Hey there you hot lookin’ muh-ma
You’ve got a nice lookin’ buh-ma
The way you’re a jigglin’
When you’re a giglin’
Makes my one-eyed trouser snake
To start to wigglin’
Think I could get suh-ma?
I thought I’d be slick,
Thought I’d be smart,
I took her for a drink in the park
Fully expecting to see a full moon
Though it wasn’t even close to dark
Butt mud muh-ma
I pleaded with her not to eat the tequila worm-a
But like the Union Solidarity and Development party
Down there in Burma
She didn’t listen to logic
And now she’s got a
Searingly painful posterior epiderm –a
This was ‘posed to be a simple little fling,
But now I’m feeling deeply entrenched –
aw c’mon baby
keep those cheeks tightly clenched –
now my truck seat’s drenched!
Butt mud muh –ma
I was gonna
But now I don’t wanna
Plug that hole with a wad a cuh-ma
Maybe you could use a big ol’ wad of bubble guh-ma
At this point I would gander to take an inkling that most folks, who didn’t just turn away after the first stanza, are going “Now why would that damn fool write something like this – somethin’s not right with that boy”. I have no real defence, other than I can attempt to do what most professionals do in this day and age – deny responsibility and place the blame on some sort of scapegoat that can not hope to be heard to defend themselves against the slanderous statements made of their being. I would like to blame parents, however, since the educational system and the legislative societal fascists who decry the lack of parenting because the parents are out working leaving their kids in daycare or a babysitter so plainly (1), as one who does not like jumping on band wagons, mostly because with my luck I’d end up with a clarinet stuck up my arse, I will instead put the blame squarely on three pre-pubescent boys.
The blame for the above piece can be assigned to them for three reasons; firstly they made me think it. Secondly, they gave me the opportunity to actually physically act upon it by allowing me the time to write it down and thirdly, if they hadn’t been around I would not have had the “boot bang” (2) lying around (ok, I probably would have, but allow myself to have a little couth in saying that it would not have been). We had been walking to the spray park and as with the normal flow of a Sunday conversation between a 42 year old man and three school age kids, the topic of the day was the different aromas and auditory textures of passing gas. It was agreed that the dog had the worst gas and the sneakiest deployment of the toxic digestive remnant, often being delivered silently. As the boys were running through the waters it gave me time to ponder further upon the various incarnations of passing gas – in order to continue to have a meaningful dialogue with the next generation and ingrain into their minds that I did have something to contribute in their social dynamics so that when the time comes they will consider a nice senior’s apartment complex rather than setting me afloat upon an ice floe – when I remembered a woman named Angela.
I met Angela only one time, at a bush party, but she left a lasting impression on me for years – and the passenger side of my truck. I could tell right away that she was one of those ‘good girls’ trying to be a ‘bad girl’, be it because she was bored, angry at her boyfriend, friends, what have you, and had decided that the best course of action would be to go ‘slumming’ with the bad ass crowd. Ordinarily I’m quite agog at the prospect of these types of women lowering their standards to where I actually have a shot, but Angela, I knew was over her head. She wore her make up heavy, crudely put on, the way she had applied it I could tell that she was used to much subtler colours and hues, her choice of a light low cut egg shell sundress, which even that seemed out of her usual mode of dress, which is an assumption I know but the lack of tan lines on the majority of the breast she was showing told a story of a more modest custom of dressing, a small half button sweater and heels signified that she had been unaware that the traditional (and functional) attire of the bonfire bush party of jeans, boots and jean jackets. I gently tried to urge her to leave but she had something to prove and had no intention of going anywhere until she had proved it. Everyone around the bonfire knew she didn’t fit, though she was pleasant enough, but even in the dregs of society there is a certain amount of nastiness that seems to arise out of the most accommodating of folks and someone acted upon this character trait by introducing Angela to doing straight shots of tequila straight from Mexico – real tequila, the alcoholic delight with the worm that lay taunting drinkers. As the bottle emptied, a woman smiled and offered the worm to Angela.
The tequila worm is a true testament to the fortification of one’s stomach, and possibly one’s alcoholism; the worm is extremely toxic and I have seen 300 pound men drop to the ground doubled over by a single bite of this worm. Angela was far from 300 pounds, maybe 140 if she had worn a dress made out of sponges in the middle of a waterfall, and had shown through her sipping instead of chugging the bottle that she was far from the stereotypical hard drinking’ wag. Angela took the worm and tossed it into her mouth, swallowing it whole.
Angela stood there looking rather self-satisfied…for about twenty seconds then there came a change across her face. The smug smile left and was replaced with a grimace; the colour drained from her face and over AC/DC’s “Sink the Pink” blasting from someone’s car stereo came the sound of a pinching growl – not through Angela’s mouth but from her stomach. Before anyone could utter those famous last words of “oh shit”, Angela became a fountain of tequila, beer, undigested food and bile, spraying a good five meter spread, her action being emphasized by her stomach contents sizzling as it touched the red hot embers of the bonfire. After exhausting the contents of her stomach, she sunk to the ground in a flurry of dry heaves.
It had been an unfortunate stroke of fate that I had been drawn as the designated driver for the circle of people that I had come to the bush party with, so rather than joining in the laughter and cat calls of “the pussy’s a pussy” I half drug Angela to my truck, flopped her onto the seat and took her to the hospital, fearing that she would succumb to alcohol poisoning. I was feeling fairly confident that the interior of the truck would be safe; after all she had spewed out everything that had been in her stomach and was still engaged in dry heaving. What I had not anticipated was the digested material that had been vacationing in her intestine. Halfway to the hospital, amid the moans and groans, came sounds not made in polite company; sounds that started off with dry, crisp pops but quickly degraded into gurgles which quickly turned my beige leather seats to a much darker hue. Hence the later in the night grabbing of the boot bang and creation of the ballad d’aromatic digestive stew “butt mud momma” – damn kids.
1 which is sort of ironic – the education lobby has pushed, bullied and guilted legislators into making higher paying jobs to be certified through ‘formal secondary instructional training’ then soaking those who have no choice but take the required courses through steep tuition fees and textbook sales in order to get the certification, which then leads to those realizing that while they were being schooled, the trained monkeys from the last semester had taken the jobs they had thought were theirs, thereby forcing those parents to take ‘non skilled’ low paying jobs that require, if a two parent household, both spouses to work, and in the majority of single parent households, to hold down two jobs just to make sure the rent/mortgage, bills and food is paid – but since the legislative and educational ‘professionals’ are already in overpaid positions, they need to act upon self preservation to indicate why they should be paid these salaries they have that deftly allow the archaic teaching hierarchy to remain unaffected by the economic downturns and lower graduation figures that affect the low people on their totem pole, the teachers – but of course, high taxes and general observation of top value profit margins to artificially inflate product prices 300 – 400 % of manufacturing costs have nothing to do with anything – it’s totally the parents fault. I am not saying that there is no truth to the idea that there are bad parents, but I would like to point out that the same can be said about educational professionals – a fact that there seems to be no acknowledgement about within the educational professions – until the crimes are so severe that they cannot hide them from the public eye.
2 the boot bang – there’s an actual name for it, but at this time it escapes me. I can recall on several occasions as a young lad my uncle making something similar to play in his folk band. This was a project for the oldest boy last year in school. He was to make an instrument out of stuff laying about the house. The boot is a size 7child’s snowboot, which gives it a higher tone but if one was to go for a lower bassier tone, an adult hiker would do it. Inside the toe of the boot is a plastic Easter egg from the dollar store filled with rice to give it a sort of counter balance to the jingle of the bottle caps on the neck. If you’re wondering about the elastic band screws, well, if you wind several different thickness and elasticity bands along those, it is a crude almost slap bass to go along with the rhythm of the boot/bottle cap/rice beat.