"No, don't play that!"
How could a man such as Splotchy, who, once upon a time, had created this wonderful meme whereby us goofy denizens of the internets each added his or her own personalized piece to a living, breathing cultural puzzle of laughter and violence and joy and outright weirdness, come up with this bloody thing?
I must admit that my soul is torn over this particular instance of taggery. On the one hand, a meme provides an avenue of escape, especially on days like today where I don't feel very political and would rather finish working on some poems -- only during lunch hour, of course, most gracious and forgiving employment overlords -- than post about why Bush and his neocon puppeteers suck vast, unending fields of toxic bullshit.
They do, in case you were at all curious.
And on the other, well, The Name Game was obviously an insidious communist plot to indoctrinate American youth so that when they grew up into fine, patriotic astronauts, they'd travel in their Apollo: The Next Generation spacecraft and land on the moon, whereby a double-secret, special ops branch of the KGB would activate their diabolical gamma ray signal, making the astrodudes and astrochicks slice their near-zero gravity golf shots, an embarrassing international incident of the first rank. En plus, it's one of those musical and lyrical combinations that no matter how much one loathes it, there's an inherent catchiness that's unavoidable, that sticks in your craw until you wash it out with some rock, roll or Drano.
Oh, Splotchy claims it'll save the lives of innocent puppies, but I think that's merely a front to hide his love of that evil Cold War relic. Now, the pain.
La Belette Rouge, La Belette Rouge, Ba-Belette Rouge,
Banana-fana fo-felette Rouge,
La Belette Rouge!
Marjorie, Marjorie, bo-barjorie,
Mathman, Mathman, bo-bathman,
Susan, Susan, bo-busman,
Mary Ellen, Mary Ellen, bo-barry Ellen,
Banana-fana fo-farry Ellen,
Mary Ellen! (all of you Ms are fucking things up! good!)
Je m'excuse, mes amis.