Opinions R Us.

Hey! Maybe it attaches UNDER this piece, so that when the carafe slides in and presses THIS piece, it presses down on THAT piece,  like this.

The proof is in the pudding, eh?

My brainiac brother-in-law muttered under his breath that I have “the engineering sense of Lucy Ricardo.”  Under his breath, like that’s an insult.  On the contrary, I take that as high praise.

I propose to set off into the wild blue yonder on January 1st.  New Year + New Leaf + New Life = Gypsy Journalism.

As ever, it takes money to make money.

Probably a bunch of y’all are rummaging around for the envelope and stamp necessary to the procedure of sending me ONE DOLLAR, and I surely do appreciate that.  Having relinquished myself to Homelessness on the 1st of May, I have TOTAL empathy for how hard it can be to find Stuff.  Stuff that I am TRYING to leave behind, but that has the tenacious stick-to-it-ive-ness of gum on my shoe.  

Bright Ideas do not buy RV’s or gas or equipment or food unless Bright Ideas are SOLD.  Since trucks and truckers are integral to Life On The Road, and since I’m singin’ for my supper, I got to thinkin’ that maybe I could write a SONG for Truckers and that maybe some Good Samaritan Slash Good Ol’ Boy country music kinda guy might BUY it.  Outright. Maybe only ‘cuz he feels sorry for me, but maybe nonetheless.  These are not my proudest moments.  But neither are they my country’s proudest moments, and I didn’t start it.  When in Rome, y’know what I’m sayin’?

Anyhoo, the working title is DON’T FUCK WITH MY TRUCK.  Think of a TRUCK as a man’s OTHER castle.  The little (*)’s indicate my awareness that some manner of hootenanny mumbo jumbo goes there, but far be it from my urban self to presume to know what it is, or even GUESS at the phonetics.

DON’T FUCK WITH MY TRUCK

Flyin’ down the highway in the early morning dark

Us, the sun and Son of God work hard to make a buck

The Sun and Son are steady but Man could use some luck

All your Stuff, it comes through us, (*).  WE DRIVE TRUCK.

While they argue ‘round and round in little circle jerks

Raise funds and Par-taay, give themselves all the perks

While the gas creeps up and the shipping drops down

And the Independent is stripped of his crown

While men loose castles and city turns ghost town

And telling the Truth gits you an Official Frown

No rain, no snow, no sleet, hail or Heil

Stops us from clocking mile after mile

We keep eyes on poor roads, worse drivers and the puck

We’re the backbone of Consumerism, (*). WE DRIVE TRUCK.

Flyin’ down the highway in the early morning dark

Us, the sun and Son of God work hard to make a buck

The Sun and Son are steady but Man could use some luck

All your Stuff, it comes through us, (*)  WE DRIVE TRUCK.

While we lost our big rigs one by one

Go bankrupt or go to work for The Man

While you lose your houses ten by ten

Suck it up and go to work for The Man

While the jobs dry up and the storefronts close

And bankers are bailed, not punched in the nose

The goods that arrive at Mother Hubbard’s Cupboard

Arrive by pedal to metal and with coffee on dashboard

While we cower before Servants who forbid us to say FUCK

What game we still got goes by us, (*).  WE DRIVE TRUCK.

Flyin’ down the highway in the early morning dark

Us, the sun and Son of God work hard to make a buck

The Sun and Son are steady but Man could use some luck

All your Stuff, it comes through us, (*)  WE DRIVE TRUCK.

I agree, now that I see red, it needs some work.  Still, I think it’s got potential.  Like me.

Gimme an F!

F!

Gimme a U!

U!

Gimme an C!

C!

Gimme an K! 

K!

What’s that spell ?

FUCK!

What’s that spell ?

FUCK!

What’s that spell ?

FUCK!

Yeah, come on all of you, big strong men,

Uncle Sam needs your help again.

He’s got himself in a pissing contest

Way down yonder in the Middle East

So put down your books and pick up a gun,

We’re gonna have a whole lotta fun.

And it’s one, two, three

Why are we overseas ?

Don’t ask me, I don’t give a fuck,

Next stop is effin’ Iraq;

And it’s five, six, seven,

Open up the pearly gates,

Well there ain’t no time to wonder why,

Whoopee! we’re all gonna die.

Well, come on mothers down on your luck,

Pack your boys off to Afghanistan or Iraq.

Come on fathers, don’t hesitate,

Send ‘em off before it’s too late.

Be the first one on your block

To have your boy come home in a box.

And it’s one, two, three

Why are we overseas ?

Don’t ask me, I don’t give a fuck,

Next stop is effin’ Iraq;

And it’s five, six, seven,

Open up the pearly gates,

Well there ain’t no time to wonder why,

Whoopee! we’re all gonna die.

Well, come on generals, let’s move fast;

Your big chance has come at last.

Gotta go out and get those towel heads —

The only good Muslim is the one who’s dead

And you know that peace can only be won

When we’ve blown ‘em all to kingdom come.

And it’s one, two, three,

What are we overseas ?

Don’t ask me, I don’t give a fuck,

Next stop is effin’ Iraq;

And it’s five, six, seven,

Open up the pearly gates,

Well there ain’t no time to wonder why,

Whoopee! we’re all gonna die.

Well, come on Wall Street, don’t move slow,

Why man, this is war au-go-go.

There’s plenty good money to be made

By supplying the Army with the tools of the trade,

Just hope and pray that if they drop the bomb,

They don’t drop it on the Green Zone.

And it’s one, two, three,

What are we overseas ?

Don’t ask me, I don’t give a fuck,

Next stop is effin’ Iraq;

And it’s five, six, seven,

Open up the pearly gates,

Well there ain’t no time to wonder why,

Whoopee! we’re all gonna die.

The 60′s original viewable at: 

http://www.democraticunderground.com/discuss/duboard.php?az=view_all&address=104×173181