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Choose a song and click the link: Johnny B. Good | Dancing Queen | Both Sides Now | At 17 | Rasputin! | Whiter Shade of Pale | Aqualung | The Boxer | I Love This Bar | My Wife


"My Death", a parody of John Entwistle's "My Wife", rewritten to fit the events of his 2002 death at age 57 in a Las Vegas hotel room with a stripper and cocaine. 

This parody might strike some as being in really bad taste. I honestly don't mean any disrespect to Entwistle or The Who, both of whom are dear to my heart. I wrote it not to "speak ill of the dead" but as an expression of my frustration that such a great musician as "The Ox" (and many others) have been felled by the old Bolivian Marching Powder. I wrote it because I'm angry at cocaine for depriving me of the pleasure of seeing a concert like this ever again.

 
My Death

by Alexander of Hollywood™ (with apologies to John Entwistle)

My life's in jeopardy
A cold and silent corpse is what I'm gonna be
Broads and blow and Vegas nights
And now my death is looming over me

Give me heavenly protection
Gonna buy a rosary so God will look after Number One
Find me a cardiologist
A Betty Ford rehab expert with a machine gun

Gonna buy an oxygen tank and a defibrillator
When Death catches up with me
I'll need 'em sooner or later
He knows I partied with a stripper chick
And now he wants for me to meet my maker

Gotta find a fast cure
Get off this white powder 
Or it's my last nosedive
I should've tried bribing Death with money
Then I'd still be alive

All I did was to hoover up some snow
And then bonk the wrong crack ho'
Got picked out by the Reaper
He says it's time for me to go
And I'm oh so pained and wheezing
Help me lay down on the floor
I gotta live through this 
So I can snort and screw some more

Death's comin'!
Death's comin'!

In case you don't remember the original view it here: or go back to top



 
I Hate This Bar

by Alexander of Hollywood™ (with apologies to Toby Keith)

No winners, just lotsa losers
Venereal cougars and hypodermic users
And we got Buppies, we got tweakers
"Freakin' at the Freakers' Ball" freakers
And the whores next door charge more to the movie stars

Hmm, hmm, hmm I hate this bar

We got cowpunks, I see seersuckers
That slack-jawed yokel, he's called Cletus Spuckler
And we got Rastas, we got European New Righters
Militant lesbians and Take-Back-The-Nighters
While the Film School kids rave about some auteur named Lars

Hmm, hmm, hmm I hate this bar

I hate this bar
Not my kind of place
Give some dude the wrong look
And he'll rearrange your face
It's too damn far, can't risk my car
Hmm, hmm, hmm I hate this bar

I've seen bare tit, and plenty of Spandex
White-collar criminals and manifesto-writing rednecks
And we got race-baiters and AmEx-accepting hookers
Tweeters, Myspacers and Facebookers
Once the doorman made me swallow brine from the pickle jar

Hmm, hmm, hmm I hate this bar
Yes I do

I hate my truck (I hate my truck)
I hate my girlfriend (I hate my girlfriend)
I like to toss her down a volcano
I enjoy a nosebleed now and then

But I hate this bar
Ain't my kind of place
Yet every damn time I come here
I stagger out fit-shace'd
New cover charge? Har-de-har-har!
Hmm, hmm, hmm I hate this bar
Jee-zus Christ I hate this bar!

In case you don't remember the original view it here: or go back to top



 
The Wrestler

by Alexander of Hollywood™ (with apologies to Simon & Garfunkel)

I am just a Mat Rat and my story's seldom told
I've squandered my RAW ranking for a man-purse full of mumbles, such are promises
My sport's a jest, still a whore fakes what they're paid to fake
And channel-surfs the rest, hmmmm-hmm-hmmm...

When I left my home and my tag-team, I was no more than a boy
In the company of muscled weirdos
And the tumult of the ringside rowdies, punchin' throats
Laying low, seeking out the regional cable nets where all fading grapplers go
Seeking snack-food endorsements only Hulk would know

Lies lies lie, lies lies lies...

Asking only SAG scale, I come lookin' for a SmackDown, but I get no contract
Just a walk-on from those turds at ESPN2
I do declare, there were times my stock was so low
I'd throw some Cage Match there

Now the bouts are rolling by me, and they're annoying even me
I am obscurer than I once was, and famouser than I'll be, that's not unusual
No it isn't strange, after changes upon changes, WWE are more or less the same
After changes WWE are more or less the same

Lies lies lie, lies lies lies...

Now I'm wringing out my chartreuse tights, wishing I was gone, goin' home
Where the New York City agents aren't bleedin' me, leadin' me to go home

In a close-up stands a wrestler, and an actor by his trade
And he carries the reminders of every folding-chair that ever smacked his skull
Or stomped his groin 'til he cried out in his Spandex and his shame
"I am D-List! I am D-List!" but the actor still remains

Lies lies lie, lies lies lies...

In case you don't remember the original view it here: or go back to top



 
Ironlung

by Alexander of Hollywood™ (with apologies to Jethro Tull)

Lying in a steel tube
Eyeing the young nurse with the big boobs
Phlegm running down his throat
Greasy fingers smearing O.R. scrubs
Iron Lung!
Wheezing in the sick bay  
Wondering if that black intern's gay?
Oh, Iron Lung!
Feeling like a tandoori duck  
Hacking up hairballs of his broken luck
Whoa, Iron Lung!
 
Sun streaking cold  
The head nurse, smoking, lonely
Killing her health
The only way she knows
Lungs hurting bad,
As she bends to pick a dog-end  
Wheels you down to the can
To wash your feet
 
Feeling alone
Your caregiver's up the road
Respiration a la mode
And an I.V.
Iron Lung my friend
Don't you wheeze away uneasy
You poor prone sod, you see, it's only me!  
 
Do you still remember
December's power cut?  
When the juice that runs your iron lung  
Suddenly blacked out?
And you snatch your rattling last breaths
With deep-sea-diver sounds
And the "Get Well Soon" flowers  
Bloom like madness in the vase. 

In case you don't remember the original view it here: or go back to top



 
A Paler Shade of White

by Alexander of Hollywood™ (with apologies to Procol Harum)

She tried to dance a tango
Clear 'cross the convention floor
It all made me kinda seasick
But the Dems called her a bore
The room was chanting "Yes we can"
As the glass ceiling flew away
When Hill called out for a run-off vote
Her party voted "Nay"
 
And so it wasn't much later
As the black man beamed his light
That Hill's face, at first just ghostly
Turned a paler shade of white
 
She said, "He can't be elected, 
And my worth is plain to see!"
But when Barack played the race card
Delegates forced her to be
One of their sacrificial virgins
Her ambitions now were toast
And although Hill's eyes were open
They might have just as well've been closed
 
And so thanks to such haters
As Obama's Reverend Wright
Ms. Clinton's face, at first just ghostly,
Turned a paler shade of white. 

In case you don't remember the original view it here: or go back to top



 
Rah! Rah! Vlad Putin!

by Alexander of Hollywood™ (with apologies to Boney M)

There lives a certain man in Russia at this time
He is big and strong and he keeps small states in line
Most proles look at him with terror and with fear
But to Moscow Mafiya he is such a lovely dear
He could preach Russian unity like a preacher
Full of ecstasy and fire
But he was not so nice to the people of Ossetia
Their fate none would desire

Rah! Rah! Vlad Putin!
Neither Czar nor King nor Queen
There was a cat who really dropped bombs
Da! Da! Vlad Putin!
Russia's greatest war machine
It was a shame how he carried on

He ruled the Russian land long after the last Czar
But when war he waged he was really wunderbar
In post-Soviet affairs he was the man to please
But he was real great when he had small states to squeeze

To breakaway Republics, Mr. Putin sent his love
It was big, it went bang, it brought Death From Above
So they learned in Georgia (the country, not the state):
When you cross Big Vlad, Big Vlad will retaliate!

Rah! Rah! Vlad Putin!
President, not King nor Queen
There was a cat who really could bomb
Da! Da! Vlad Putin!
Kremlin's latest war machine
It was a sin how he carried on
 
[spoken:]  But when his shooting and his bombing and his hunger for power became known to more and more people, the demands to do something about this outrageous man became louder and louder...

 "This man's just got to go!" declared Chechyan enemies
But Mother Russia replied, "Don't you try to do it, please!"
No doubt this Putin has lots of hidden charms
Plus planes and nukes and surplus Krushchev-era arms

When in battle Putin really gets his belts in
Not like that pissed-up pussycat B. Yeltsin
Putin's eyes are flinty, his body odor musky
You could say this man is not Schastlivy Russkie

Rah! Rah! Vlad Putin!
President, not King nor Queen
There was a cat who really could bomb
Da! Da! Vlad Putin!
Kremlin's latest war machine
It was a sin how he carried on
Rah! Rah! Vlad Putin!
Steely Slavic wolverine
Who'd dare put poison into his wine?
Ja! Ja! Vlad Putin!
Moscow's newest death machine
He'd drink it all and say "I feel fine!"
Rah! Rah! Vlad Putin!
Warlord of the Eastern scene
Separatists didn't quit, they wanted his head
Vlad-i-mir Putin!
RF's greatest kill machine
No one dares shoot him till he is dead.

[spoken:]  Oh, those Russians...

 . 

In case you don't remember the original -- and, really, why should you? -- view it here: or go back to top


When Anna-Nicole Smith died, I was on hold on a business phonecall, and the waiting muzak was Janis Ian's 1975 tearjerker "At 17." Meanwhile, on the homepage of my PC was the headline "Anna-Nicole dead at 39." And a little switch somewhere in my cerebellum went click. Here are the results of that cultural collision -- and, unlike Anna, they ain't pretty.

At 39 (Anna-Nicole’s Lament)

by Alexander of Hollywood™ (with apologies to Janis Ian)

I bit the dust at thirty-nine
'Cause life’s no fun when past your prime
For Centerfolds with clear-skinned smiles
Who marry rich but don’t retire
The Valentines I’ll never send
The blender drinks I’ll never blend
The laundered loans I'll never lend
At Thirty-Nine, Kaput, The End.

And those of us with Botox’d faces
Lacking in all social graces
Could never stand to stay at home
Avoiding fans with cameraphones
Who call to say “Pole-dance for me!
I’ll pay cash for obscenity!”
Take that girl, spill that wine
At Thirty-Nine.

That blond “Guess?” gal in Size 16 gowns
Whose name was easy to pronounce
Said, “Pity those who pose and strip
We only do it for the tips”
She married the wrong Howard Stern
Kept her ex’s ashes in an urn
The promise of more litigation
And more teenage masturbation.

Remember those who cheat the game
Can lose the life they sought to gain
On shows they call “Reality”
Starring dubious celebrities
Their cameras’ eyes will gape at you
Your see-through dress they will see through
Assuring you, “You still look fine…
I mean... for thirty-nine!”

To those of us who knew the pain
Of A-list roles that never came
And those whose names were only called
When comparing silicone basketballs
It was long ago and far away
The media was younger than today
And dreams were all it gave for free
To air-head air-brushed bims like me.
So mix booze and pills and when you dare
Bamboozle a senile Billionaire
Avoid the stalkers on your phone
Mourn your dead son’s life unknown
Anna used to lumber like a tortoise
Now she slumbers, rigor mortis
Dying on the vine
At Thirty-Nine. 

click here to read the original "At 17", or go back to top



 
(I’ve Looked at Drugs from) Both Sides Now

by Alexander of Hollywood™ (with apologies to Joni Mitchell)

Roaches, bongs and Rasta-wear, while swirling smoke infests the air
And all your friends pretend to care, I've looked at weed that way
But now it only hurts my throat, not get me off nor float my boat
And bosses smell it on my coat, ganj sure can bum your day
I've looked at weed from both sides now
From Sens to skunk and still somehow
It's weed's illusions I recall
I really don't know weed at all

Trails and tails and feeling numb, think you’re profound, you just sound dumb
Your favorite song tastes like a thumb, I've looked at acid that way
But now it's just another trip, you drop your tab, try not to flip
And don’t forget it’s not that hip; don't throw your mind away
I've looked at acid from both sides now
From “Wow!” to “Yikes!” and still somehow
It's ‘cid's illusions I recall
I really don't know ‘cid  at all

Scabs and stabs and skanky chicks; hyper hearts but flaccid dicks
Tweakers are some scary hicks! I’ve looked at meth that way
Now I switch from snort to shoot (or snort to smoke, the point is moot)
Gone are my looks, as is my loot, speed stole my youth away
I've looked at crank from both sides now
From nerves to pervs and still somehow
It's speed's illusions I recall
I really don't know speed at all

Needles, spoons and nodding off, welfare from the public trough
Tying up then floating off, I've looked at junk that way
But now it only pricks my skin, it makes me dull and way too thin
So many bands I could be in, but smack got in my way
I've looked at “H” from both sides now
From Burroughs to Cobain and still somehow
It's junk's illusions I recall
I really don't know junk at all

Thrills and pills and bellyaches, psychotropic ice-cream cakes
Deals and steals and brownie-bakes, I've looked at drugs that way
But now they only blunt the pain, I don’t get high, I just maintain
Brain cells are lost, but something’s gained, in drugging every day
I've looked at drugs from both sides now
Within, without, and still somehow
It's drugs' illusions I recall
I really don't know drugs at all

click here to read the original "Both Sides Now (1967)", or go back to top



 
Drama Queen

by "Weird Al" Patterson (with apologies to Agnetha, Bjorn, Benny, and Anni-Frid, whom I'm sure are all very nice middle-aged Swedish people, and don't deserve this sort of abuse.)

You can shreik, you can sigh
Having a cow is your life
Watch that girl whine and scream
She's called a Drama Queen

Friday night and her mood is low
Foe seems friend and friend seems foe
Although it's not damaged she'll wrap her arm in a sling
(It's, like, a sympathy thing)

Anybody might be her victim
He thinks he picked her -- but she tricked him
Add a touch of fake trauma, and maybe snort a line
You go into your trance

And given half the chance
You'll play the Drama Queen, 34 going on 17
Drama Queen, up and down like a trampoline, oh yeah!

You cause pain, you spread strife
Where have you been all your life?
Avoid that broad, she's obscene
Don't date the Drama Queen

You're a psycho, you say you love them
You tongue-kiss them, then you shove them
Then it's on to your next prey -- or maybe two this time?
Now she says she's from France

And with her need to prance
You're a damn Drama Queen, you trade your meds for some Ketamine
Drama Queen, she'll douse your clothes with some gasoline, oh yeah!

You hate yourself, you wanna die
Your life is just one huge lie
Dump that bitch, let her scream
She's just a Drama Queen.

click here to read the original "Dancin' Queen", or go back to top



 
Jesus B. Christ
by Alexander of Hollywood™ (with apologies to Chuck Berry and to God - in that order)

Way back before Ipods or designer jeans
Way back up in the hills among the Nazarenes
There stood a humble manger full of hay and lice
Where lived a country boy name of Jesus B. Christ
Now Jesus never learned to read or write so well
But to walk in His tracks could keep a sinner from Hell

[CHORUS]
Go Go
Go Jesus Go
Go Go
Jesus B. Christ

A carpenter who started having dreams divine
He fed the five thousand, turned water to wine
Oh, his disciples used to see him sitting in the shade
Devoted to the dogma that them Jew-boys made
People passing by would stop and say
Oh my that little country Hebe could pray!

Go Go
Go Jesus Go
Go Go
Jesus B. Christ

Mother Mary told him someday he’d be a man
And he would be the leader of a religion grand
Many people coming from miles around
To hear Jesus preach the scriptures when the sun go down
Maybe someday his name would be in lights
Saying Jesus B. Christ tonight!

Go Go
Go Jesus Go
Go Go
Jesus B. Christ!

click here to read the original "Johnny B. Goode", or go back to top

     
 
               
 
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