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Mental Notes

by Worm Quartet

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went to a Karaoke bar with my friend Coffee In a small New England hick and junkie town We mesmerized the crowd with our rendition of “I Touch Myself” Ordered up a couple bottles and sat down There was this older guy sitting way across the bar He was giving me a weird obnoxious stare And I couldn't really tell if he wanted to kick my ass Or if he just thought he knew me from somewhere (musical interlude of doom) He finally stumbled over (and) told us 'bout his catholic mother We could tell he'd had a drink or twenty-three So when he called me "her" I just assumed it was a tongue slip That was courtesy of Mister Jackie D Coffee let the dam break and let loose a tide of bullshit 'Bout his altar boy indiscretions back in the day The guy just nodded drunkenly and put his arm around me And said "Where'd you meet this big girl anyway?" My stunned brain regressed to Grover teaching me 'bout "near" and "far" And the latter seemed quite preferable to staying in this bar So I deftly ducked and covered from the boozing loser's grasp Wished him luck on his ambiguity and started hauling ass I'm not a girl (I'm not a girl) I'm not a girl (I'm not a girl) If long hair's all it takes to fool you Then you must have skipped biology, avoided sociology And probably bypassed puberty too I'm not a girl (I'm not a girl) I'm not a girl (I'm not a girl) Have you ever seen a female anyhow? Cuz if women looked like me, I think the porno industry Would be filing for bankruptcy by now I'm not a girl! I was at a drive-thru shouting product names at a speaker (yelled) "Just a value chicken sandwich and two pies" (distorted response "Thank you drive through") And an Oxy-basted numbskull in a giant NASA headset Said "Here you go, a large coke and large fries." I shook my head politely and I restated my order And he looked at me as if this was a scam He re-studied his order screen, re-held the foodstuffs out to me And shrugged and muttered "That's what it says, ma'am." Was I s'posed to just accept my lot, and take the proffered swill? For the Mighty Screen hath spoken, who am I to doubt its will? I just told him "I don't give a fuck what's on your CRT "Can you even read it anyway when you can't even see I'm not a girl (I'm not a girl) I'm not a girl (I'm not a girl) How the holy hell can't you see that? Sure my chest has got some perk, that don't mean my nipples work I can't lactate, buddy, I'm just fat! I'm not a girl (I'm not a girl) I'm not a girl (I'm not a girl) Don't you know about the birds and bees? What in God's name must I do, just to get this through to you? Should I walk around with my pants around my knees? I'm not a girl! My build is not petite, I've got awkward hanging meat I can wipe myself any way I choose I don't need no medication to inhibit procreation And I don't listen to Dave Matthews I get no joy from shoppin’ and you won’t catch me she-boppin’ Though I’m turnin’ Japanese most every night (I really think so!) When my sub-torso region’s ill, I buy Cruex not Vagisil To alleviate the evil fungal blight (All Right) (All Right) I was stuck in K-Mart while my wife was trying clothes on Which is oftentimes a fate worse than a briss When I heard a hobbling 80something woman from behind me In a nasal voice say "Miss? Excuse me, miss?" I turned around and gave the bitch a look that could melt a poodle In the hope that this would make my gender clear Undeterred she gave me that impatient retail shopper look And said "Excuse me miss, do you work here?" What drugs does Medicare provide to make one think that it's the norm For a Dead Kennedys shirt and jeans to be a K-Mart uniform? As confusion turned to anger and I felt the bile flow I let loose a veangeful mad retort, the gist of which was... "Um...no." I'm not a girl (I'm not a girl) I'm not a girl (I'm not a girl) Don't you dare make me whip out my gland I don't hang with my friends in malls, I've never played with Barbie dolls 'Least not without a lighter in my hand I'm not a girl (I'm not a girl) I'm not a girl (I'm not a girl) I'm bitchy but it isn't PMS Not a teardrop did I show, when they drowned DiCaprio I was still thinking 'bout Kate Winslet's breasts I'm not a girl (I'm not a girl) I'm not a girl (I'm not a girl) You'll seldom see me wearing pantyhose Go ahead an x-ray me, you won't find one ovary If Oprah likes a book, I know it blows I'm not a girl (I'm not a girl) I'm not a girl (I'm not a girl) ... (fade out eventually)
I've listened to you bitch, I've listened to you whine But you couscous-eating yuppie jerks have gone too far this time Your kids are getting fatter and the outlook's rather bleak Despite you putting them on three fad diets every week So do you take the blame, and make a change at home? No, dammit, you're American! You're born to bitch and moan! And just like every problem, your solution is the same: Your v-chipped cable-ready babysitter is to blame! Cuz every single character in every single show Must be shaped and molded perfectly to help your children grow Cuz if they're not ideal role models and beacons for good health You might just have to be one yourself! And who has time for that? So with your pen of judgement, you turn on your TV Prepared to write down ev-e-ry indecency you see (There's) a googly-eyed Muppet with a coat of navy blue He grabs a plate of something...hey, that don't look like tofu! And with a ghastly "ahm nahm nahm" the cookies disappear And suddenly the reason for your offspring's size is clear This glut'nous monster’s brainwashed them and driven them to gorge! Someone must stop this Toll-House-fueled sloth-inducing scourge! Because you're far too busy, you can't teach your kids to see That reality is different from what's broadcast on TV So you know that they'll just emulate the things the puppets do And that might reflect badly on you! So now you're Screaming for the blood of the cookie monster Evil puppet demon of obesity Time to change the tune of his fearful ballad C is for "Lettuce," that's good enough for me Well now you start to think, your kid may be depressed Even though each day he sees a different therapist So you go to his classroom, which is looking rather stark Cuz their funds were voted down last year to build a baseball park The teacher says he's failing English, history and math And suddenly it's clear what's led him down his darkening path You can't call it "Failing!" That's such a scathing word! We'll just call it "Success that's temporarily deferred!" Cuz language can be powerful, to raise and to depress That's why we no longer have "Shell Shock" we’ve got "Post-traumatic stress" And the only way to keep our precious darlings out of jail Is to make them think that they can never fail! So now you're Screaming for the blood of the underpaid teacher After all your taxes pay her yearly 12 G You can't change the world, so just change what you call it F is for "Almost," that's good enough for me No one understands just how brutal you have it You wake up each morning and have to fight traffic Then spend all day chained to your laptop and beeper Kiss some client’s ass and then play some minesweeper Then hightail it over to your yoga lessons Then lattes, pilates, and therapy sessions Where you whine and ramble and dab your eyelids And complain that you never get time with your kids You've bitched your yuppie heart out, and meddled with the best But your brooding fatass offspring keeps deferring his success So what the hell's the problem? It surely can't be you! It must be all the violence on his new PlayStation 2! Look at this atrocity! There's hoodlums, thugs, and skanks And chronic-tokin' gangstas running hookers down with tanks There's nudity and blood and guts and chainsaws cutting people And that's just in the new updated 3-D Tetris sequel! And sure there's labels on the games that say that they're "mature" But now honestly, just who the hell reads labels anymore? Tell me wouldn't it be easier for parents 'cross the land If games that aren't for kids were all just banned? Now you're Screaming for the blood of the game programmer Gaming should just be a children's industry Pixellated actors should be role models "M" is for "Censored," that's good enough for me Screaming for a new place to point your finger Won't rest 'til the whole world is rated "PG" Don't stop to think what those letters really stand for "M" is for "Censored" "F" is for "Almost" "C" is for "Lettuce," that's good enough for me ( NOTE: No, my fellow Windows programmers, there is no significance to the “MFC” reference above.)
Kill your neighbor, kill your brother, kill your sister Kill your parents, kill your teachers, kill yourself Sculpt a statue of the devil with your feces Shit fuck death beer! Shit fuck death beer! Carve a pentagram into your neighbor’s poodle Staple gerbils to the face of every nun you see Murder everyone and send me all your money Shit fuck death beer! Shit fuck death beer! Rape your mother, get her pregnant, kill the baby Set the church on fire and use the flames to light your crack pipe All the cool kids sacrifice their cats to Satan Shit fuck death beer! Shit fuck death beer! Turn your hat and show your undies like a gangsta Put your homework off until the very day it’s due Girls will fuck you if you drink right from the milk jug Shit fuck death beer! Shit fuck death beer!
Bob: Kenneth, Kenneth, Kenneth. Ken: That's my name, sir, spoken thrice Bob: There's a foulness wafting from your fowl-enclosure device Ken: Surely crap you must be speaking! Bob: That's the stench of which I speak Ken: And from whence hath this stench cometh? Bob: From that critter with the beak Ken: There's no stench that I can sense, Bob Bob: Hath thy nostrils gone insane? Hath thy stench-sensing synapses Leapt from out thy troubled brain? Nay, proximity for long terms Must have dulled thy senses, Ken For I smell it now, and when I sniff I smell it once again Both: Your bird smells, your bird smells Don't you know your bird smells Your bird smells, your bird smells Don't you know your bird smells Ken: The olfactory offenses, Bob, that you insinuate Could they not be from the fumes Produced digesting what you ate? For the nose mayhap which smelt it Verily could be attached To the anus which hath dealt it Check thy briefs, sir, for a patch! Bob: Why, how dare ye, Ken, you bastard, Ne'er a stench so ripe and foul Hath erupted from the depths of Any mortal human bowel! Let alone those that I call my own Oh Ken, you caustic cad! Ken: Bob, your shit don't smell like roses Bob: Yeah, but Ken, it ain't that bad Both: Your bird smells, your bird smells Don't you know your bird smells Your bird smells, your bird smells Don't you know your bird smells Bob: Look upon your addled parrot Was it your intent to scare it When you lined its cage with lyrics By Rob Zombie and Syd Barrett? Cuz it did what anything would do In quarters such as these Unleashed its bowels' contents With no small degree of ease Ken: Is it really necessary To critique my aviary By the way of nasal passages both mucasy and hairy Bob: No inspection was conducted I just merely passed it by And the stench, Ken, did affront The very laws the nose lives by because Your bird smells, your bird smells Don't you know your bird smells Your bird smells, your bird smells Don't you know your bird smells Bob: Kenneth, Kenneth, Kenneth Kenneth: Bob, your voice doth feed my rage Bob: Get thy stench from off thy pet, sir! Kenneth: Get thy nose from out my cage! For this pesudo-foppish discourse Now hath reached its ending line Bob: May thy testes, then, explodeth! Kenneth: And may thee, Bob, choke on thine! Both: Your bird smells, your bird smells Don't you know your bird smells Your bird smells, your bird smells Don't you know your bird smells Your bird smells, your bird smells Don't you know your bird smells Your bird smells, your bird smells Don't you know your bird sodding smells Oh my!
Dandelions suck They just take up the grass I’d like to pick those fuckers up And kick ‘em in the ass Dandelions suck They’re something we don’t need They think they’re pretty flowers But they’re just a fucking weed Mommy had a baby and its head popped off… (lather, rinse, repeat)
You told me you could slice through a horse with your face You claimed that you could see through solid pork You said you could communicate telepathically with waffles You told me you impregnated a spork But you were wrong You were wrong I checked your story on the Internet, it didn't take too long To analyze the lies that you did spew And confidently prove that you Were wrong, Cabinet Sanchez, you were wrong You said Bisquick was used as currency in Abu Dhabi You told me you ate Sandy Duncan's eye ("Eye! Eye! Eye!") You said you could tell the capacity of a hard drive by the odor You told me smoking plankton makes you high But you were wrong You were wrong Though you did convince some losers to put sea life in their bong I've found that everything you say you do Just drives home the point that you Were wrong, Cabinet Sanchez, you were wrong When ever you proceed to o- -pen up your stinkin' yap The flies nearby just multiply Cuz they can smell the crap And every single syllable You utter seems to be Just such pure fiction, it must have been Extracted rectally You told me sentient cumberbuns once tried to eat your nipples You said you joined an Olympic drooling team You told me you once shared a urinal with three Ghostbusters And destroyed the bathroom when you crossed the streams But you were wrong You were wrong And now your fictional adventures are immortalized in song And I hope I make a buck or two From this tune about how you Were wrong, Cabinet Sanchez, you were wrong Yeah, every time you claimed that you Played strip Pac-Man with the Who Drank a quart of Selson Blue Had hot sex with Pikachu Made a bee and mayonnaise stew Saw the pope do number two Caaaabinet Sanchez you were Caaaabinet Sanchez you were Wrong, Cabinet Sanchez, you were WRONG! (And your name is stupid.)
Everyone’s the princess of Ohio Even Ed Meese? Especially Ed Meese.
Music and Lyrics by Rev. N0rb.
Corn 00:14
Oh you can’t wear corn to a funeral No you can’t wear corn to a funeral Everyone’s impressed with your chicken nugget dress But you can’t wear corn to a funeral, Mr. President.
You smell like philosophy! I prance through a field of electric genitalia and invisible condiments, but gelatinous oven mitts and cellophane pancakes just keep humping rainbows. Nobody wears goggles to church anymore. Are you gargling your xylophone at the masturbating burrito parade? Oh no! This paste is NEAT! The poodle of harm is destroying your arm while the toastlord chisels panties into clichés. C’mon, Jesus! Get out your wigglin’ boots! Pudding is to justice as atheism is to the sound of a crepe-infested bellhop trying to glaze nine mice with a one-mouse glazing wand. Excessive yak-strumming can only lead to podiatry, but cultivating rectal atrocities makes it easier to alphabetize your shredded pets. When the batteries that fuel your carrot become the horse that won’t pucker, only then shall the pope become properly funky. I’ve just been elected Delaware! If the electric superduck disavows its own uvula and you’re really a collection of sentient clothespins held together by the wet dreams of our forefathers, then I want a receipt! C’mon, France, can’t you explode just a little? This wax replica of Barbra Streissand’s left penis proves that my maiden name is Julio P. Throb-o-tron. Stop impersonating my hairline! Your monkey had much better manners before it was on fire. Is your tugboat boneless or are we still excreting conical sorcerers? The liverless know not of diesel, and yet the moon is politely farting scriptures into the goat puddle while the drooling ambassadorof stapler vomit has found a new way to turn condoms into bouillon! Let’s blame pumpernickel for apostrophes! I can’t schmuck-proof my mayonnaise until you admit that Mormons lick skates. Don’t even tell me you glued your urethra to another panther! Lend me your groin! Butter your shovel! Peel your apostles! Lubricate your acoustic waitress-hammer on a bed of boiled muppets! Taste the unfiltered nonchalance of my vine-ripened culinder of pain! Marvel with soup-induced rage at my breathtaking lack of lumber or one day everything you’ve ever secreted will come back! You can neuter most of Skeletor with beans, and you can traipse like a tampon recycler through Iowa’s most cheeseless gnomeyard, but you can’t bathe pirates in Tucker Carlson’s nipples. Hey! Don’t eat my Jews!
I'm 6 foot four three hundred pounds a chunk a bulgin' love A couple chins below my head, a mullet perched above A software engineer by trade, pure geeky through and through I can quote Stroustrup or Douglas Adams 'til my face turns blue Now you would think with stats like these that I'd find no affection 'cept within the crackling pages of an old Penthouse collection But the Gods of love and logic must have been off for a day Cuz a real live woman married me, and she seems inclined to stay I often find it stunning It seems to disagree To everything I've ever seen In movies or TV Where the fat kid gets no fanfare And his minor wins are muffled So this victory's for every nerd Who's ever truffle shuffled Cuz I've got a wife where my porn should be My porn should be My porn should be I've got a wife where my porn should be My porn should be oh yeah My comic book collection hits the ceiling of my room It's a techie-haven basement lair that's never seen a broom Where I P2P and RPG and swear I'll never rest 'Til every console I own emulates the Atari VCS (Kim: Why?) Screeching Weasel and Weird Al stare at me from my walls A sump pump in the corner helps me cope when nature calls (Not really) Now take this mental image, and keep it in your head But where the blow-up doll belongs, insert a girl instead A mind with any sanity This fact is sure to vex I've got John DeLancie's autograph But also I've had sex These hands that solder circuitry And code in SunOS Have also felt the fleshy touch Of human female breasts Cuz I've got a wife where my porn should be My porn should be My porn should be I've got a wife where my porn should be My porn should be oh yeah (x 2?) I've got a wiiiiife where my porn should be I've got a wiiiiife where my porn should be (repeated) Me: For more information about my wife, please consult the song 'My Wife' from my third full-length CD 'Faster Than a Speeding Mullet,' available as we speak from wormquartet.com. Kim: That's a cheap plug Me: It's not a plug. It's a bibliography.
Jimmy had a punk band They were notorious for fitting the name of a female body part in every song Their demo tape,"Rape-a-saurus," featured tracks like "Kill The Dutch" and "Suck On My Tumor, Bitch" They signed to a major And the kids loved their stuff when they went on tour with New Found Glory They were carving a new niche, opening doors for raunch rock, and the Meatmen reformed again But Jimmy started hanging out with Jello Biafra And Dee Dee Ramone's will bequeathed him all of his drugs Then he teamed up with Enya and traded his guitar for a lute and a Casio And put out his new age concept album "Tears of Bin Laden: A Jihad Of Love" He said "I want to be taken seriously as an artist "There's more to me than you've ever seen, I'm not limited by your perception "I want to be taken seriously as an artist" "I still wear that big spiked strap-on on stage, but as a metaphor for U.S. oppression Fifi was a pop star She rocked the headset mic and shook her supposedly natural wink-wink-nudge-nudge "virgin" mombags The Billboard top 40 was packed with 38 of her tracks and a couple new Tupac songs With hits like "Let's Not Ruin It By Doin' It" and "I'm Not Ready To Hold Hands Yet" She had her name on lunchboxes, posters and t-shirts and perfumes and golf balls and pruning shears Then she decided the world wanted to see the real Fifi Who was apparently a skin-flashing whore who'd gladly do anyone She dated Marilyn Manson, dumped him for Madonna, dumped her for the corpse of Curt Cobain She'd show up on the red carpet, wearing nothing but a thong and two well-placed wads of chewing gum She said "I want to be taken seriously as an artist "And you can only achieve true artist status by banging everyone in your respective scene "I want to be taken seriously as an artist "I can't be a good girl forever, I mean, my gawd I'm almost 15!" If I linger 'round too long, will this desire catch up with me? Will there be "An Evening of Worm Quartet with the London Symphony?" Will "Worm Quartet Unplugged" be a reality someday? Will it just be me smacking buttons on my keyboard and bitching that the damned thing just won't play? Fifi formed a punk band Made up of studio musicians with models to play them in her videos Somehow her fanbase was left behind Jimmy is a pop star Shirtless on Seventeen, posing and pouting and singing with his new boy band Somehow his fanbase was left behind They said "We want to be taken seriously as artists "If you don't like our new stuff, then you're not real fans, we never needed you anyway "We want to be taken seriously as artists "But in a few years, we'll crawl back to our roots, to make sure we don't fade away "And we'll see you again someday "We'll see you again someday "When our fortunes are pissed away "In a small club in east L.A. "Opening for Worm Quartet!"


released March 2, 2007

Worm Quartet is:
Tim -=ShoEboX=- Crist - Mouth and fingers, sometimes with one in the other
With special guests:
Curt Allen - Guitars on "I Want To Be Taken Seriously As An Artist"
The Great Luke Ski - Drive-Thru clerk and old woman in "I'm Not A Girl," duet vocals in "Your Bird Smells"
Kim Crist - Vocal cameo in "I've Got A Wife"

All songs written and Copyright 2007 Timothy F. Crist (BMI) except "Drugs and Masturbation" by Reverend N0rb and "You Will Go To The Moon" by Ford/Foster/Ghomeshi/Metheson (Famous Music LLC)

Recorded by Shoebox at Flaming Mayo Studios from 2004-2007, except "What Your Parents Think" recorded at Monty's Krown by Seriah Azkath

Produced by ShoEboX
"I Want To Be Taken Seriously As An Artist" co-produced by Curt Allen
Mastered by Doug White at Watchmen Studios
Art and layout by Andy Hopp
Art concept by ShoEboX and Andy Hopp




Worm Quartet Rochester, New York

New album "Carpe Tedium" available now!

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