a plus

Baby fights!

“Trust me,” slappy said, “things are finally going to change. This is it, this is our big break!”
“Baby fights?”
“Hells yeah, baby fights! Motherfucker, trust me. Will you just trust me?”
“I don’t know, this sounds kind of illegal. Two babies, in a ring, beating each other’s brains out?” I asked.
“Two babies?? What the fuck do you mean, two babies?”
“Now I’m really confused. Isn’t that what a baby fight is?”
“Hell no! Two babies? Nobody’sgonna pay $16.50 to watch two babies roll around on the floor, drooling all over the place and shitting their pants. What the fuck are you, stupid?”
“I don’t get it, if it’s not two babies in a fight, what is it?”
What it was, explained Slappy, was one baby in a fight with me, a 34-year-old man, dressed up in a baby suit.
Now, I’ve had plenty of experience humiliating myself, but this was a new low.
I didn’t know if I could do it. I told Slappy I would have to sleep on it.
I tossed and turned all night. I dug deep and really looked into my soul and asked myself if I could really hurt another human being. And that’s not even considering that the human being in question would be a helpless, little baby.
I really had to take stock of myself and come to a conclusion about what sort of man I really was.
In the end, I concluded I wasn’t the type of man who could just throw his morals out the window and beat the crap out of an adorable, little infant for a measly $600.
However, I was the kind of man who could throw his morals out the window and beat the crap out of an adorable, little infant for $2000 in TGI Friday’s gift certificates.
Alas, all this soul-searching and emotional torture, was for naught.
Although I blamed the constricting baby costume and specifically, the mask that impede my vision impeded my peripheral vision, that was just macho posturing in a vain attempt to save face.
The baby kicked my ass. Plain and simple. I can explain it
, I have no idea how he did it, but the cold, hard truth is, the baby kicked my ass.
Careerwise, it was a good move. Not only did I avoid a charge of attempted murder or worse, it couldn’t have been any better for sales of the Baby Fights DVDs and related merchandise.
And in the end, isn’t that the greatest lesson of all?

Advertisements

Smell you later, Lucky

Smell you later forever!

This week, the dog world lost a special guy: Lucky, the three-legged dog.

He will definitely be missed.

God only knows what happened to his leg. I met Lucky when my roommate, Bordo adopted him off the streets of LA, just minutes from being put down. Lucky went on to star as the only talented member of the TV show, the Surreal Life.

Lucky went on to star in many other productions.

If you want to learn more about Lucky, you can watch this video or read this story.

We will miss you, pal. I wish I got to take you to the dog park one last time, but you probably would have run away anyway.

]

Good thing I’m not like that anymore!

Well, the summer’s over. Labor Day is here and gone.

When I was a kid, this was a big deal. Not only were my carefree days of swimming and riding bikes over, I had to go back to school.

For a smart, nerdy kid, I really detested school. And contrary to what my mom would tell you, it wasn’t because I wasn’t being challenged by the curriculum, it was because I was lazy.

Good thing I’m not like that anymore!

Back then, I was a bit of a worrier. The first of June would come around and I would think, “You know, in a few weeks, they’ll start having back to school sales. The summer is almost over!”

Good thing I’m not like that anymore!

There was just something about summer.

At school, in Glastonbury, CT, I wasn’t very popular, but during the summer, at our shack we named “The House That Pip-pay Built”, I had like 5 or 6 friends!

Back before everyone was getting molested, we were free to do whatever we wanted. We’d wake up in the morning, play some Nintendo. Then we’d go swimming in the lake. We might take out a boat and go tubing. We’d ride our mountain bikes around the lake to the camp store at Burlingame State Park, or we’d cross the highway over to Ninigret, which had been a WWII airfield.

We’d trespass, we’d vandalize, we’d steal shit and light forest fires. Good clean fun.

I was the oldest of our group and sometimes my friend Chad and I would put on white khaki pants and hang out with the two older kids, by their van that they called “The Fuck Truck” because it had running lights and a retractable bed in the back. Also, a bubble window!

Back then, I was kind of a loser.

Good thing I’m not like that anymore!

So anyways, now I’m old and I live in Los Angeles where it’s basically summer all year long. I don’t have to go back to school, come September, but these kids today do and that means less people at Disneyland.

It also means less of the oppressive heat that I hate so much. It means lower electricity bills that I have to pay because I am a big boy now.

Pretty depressing, huh?

Every once in a while, I’ll catch a whiff of something on the wind. On a warm, yet cool late summer evening and it’ll take me back, just for a second. I’ll just get that feeling. The feeling of knowing you’re free, at least for a little while. No school, no job. Nothing to do but have fun and goof around.

If my girlfriend was here, she’d chime in with a sarcastic, “Good thing you’re not like that anymore!”

But if my life is so carefree and happy-go-lucky, how come I’m so miserable all the time? Why do I sit in the dark listening to Joni Mitchell songs over and over? And where the hell are my pills, anyway? Get off my lawn and get a job, you punks! When I was your age, I had to walk 12 miles to school in the snow! You kids today with your automobiles and your hair cream and your rock n’ roll.

Yes, summer’s over and in the past I would have made a big deal about it.

Good thing I’m not like that anymore.

Dear The Maid,

Dear The Maid,

Sorry I don’t know your name, but I’m sorta busy. We don’t all get to just spend our days goofing off in other peoples’ houses, you know.

Anyway, I’m sure you’re a great person and all, but can you please cut it out with that vacuum bullshit? It’s bad enough that I have to delay my nap for four hours to make sure you don’t steal anything, but now I’ve gotta listen to this racket??

I’m trying to get my picks in for my NFL pool!

I mean, Christ, this is ridiculous. Heard of a broom? Does the same job. No noise.

Problem solved.

I mean, how long does it take to clean a one bedroom luxury apartment? Seriously, I’m asking, I’ve never done it. It can’t take more than 20 or 30 minutes. So what the hell are you doing here the rest of the time?

‘Casing the joint’ so your ‘gang’ can come back later and rob me?

Pretending it’s your house and you’re rich like me?

I think the real answer is that you’re taking an extra long time so that I’ll feel guilty that you’re doing all this hard work for your 37 dollars (35 dollar flat rate plus tip).

So in summation, The Maid, I hope you think about how you’re ripping me off, forcing me to listen to that god-awful vacuum of yours and preventing me from getting my shit done so I can take a well-deserved, mid-afternoon nap.

I’m sleepy!

Sincerely, Steven Spielberg (no relation)

Dear Words With Friends Cheaters

This is an open letter, not just to the cheaters I play with on Words With Friends (you know who you are), but to all the cheaters of the world.

To every male athlete who didn’t quite measure up, so he went and tucked his wiener into his shorts and competed as a woman.

To every BP exec who thought, “Eh, let’s just skip those safety inspections and go eat some baby dolphin stew instead!”

For all those kids who didn’t get enough attention from their fathers so they made up some bullshit story about these poor, innocent priests molesting them. Just kidding.

But most of all, this is for every lying, cheating, son of a bitch who decides that just because you can go on a website and look up all the possible combinations of words you can make with the letters you have, that it’s OK to do so.

Well, fuck you.

Now I’m not one for hyperbole, but you sir, are worse than Hitler.

And who the fuck do you think you’re kidding?

You didn’t graduate high school, you use the word ‘like’ fifteen times per sentence, but you know that a ‘teres’ is ‘either of two muscles passing below the shoulder joint from the scapula to the upper part of the humerus‘?

Sure you do, Hitler.

“Oh, I remember hearing that on the History Channel or something!”

Wrong.

You looked it up.

Just admit it, you lying, thieving, despicable excuse for a piece of monkey excrement.

Play the game. Or if you can’t deal with the fact that I am smarter and more well-versed than you, don’t play the game.

But don’t insult my (vastly superior) intelligence like that. At least make it believable.

You could have played ‘set’ for 23 points. That wouldn’t have aroused my suspicion, but you got greedy. So now you’ve got 42 points and my undying hatred, instead.

This might be hard to believe, but I have something of a rage problem and it is getting harder and harder for me to convince the AT&T store that my iPhones are getting smashed into a million pieces by simple, normal wear and tear and not the uncontrollable, violent spasms of a lunatic on his last nerve.

In closing, let us remember, it’s called Words With Friends. And friends don’t cheat. And the ones who do tend to get cancer and have sparsely-attended funerals.

Just saying.

I lost a contest!

suicide laser

So a few months ago, my mom called me and said, “Hey, I was listening to NPR and they announced that they’re having a fiction writing contest! You should enter that! Because you’re a writer!”

I went online and looked it up. There was actually an interesting premise to the contest; every story had to be under 600 words and begin with the same sentence.

“The nurse left work at 5 o’clock.”

So against my better judgment, I entered.

I didn’t win. I didn’t even get a mention. Luckily, I’m not bitter about it.

Here’s a little description of the contest and the winning entry is at the bottom. Click here.

Anyway, without any (additional) further ado, here is my losing entry, entitled, “I am lazy and rather than write something new, I can post this story I already wrote and pass it off as new and nobody will be any wiser for it!”

The nurse left work at 5 o’clock. Every day, 5 o’clock. On the nose.

For nearly a year, I had watched her, studied her every move. Well, every move as it related to her automobile usage, anyway.

I arrived at the hospital garage a little after nine am. I put my hand on the hood. Still warm. I had just under eight hours.

I pulled the coat hanger out of my duffel bag. After spending a few minutes untwisting it and straightening it out, I moved it around, up and down, along the window, realizing too late that I had no idea how to pick a car door lock.

Seeing as how I had been planning this operation for nearly 12 months, it’s sorta unforgivable that I hadn’t thought of that.

Deciding to improvise, I threw a rock through the window, clearing my throat in a vain attempt to mask the sound of glass breaking.

Immediately, the car alarm started shrieking its deafening sound. One more thing I hadn’t counted on.

As I slid into the debris-covered driver’s seat, I deftly reached under the steering column for the familiar wires. This was one part of the job that I actually had prepared for.

Just like in the internet videos that I had watched at the library, the engine roared to life. Well, I assumed it roared, because I couldn’t actually hear anything but the siren and the ringing in my ears that it had created.

If I had been hoping to drive off, unnoticed, in a vehicle with a broken window and the car alarm going off, I sure had another thing coming.

Though many of the doctors, nurses and various support staff felt free to brazenly stare and point at me as I exited the hospital grounds, luckily, none of them seemed to think it was worth informing the police or confronting me about it.

As I am no fan of confrontation or authority figures, I was pleased with this bit of luck.

After twenty minutes on the freeway, I reached my destination, thankful that it hadn’t snowed today.

As I pulled into the driveway, I was delighted to see that, unlike last year, not only was there no huge line, my car was the only one at the window.

“I’d like one free junior taco, please!” I said, triumphantly.

“Huh?” replied the dimwitted, teenage employee.

“My free junior taco.” My request was met with a blank, pimply stare.

“That’ll be 85 cents,” he replied.

“No, it won’t. It’ll be free. Every year, you have a giveaway to mark the anniversary of the founding of your restaurant. One free junior taco, given out only at the drive thru and apparently not to anybody going through the drive thru on a bike, as I learned last year.”

“Sir, that promotion was 3 days ago.”

As I drove off, defeated, I realized that this free junior taco (the one I never even gotten) had cost me much more than its 85 cent retail value. It had cost me my job, my friends and the respect of my peers in the medieval recreation society. Worst of all, it had nearly cost me my sanity.

But I had a dream and I went for it. It didn’t work out, but at least I took a shot. That’s a lot more than most people can say.

Now it was time to get on with my life and start being responsible.

So I pushed the car into the river and faked my own death.

My $50,000,000 lawsuit

marco polo

“Marco!”

“Polo!”

“Marco!”

“Polo!”

And on and on it went. Their high-pitched voices like nails on a chalkboard. And not fingernails. Real nails, the kind you hammer with.

It started around eleven in the morning, waking me from a deep slumber. I laid in bed, trying to ignore it, to somehow get back to sleep.

“Fish out of water!” one of them screeched and then they all yucked it up.

I lost it.

“Shut up! Shut the fuck up, you fucking kids! Shut up now or I will shut you up! Forever!” I yelled out my window.

Silence. Then crying. Lots of crying. And the sound of an adult male getting really worked up about what I had just said. Woops.

“No, I’m not gonna calm down. Who the hell does he think he is? Yelling at my kids like that? I don’t care, Barbara, I’m gonna go up there and give him a piece of my mind!”

“Yeah, you come up here, toughguy, I’ll kick your fucking ass!” I thought, as I instinctively pulled the covers up a little higher.

“OK, well when you get back, I have to go out to the van and change Rashawn’s diaper,” replied the woman.

Rashawn?? Oh shit, was this a black guy? Why couldn’t I have just kept my mouth shut? Or at least gotten out of bed and closed the window? I’m sure that would have cut down on the noise by a pretty significant amount.

BANG BANG BANG!

“Hey, asshole. Open up!”

Judging by his voice and the force with which he knocked on my door, I figured I was in trouble.

“C’mon, toughguy. You were talking all big before, let’s see what you got!” He persisted.

Well, certainly, he would give up and go away, forgetting all about this after a few minutes, right? I mean, Rashawn’s diaper needed changing!

But no, he kept at it. Knocking and banging and yelling and making all sorts of crazy threats.

I crept up to the peephole, indeed, he was a very large man. I’m not sure if he was black or hispanic or what, but he definitely wasn’t white. Maybe Samoan or something?

“Hey, I see the light of the peephole, I know you’re looking at me, asshole! Come on out here, so I can kick your ass!”

Busted. Great. Time for some fast-thinking!

“You’re gonna kick my ass?” I asked, meakly.

“That’s right, bitch. Now open up. I can wait all day.”

My thoughts drifted to poor Rashawn and his poop-filled diaper, but I figured it was best not to provoke him anymore.

“You’re gonna kick the ass of someone with cancer?”

Silence. That seemed to work!

“Well, I…” he stammered.

“Look, I didn’t mean to yell at your kids, but the chemo pains are really bad, especially in the morning,” I offered, as way of a semi-apology.

“Oh. OK, look, I’m sorry. I’m not gonna beat you up. I’ll have the kids keep it down. Sorry. Bye.”

And off he went!

Now, if I had chalked this up to dumb luck, learned my lesson and went on my way, I might not be writing this blog from the sling I have to sleep in, standing upright, so that my vertebrae will heal correctly.

But never one to learn my lesson, I went about my life, pretty much the same way, just on the look out for any big Samoan-looking guys around my building.

A few weeks later, I was playing touch football with some friends in the park.

Wouldn’t you know it, there’s a ton of little dipshits running around all over the place, interfering with our game. No parents in sight.

I was right in the middle of my patented play-action fake when this little bitch runs right into me, fucking the whole thing up.

She starts crying. So I demand some accountability from someone.

“Whose fucking kid is this? We’re trying to play a fucking game here!”

“It’s my kid, asshole!” came the booming, familiar voice, from behind me.

Before I had even turned around, I knew who it was. I also knew I was in for some serious shit.

“So you’ve got cancer, huh, dicklick?”

“Dicklick??!” How dare he!

As he shoved me backwards, a good fifteen feet or so, I decided that he was, in fact, definitely Samoan.

So he kicked my ass, but I got some good ones in there too. I mean, it was pretty even for a while, until I accidentally hit his four year old daughter in the face with a stray punch. After that, he kinda lost it.

So really, if you think about it, I lost one fight, but I won the other, which means everything evened out.

I mean, sure, I’m in the hospital, but his daughter almost died!

Did you like this? Then be sure to follow me on Twitter: www.twitter.com/hollywoodphony.

A life less (extra)ordinary

eric coffin

“Ever since I was a child, I’ve been envious of all those athletes, at the top of their game. Victorious over all rivals, they raise their trophy high above their heads and look into the camera and say those words I was so jealous of: ‘I’m going to Disney World!’

Now, I know that I’ve got a debilitating genetic defect that makes me extremely vulnerable to injury and susceptible to massive bleeding and I’m also terribly awkward and uncoordinated with little to no knowledge of the game of football, but I’m not going to let that stop me from–”

Reverend Johnson looked up from the piece of paper he had been reading from. He took a look at the assembled crowd, drew a deep breath and continued.

“I’m not going to let that stop me from trying out for the New York Giants. I’m confident that I’m ready and that I will make the team, we will go all the way, win the Super Bowl and I will finally get my free trip to Walt Disney World Resort!”

As he finished this, several people in the audience began sobbing and wailing.

“Well, that’s all there is. Unfortunately, we know how the rest played out.”

The Reverend bowed his head and stepped to the side, as my grieving friends and family came up to my tiny, one foot-long coffin and paid their respects.

The reason my coffin was only a foot long is because after I caught the ball, the impact from the players who tackled me was so intense that my bones were actually vaporized into dust. My internal organs and blood were pulverized into goo, which leaked into the playing field of Giants Stadium, causing a bio-hazard emergency that shut down try outs for several hours.

Actually, when they dug that part of the field up, they stumbled across the remains of Jimmy Hoffa, mixed in with the obliterated traces of my corpse. So, it wasn’t all bad news.

In fact, my parents were able to successfully sue The Walt Disney Corporation for making their theme park so fantastic and awesome, as to leave little choice in their son’s mind that I would have to hatch this scheme, in order to be able to visit, due to the state of my finances at the time.

They won a record settlement of over five hundred billion dollars, which lead to the bankrupting of the whole Disney company and the closing down of Walt Disney World. The land was later turned into a giant medical/industrial park owned by a Chinese conglomerate which specialized in turning cute little puppies and kittens into fuel sources for tanks and ICBM launchers.

Unfortunately, being the inbred rednecks that they are, they spent the lump sum on five hundred billion scratch-off lottery tickets. Seeing as everybody (but them) knows those are the biggest ripoff around, they barely won back enough money for my funeral and tiny coffin.

All in all, though things didn’t work out exactly as planned, I have few regrets.

Mostly, I just regret trying out for the New York Giants and getting killed and not getting a free trip to Disney World and having Disney World get shut down because of my stupid parents and their lawsuit.

But other than that, I have very few regrets.

There’s something about Tony

tony

“…and if my wish came true, there would never be anymore war, or people dying from hunger and people would live together in harmony and peace. The end.”

The young girl put down the piece of paper she had been reading from and smiled. There was some polite clapping from the rest of the class as the teacher, Miss Mitchell, said, “That’s very nice, Amanda. You may sit down now. Who’s next?”

She scanned the students to see who hadn’t gone yet. As her gaze fell on a particularly dumb-looking kid named Tony, who seemed to be considerably older than the other children, she saw that he was looking at something on his desk that he was trying to shield from her. She surmised it was another one of his pornographic magazines that he was always bringing to school.

Not in the mood to deal with it right now, she instead called on him to read his report.

He let out an exasperated sigh, this was clearly putting him out a great deal and dramatically rose from his seat, as if it took a huge effort.

He shuffled his feet and walked to the front of the class with his piece of paper. He started to read in his nasally voice, never looking up at the class.

“What I Wish, by Tony Norton. What I wish is that I could have 146 letters to type my messages in Twitter instead of 140, like everyone else. That way I could be better than everyone else and write more because I would have six more letters than them because I would have 146 and they would only have 140 and that is less than I would have and everybody would be super jealous of me. The end.”

Tony started back towards his seat when Miss Mitchell stopped him in his tracks.

“Excuse me, Tony. Is that really what you would wish for?” she said, wondering if he perhaps hadn’t understood the assignment.

“Yes.”

“But you can wish for anything. Anything. You could be rich or famous, you could help the poor or invent a flying car,” she offered.

“No, that’s OK. Can I sit back down?” he asked.

“Yes, you can,” she said. He hurried back to his seat and resumed reading his pornographic magazine.

“Well, it’s almost time for lunch, we’ll get to the rest of the assign–”

The teacher stopped in mid-sentence. She was staring intently at Tony. The other kids turned to him too, but he he didn’t seem to be doing anything unusual, for him, anyway.

“Tony,” she said, “I’m curious, why did you choose the number 146?”

Annoyed, he looked up from his magazine, “I dunno. It’s like more than 140 or something?” His eyes darted from his magazine to the teacher and back again.

“Well yes, but why only six more than everyone else? I mean, if you really wanted to set yourself apart from everybody, why not 300? Why not a thousand? Why not just unlimited?” Raising her voice out of sheer bafflement.

“Cuz that would be stupid,” he said, matter-of-factly.

There were some gasps from the other students as the fire began to gather in Miss Mitchell’s eyes.

“Oh really, Tony? That would be stupid? You’re given the chance to wish for anything in the whole world, real or imaginary and the best you can come up with is six more letters to type out your inane and idiotic ramblings about your pathetic life to a bunch of friends you don’t even have, but that’s stupid, is that right?”

“Yeah,” he said, not understanding why she was so upset.

“You’re stupid, Toby! You’re stupid!” she was now screeching.

“No I’m not. You are,” was his reply.

“That’s it. Outside. Right now!”

He stood up, gathering his things as he did.

“No, leave the magazine!” she ordered him.

He let out a groan and slid his feet back and forth along the floor as he walked to the door, the teacher following him right behind. As they exited, she shut the door.

The door shut and nobody looking, she threw him up against the wall, kissing him passionately.

“Why do you torture me like this?” she asked.

“I dunno,” was all he replied in the same monotone, in between kisses.

She pulled away and ran her hand over his face, caressing it gently and wiping away the pus and blood which had exited one of his many blemishes as they had aggressively made out.

“Do you wish I looked like those girls in the magazines? Is that what it is?” she asked, in a teasing voice.

“Yeah. You should be hotter,” he stated, honestly.

“I’m sowwy,” she was in full-on baby talk mode now. She took two of his fingers and put them in her mouth and began to suck on them, suggestively. As she did so, he let out a loud fart.

“Pull my finger. Huh huh. Get it?” They both laughed at his joke.

She had fully taken her shirt off while she sucked on his fingers, right there in the middle of the hallway, which was now no longer deserted. Vice Principal Anderson had just come around the corner and spotted the two of them cavorting. In horror, Miss Mitchell saw him, spit out Tony’s fingers and began buttoning up her blouse as fast as she could.

“Miss Mitchell!” roared Mr. Anderson, “Just what in the hell do you think you’re doing?!”

“I’m sorry, we were discussing the lesson plan…” she stammered, red-faced and embarrassed, trying to collect herself.

“Miss Mitchell, this is highly inappropriate. Please, go to my office and wait for me there. Son, are you OK?” he asked Tony, as Miss Mitchell ran away.

“Yeah,” said Tony, again, completely unfazed.

Mr. Anderson watched Miss Mitchell turn the corner and then his whole demeanor softened as he put an arm around Tony to console him.

“Did that mean wadie hurt ooh?” he asked Tony, in a baby-talk voice similar to Miss Mitchell’s, as he began to caress his own bosoms through his shirt.

“I farted earlier and I think poop came out,” admitted Tony.

“Oh, you dirty boy! You need a spanking!” said Mr. Anderson, with delight, as he started to undo his tie.

Meanwhile, Tony had taken out his Blackberry and was on Twitter, eager to tell his followers how he had just pooped his pants, when he stopped and frowned.

“What’s wrong” asked, Mr. Anderson with concern, momentarily giving his sore nipples a break from all the vicious pinching he was inflicting on them.

“I’m trying to tell everyone that I pooped, but I ran out of letters,” said Tony, showing Mr. Anderson his phone.

“Awww, I’m sowwy. And you only had six characters too many!”

What the rock?

jani lane

The crowning achievement of cool, in my young life, came in the form of attending a Poison concert with my mom and two of my friends. I was 11 or 12 and after I made them pour out the wine they had somehow managed to siphon into two, small Oxy 10 bottles, my friends and I hopped into my mom’s car for the drive into Hartford.

Now, I know what you’re thinking, “Why Eric, that isn’t cool at all!”

Yes, you are right and that is the point, but stop interrupting me, it gets worse.

Things really hit their apex during one of the band’s popular songs, “Don’t Need Nothin’ But A Good Time.”

The lead singer, Bret Michaels (see photo above), you see, he decided to change some of the lyrics, to make them more bawdy!

Instead of singing, “Saturday night, I’d like to make my girl, but right now I can’t make ends meet,” he sang, “Saturday night, I’d like to fuck my girl, but right now I can’t make ends meet!”

Do you see what he did there??

Yes, I know he ruined whatever cleverness or wordplay was in there, but he also used a swear word! Which, when you’re 11, is pretty fucking cool! The place went nuts!

And I was there!

I mean, I thought I was cool when my older cousins gave me a Def Leppard Pyromania Tour t-shirt for Christmas one year. I told everyone in school that they got it when they actually went to the concert! I was so proud!

Later (and by later, I mean 3 months ago) I spoke to my cousins about it and they admitted that they actually got it at Spencer’s Gifts as a goof on me, because Def Leppard is so lame.

You know what, Stacey and Siobhan? You’re lame!

No, that’s not true. You guys are cool, I didn’t mean that.

Which got me thinking, because of radio censorship, I’d imagine a lot of songs were originally written with the word ‘fuck’ in them, only to have it taken out and replaced with something else.

And then I started thinking some more. There were a lot of songs with the suspicious use of the word ‘rock’ as a verb.

Rock.

Fuck.

Phonetically, very similar, no?

These I will focus on here. I say ‘suspicious’ because if you accept this premise and then do some translating, sometimes the results are a little surprising.

OK, so if you take the song to mean “Let’s get fucked”, then Def Leppard has got some ‘splainin’ to do!

But maybe that’s what my cousins meant, by saying Def Leppard is ‘lame’? If that’s the case, then they are homophobic.

At one point, he sings, “Let’s get the rock out of here!” which I feel translates much better. This is a clear-cut example of what I’m talking about. “Let’s get the fuck out of here” is a familiar phrase, but one that’s admittedly not radio-safe. Switch it out with a similar-sounding one. I get it.

Everybody knows this one. What you might not have caught was “I’ve seen a million faces and I’ve rocked them all!” meaning “Hey, I’ve gotten a million bj’s on tour, because I’m a rock star. Fuck you and your shitty job, dickweed.”

Bad form to brag like this, Bon Jovi. Bad form, indeed.

I was going to do “Rock You Like a Hurricane” by the Scorpions, but they won’t let me imbed the video. Those guys are German or Swedish or something, so they can be forgiven if they mess up the language a little bit. They way it’s phrased, it sounds more like he’s telling someone off. “Here I am. Fuck you. Like a hurricane.” Foreigners!

Here’s another popular song, but unlike those Scorpions, the band Kiss can’t be forgiven for making so little sense. You’d think people from Detroit would be better educated. “I wanna fuck and roll all night”? What the hell does that even mean?

Well, that’s all I’ve got. What about you? I’d like to see your examples in the comments. So do it.