lawyers—there is little justice. Let us never forget Cormorant Chewink Crane: the littlest Justice.

~Goldmind

Cogito ergo sum: Interview with René Descartes' Ghost

Thank you for joining us Mr. Descartes. For our listening audience, would you mind telling us a little bit about yourself?

I think, therefore, I am.

You think therefore you are?

I am.

I am?

You are.

You are?

I am.

You are what?

I am aware.

You are aware of what?

That I am.

That you are what?

I think.

You think what?

Many things, therefore, I am.

You are what?

I exist.

I can see that.

Exactly. And you are.

And I am what?

And you exist.

Of course I exist. But could you please tell our audience something about you?

I am.

Damn it Mr. Descartes, you are WHAT?

I am aware. I think.

There’s one thing I know, Mr. Descartes, this ridiculous interview is over. Good bye.

I am no longer.

~Goldmind

Friedrich Nietzsche: Possessed Mannequin or Distinguished Philosopher?

Few writers have inspired such fanatical devotion as has German scholar and phrenologist, Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche. But who was Nietzsche? The brilliant academic conversant in epistemology? Or the sagacious skull-measurer who built an empire trading exotic monkey pelts? A survey of the scrawl he left behind provides clues to the identity of the mysterious litterateur.

1872 – 6

A youthful and exuberant Nietzsche burst onto the European intellectual landscape with the publication of his dissertation “Tragedy, Destruction, and other Virtues.” Its style—simple, direct, and insipid, was designed to antagonize an indifferent public. Here is the origin of philosophy as we know it, with its fundamental assertion that “semen has no conscience other than an occasional guilt trip disguised as logical schematism.” (Tragedy, 214) It was only the beginning.

While the western world mulled over the peculiar decrees in his dissertation, Nietzsche quietly completed “Meditations I’ve tried that fail.” Universally applauded as an authentic search for spirituality, its introspective passages revealed a more vulnerable side to the German:

Beautiful woman appears and dances

Sandalwood incense held high,
Clap hands and chant songs with fear.
Latex is clear in mind’s eye,
Tall dancing woman appear (repeat)

1877-9

Increasingly more involved in his work, Nietzsche refused to leave his au-pair suite except for occasional visits to his elderly mother, a break-dancing bearded woman with a traveling circus. It was during one such visit that he hit upon the origin of moral prejudice. A collection of aphorisms outlining his theory, “War—a Problem We Must Violently Destroy,” was released in 1879:

“Convictions are more dangerous enemies of truth than are lies. And if one tells a lie, it becomes truth when there is truth in the lie. But when the lie, proceeding from the truth, purports to be a truth instead of a lie that arose from the truth, never was a lie so truly spoken.” (War, 483)

“I distrust all children, and avoid them.” (War, 509)

1883-8

Nietzsche slid into a prolonged depression and, against the advice of his Rabbi, released “Zarathustra, Smartest Man in the Whole Damn World.” Zarathustra introduced the phrase “God is paralyzed,” and gave rise to the concept of the “Suppurate Man.” Nietzsche argued that God did in fact exist, but was unable to intervene in the affairs of man because he had fallen, and was immobilized by an injury to his spinal column. The Suppurate Man affirms life, including the suffering and pain that accompany human existence. Moreover, the Suppurate Man discharges puss as proof of his existence and his faith that God is simply injured and will one day return on large crutches made of clouds.

1886 - 1888

Nietzsche surprised critics and expanded the scope of his work, releasing “Blonde Muscle—an historical account of Scandinavian Bodybuilders.” It was a financial disaster and led Nietzsche to shift his focus to devils and chimera. Illustrative of this peculiar turn are two passages from “Satan, Misunderstood Angel of Goodness.”

“Pay for that which I desire? I say rather steal it, then there will be more money at day’s end.” (Satan, 212)

“There are many who proclaim that to kill a man, eat his withering flesh, spit on his sodden grave, then ride horseback sipping champagne from his boot is unkind, even sinful. To those I say, you have not walked in those shoes.” (Satan, 666)

1889

As another decade drew to a close, Nietzsche began work on an autobiography. “Homo Erectus” unveiled the philosopher’s secret world, relaying personal anecdotes, childhood secrets, and family recipes:

“As a child, I derived a great degree of pleasure spanking my cats. One in particular, ‘Ruples,’ seemed rather to enjoy it. After I spanked him, he would roll on his back and gesticulate wildly. To this day, I do not know why he enjoyed that. But he did, and I loved him.” (Homo, 226)

“Trixie was the name of my first girlfriend. One day in class, she asked me if I liked her. I said I would if she would give me some change. She agreed, and I used the money to buy candy. I don’t know where she is today.” (Homo 304)

“The night my father died, he asked me if I might one day become a priest. I told him nothing would bring me greater pleasure. He began to sneeze uncontrollably, then keeled over dead with a most horrific expression on his face.” (Homo, 304)

1890

Greeted with the shocking news he had contracted hoof and mouth disease, Nietzsche isolated himself from family and friends and refused to communicate in any medium other than Morse code. Ever stoic, Nietzsche continued to write and, nine months later, completed “Why I Write Books Naked.” Naked featured amateurish sketches of policemen, squirrels, and badgers, and psalms to an unnamed pear goddess. When his publisher, uncertain of the market potential of a play performed solely by mimes making their way through an elaborate cotton maze filled with cobras, asked Nietzsche for an explanation, Nietzsche purportedly replied, “Inside the serpent, the hammer biscuit.” The play was never performed.

1891

Oblivious to his own increasing dementia, Nietzsche continued writing and, in 1891, completed, “A Will to Cheese and other Products that One Day will Mold.” In Mold, Nietzsche laid the groundwork for his theory that all humans desire to one day become cheese. This was “a necessary step in an evolution towards hyper-dimensional moldiness. A state of excremental, malodorous existence that transcends all known boundaries of space and time.” (Mold, 214) Nietzsche insisted the book only be sold by women with seven toes, severely limiting distribution. Only 15 copies were sold; seven were later returned.

1894

Local police received a series of complaints from Nietzsche’s neighbors and his legal problems culminated in an arrest for running naked down a major thoroughfare wielding a severed, flaming monkey’s paw. Two weeks later, he completed “Whiskers, my Invisible Mermaid Doll.” In response, Nietzsche was unceremoniously fired by his publisher and institutionalized by family members. One year later, he died a pauper.

~Goldmind (condensed reprint from Goldmind's Stanford Chaparral article from awhile ago)

Helpful relationship advice from a dead, cynical existentialist philosopher: ASK SCHOPENHAUER'S GHOST

by Goldmind

Dear Schopenhauer's Ghost,
I'm having a problem with my social life. Every time I find a boy I like, I get bored. Then I have to be mean to make him go away. The problem is, when he does go away, I get sad and lonely. The cycle repeats itself over and over again. What should I do?
Noel

Dear Noel,
Your problem is not unusual. Life is a pendulum that swings between frustration and boredom. You must realize that life is very bad and was accidentally created by an omniscient demon intent upon tormenting us. Try listening to Wagner. It will help you forget you are alive.
Sincerely,
Schopenhauer's Ghost

Dear Schopenhauer’s Ghost,
My boyfriend was so nice when we first met. He’d call me every day and would bring me fresh-cut flowers; sometimes he’d even write me little love poems. We’ve been going out now for almost two years, but he doesn’t do any of those romantic things anymore. He just sits around and watches sports and reads the paper. What can I do?
Kara

Dear Kara,
Your problem is futile and I cannot repair it for you. You should respect him for suppressing his animal drives to reproduce which can only cause you constant suffering and pain. Your own personal desire for happiness is inimical to its very satisfaction and, in the end, you must surely suffer a most horrible fate. Go to a museum; it may distract you from your impending annihilation.
My best,
Schopenhauer’s Ghost

Dear Schopenhauer’s Ghost,
I’m American and am very worried that our politicians are leading us all towards a path of certain destruction by not doing anything to prevent our excess burning of fossil fuels. I’m terrified of global warming. What can I do?
Greta

Dear Greta,
Your petty political concerns are of no consequence to me whatsoever. I would say the same were I alive. Enjoy your ignorant drive toward earthly utopianism which surely will furnish a mere war-cry in your superficial struggle of dumbness.
Sincerely,
Schopenhauer’s Ghost

Dear Schopenhauer's Ghost,
You're an existential do-do head. I don't care if there is any truth to any thing you ever wrote or said. It makes me sad and therefore can't be true. I prefer Ayn Rand any time of day! So there, you scumbag!
Rachel

Dear Rachel,
I do not listen to critics. Anyone who differs from my point of view is dumb. Even now, while I serve Satan in hell's dark catacombs, I am unfazed by the disparaging commentary spewed forth from the depraved creatures who torment me throughout eternity. So enjoy the air you breath while you live. Sound fades into the darkness from whence it emerged and so shall you.
Your friend,
Schopenhauer's Ghost

Beatles Parody time

by Goldmind

HEY DUDE

Hey, Dude, don't feel so sad

You drank Mad Dog;

but don’t feel better.

Remember, you let her into your heart

Now you’re apart. So much the better.

Hey, Dude, don't be afraid,

You were not made to go out and get her.

The minute you start to go out with your kin,

The DA begins, to write you a letter.

And when it’s time that they arraign,

hey Dude, refrain

Don't carry that girl off on your shoulders

Hey don't you know that it’s not cool, to stare and drool

I know, I saw, your rap sheet folder

Hey, Dude! You put that down

That gun is loaded, I’m just the messenger

Remember, you let her into your heart

You’re not so smart, don’t be a better.

So let it out and let it in, hey Dude, begin

You're not to find cousins to perform with

And don't you know that it's just you,

hey, Dude,You knew,

the law would come down on you like a boulder.

Hey, Dude, this ain’t Baghdad

This isn’t ping pong, time to do better

Remember, you let her into your heart

The rest of your life, you could be a debtor, debtor, debtor, debtor wooooooohh.

Naaah, nnaaah naaah nah nah naaaaa. Hey Dude!!