Some of these lyrics may be viewed as offensive to some groups. In many cases the offensive language is meant only to illustrate the ignorance of certain groups of people. Offense is, however, entirely intended toward the following groups:
~Certain School Administrators
~Radical Right Organizations
~Ignorant, Backwater Bigots
~Anyone else who falls into a category not covered directly by the above categories, but should be.
If any members of the above said groups wish to lodge a complaint, they are welcome to submit such expression of consternation via e-mail to yours truly. Said complaints will be duly noted and filed in an appropriate manner.
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The story behind the song:
I was a teacher in Citrus County from 1990-1999. During that time I became quite active with the Citrus County Education Association (CCEA), which is the bargaining agent representing the teachers in Citrus County. Part of my duties for several years involved negotiating teachers' contracts.
Those of you who teach in Citrus County (or any place like it) will understand and appreciate this song. And, gee, you get to hear it as well as read it. By the way, if you live in Citrus County, the code word is Baby Huey.
Thus, in my frustration, I wrote Dollar Store Christmas, sung in a twangy country style.
Dollar Store Christmas (click to listen)
~Music and lyrics by
Eventide~
~© 1995, Eventide~
~Orchestration by Lawrence Kingston, 2000~
~Harmonies sung by John Ladd~
It's another dollar store Christmas
'Cause we're pretty broke this year
I am so poor
I can't even afford
More than one case of beer
It's a dollar store Christmas this year.
Looks like the presents are going to blow
I'll buy a potholder for my Aunt Flo
A road map for Tom
A thimble for Mom
and a lighter for my Uncle Joe
It's a dollar store Christmas, they'll know.
A dollar store Christmas comes but once a year
And for us poor teachers it's become very clear
They'll use you, abuse you, and tell you they care
But when it comes to more money they can't find any there.
Negotiations don't go very well
They ask, "What do you want?" so we tell
They laugh in our faces
Completely disgrace us
Then tell us to go straight to hell
Dollar store, are you ready to sell?
A dollar store Christmas comes but once a year
And for us poor teachers it's become very clear
They'll use you, abuse you, and tell you they care
But apples cost money, and the cupboard is bare.
It's a dollar store Christmas this year.
The story behind the song:
I lived and worked in a small, backwoods town on the Gulf Coast of central Florida. This song portrays a particular section of that town, Old Homosassa to be exact, which the residents prefer to think of as a separate country unto itself.
According to the legend I was taught by inhabitants of Homosassa, just a few short years before I moved there in 1990 there was a sign that had been repeatedly posted and torn down on the only road that leads to Old Homosassa. The sign reportedly stated, "Nigger, don't let the sun set on your ass in Old Homosassa!" After working with the same inhabitants who presumably posted this sign, I have a feeling the sign probably read something along the lines of "niger donnt lit the son sit on yer ass in ol homysasa!"
Also reported by people who had moved there a short time before I arrived, a civil war had raged between residents of Old Homosassa and the local newspaper. Apparently, a young black man had been hired to mow the lawn of one of the town banks just outside of Old Homosassa and in "Homosassa Proper." Some rednecks in a pick-up truck drove by the bank and fired a few shots off at the terrified worker, all the while shouting racial slurs at him. The incident was reported in the local rag, which prompted commentary from readers. As most normal people would be, they were outraged that such an incident would take place in their fair county, and felt that the offenders should be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.
The more educated slime-dwellers rose to defend their citizens' actions. Sharpening their crayons and writing misspelled and grammatically slaughtered letters on the backs of unpaid bills, they flooded the newspaper's central office with arguments in defense--and even support--of the incident:
"We doo things are way, you doo thing yer way. Let us bee the way wee wanta."
"T'aint no niger orta be mowin lons out in publik lik'n that fella did. He shooda know'd beder."
"Just a'cause its ill eagle to go shootin off other plases doesnt meen we cant make are own laws hear. Its the way its always bin and its alway's gunna be that way."
Sadly, the newspaper even printed this drivel, encouraging further outrage and expression on both sides. Fortunately, the civil war finally ended when all parties were suddenly side-tracked by the news of a McDonald's being built a few blocks away from the bank.
Note regarding the reference to inbreeding: This is no exaggeration. I taught elementary school in Old Homosassa for five years, and in that time I had four children whose parents were siblings, and one whose mother remarried the child's paternal grandfather. I had several others who were members of a sect called "Church in the Woods," the members of which, I suspect, paired themselves 'among their own,' if you get my drift. And yes, I can vouch that there is definitely truth in the belief that inbreeding creates genetic disadvantage.
Homosassa Inbred Song
~lyrics by Eventide~
~Sung to the tune of Oklahoma~
Hooooo-masassa
Where the wind goes whipping through their brains.
Where the brothers meet
To smell their feet
And screw their sisters in the grain!
Hooooo-masassa
Every night my Uncle John and ME
Like to kiss awhile
And watch our child
Try to pick the scabies off her knees.
We know we belong to our clan,
'Cause we've all got six fingers on each hand!
And when we sayyyyy-ay
We're bigots all the wayyyyy,
We're saying fags, chinks and niggers
You're not welcome;
Inbreds only....OK? (I.Q. is optional)
Inbreds only...OK!
Defiling the Sanctity of Grits
The story behind the song:
My fiancé and I went to a nice little restaurant in Beverly Hills one morning after a gig to rustle up some grub. Sitting there, in the New England Cafe (note the name of the restaurant for an upcoming ironic realization) among the other dozen patrons, I perused the menu. My mother, being from Kentucky, had raised me on grits and country ham, and as I had recently been waxing nostalgic I decided to treat myself. Little did I know that I was about to violate whatever divine providence had prevented me from choosing this delectable little treat since I had moved away from the blissful ignorance of my Colorado home ten years earlier.
My meal of ham, eggs, and grits in front of me, I proceeded to season my food to my taste; I salted the eggs, put butter and sugar on my grits, and began eating. It was delicious.
A couple sitting at a table next to us got up to leave the restaurant. The woman stopped by my chair and said, "Excuse me." As the following conversation ensued, the woman's voice revealed more and more haughty indignation:
ME: "Yes? Oh! Don't I know you from somewhere?"
Her: "Oh, I don't think so."
"You look very familiar."
"I'm sure I'd remember you. You're not from around here, are you?"
"Not anymore, but I used to live here for about ten years. I live in Tampa now."
"No, no. I mean you're not from the south. You couldn't be from here. I sat there and watched you Defile the Sanctity of your Grits!"
"Pardon me?"
"You actually poured SUGAR on your grits! That is Just Not Done! You defiled them! You must be a Northerner."
She became more obviously disgusted by my heretical action with each word she uttered. Though I momentarily thought she was joking, it quickly became apparent that I had repulsed her beyond all apology or redemption. I realized that I must have, in a moment of insanity that I had blocked from memory, taken my defiled grits and forcibly poured them down her untainted southern throat. For that there is no recompense I can offer her. My only hope is to warn future generations who choose to brave the dangers of grit protocol, and such is the purpose of this song:
Defiling the Sanctity of Grits
~Music and lyrics by Eventide~
~© 2000, Eventide~
I was sitting in a restaurant
on a Sunday afternoon
I ordered up some breakfast;
it came none too soon
A big 'ole mess of grits
piled high upon my plate
As I poured upon the sugar
a voice called out too late
It said, "You are defiling
the sanctity of grits
If you was a southerner
you'd burn in the fiery pit
We'll chalk it up to ignorance
from being of the north
But if you plan on living here
you'd better change your course"
I looked around in panic
and found the voice's source
Her eyebrows knitted crossly,
her expression was coarse
She shook her finger at me
and told me I would pay
For such a desecration
that ruined her whole day
She said, "You are defiling
the sanctity of grits
If you was a southerner
you'd burn in the fiery pit
We'll chalk it up to ignorance
from being of the north
But if you plan on living here
you'd better change your course"
I looked at her in wonder
then looked back at my food
I thought of who had said
that sin can taste so good
I grabbed the sugar bowl
and dipped in once again
As it sprinkled down like snowflakes
she continued her refrain
(and said)
"You are defiling
the sanctity of grits
If you was a southerner
you'd burn in the fiery pit
We'll chalk it up to ignorance
from being of the north
But if you plan on living here
you'd better change your course"
And now as I lay dying
thinking back upon my years
I feel a deep regret
as I brush away my tears
Satan is a southerner
as far south as you can go
And soon I must pay the check
much to my own woe
I confess that I defiled
the sanctity of grits
I fear I'll spend eternity
burning in the fiery pit
I cannot plead ignorance
as I face my final fate
I should have listened to her
'bout the grits upon my plate
The story behind the song:
No story. Just doing my POETS Karaoke show one night, drinking with my best buddies when one of them got up to sing Patrick Swayze's She's Like The Wind. I was inspired by beer, good friends, and laughter.
She Broke The Wind
~Lyrics by Cindy Ladd, 2006~
~Sung to the tune of She's Like The Wind by Patrick Swayze & Stacy
Widelitz, 1984~
She broke the wind in her sleep
The dinner we had came back to me
I invited her over, offered to make mutton stew
I'm paying right now, oh what the hell did I do?
I offered to cook dinner for two
She ate heartily... No idea I was screwed!
Such a fool to have made cucumbers and beets
She broke the wind
She broke the wind in her sleep.
She rolled over and then I smelled rotting meat
I felt it roll up my thigh, it puffed up the sheets
I think I've gone blind...What on earth did she eat?
Now I'm regretting my choice to serve broccoli
Somebody please put... me out of misery!
Such a fool to have made cucumbers and beets
She broke the wind
I smell your farts in my face, your buttocks close to me
A Gas-X might work, must call the pharmacy!
Such a fool to have made (just a fool to believe)
She broke the wind
(Just a fool to believe) Give me some relief (she's like the wind)
Should have slipped Bean-O in (just a fool to believe), she broke the
wind
She cut the cheese, she broke the wind.
The story behind the song:
During my POETS Karaoke show one night, again drinking with my best buddies, I had put myself into the rotation to sing this ballad. By the time it was my turn, we had been cutting up so much that I couldn't shake the joviality off to sing seriously. So, instead, I latched on to a little portion of a song I had started when coming back from Orlando (Epcot? MGM Studios?) with my pals, and the rest I improvised.
Since I Sucked You Off
~Lyrics by Cindy Ladd, 2006~
~Sung to the tune of Since I Fell For You by Buddy Johnson, 1940~
When you just give head
And never get head
You shouldn't even put out.
I know it's so,
And yet I know
I can't get you out of my mouth.
When you said
You wanted me to give you head
I thought I'd get it in return
Since I sucked you off.
You
Swore to me you wouldn't cum
But now I'm feeling pretty dumb
Since I sucked you off.
Well, it's too late
To masturbate
And now, my blouse is stained
I blew you,
Should have screwed you
Good God, what a shame,
Nothing will ever taste the same.
You
Swore you'd pull out just in time
I should have recognized the signs
When I sucked you off.
Since I sucked you off.
The story behind the song:
While looking for parodies online, I came across a very lame recreation of an Avril Lavigne song, Complicated. This parody was called Constipated, just like my version of it, but it was about asking Avril why she had to write a song that was so constipated. There was very little invention in the parody, and I felt compelled to at least liberate the lyrics to be simpatico with the title.
**2009 update: A friend of mine told me he recently found that Weird Al Yankovic also wrote a parody of this song and entitled it A Complicated Song. I tracked down a fan-made SIM video of the song on YouTube, and I recommend you click the link to view it. Although Yankovic's parody predates mine by 3 years, and despite some of the subject matter being identical in nature, the two versions differ significantly in the specifics and level of humor; mine is without a doubt the more entertaining version. ~Your ever-so-humble lyricist, Cindy
Constipated
~Lyrics by Cindy Ladd, 2006~
~Sung to the tune of Complicated by Avril Lavigne, 2002~
Uh-huh,
I like Swiss
Uh-huh, uh-huh
That's the way it is
'Cause bleu cheese's great
Uh-huh, uh-huh
When it's on my plate
Relax
What you straining for?
Feels like
I've got a two-by-four
lodged up
deep inside my colon walls
wrapped 'round my balls
I like
eating cheese all day
Can't say
no to Monterey,
cheddar, sharp or mild
When I get hungry
I go wild
I snarf the fondue
the cheeseburgers too
alfredo and mac
a muenster attack
the limburger rocks
Velveeta in a box
is sweet!
Tell me
Why'd I have to go eat all that cheese and get
constipated?
I'm sitting on the
toilet and I'm pushing but I'm just so
constipated.
Days like these I
I moan
and I groan
and I sweat
but I bet
the Ex-Lax
won't kick in for a-
nother half an hour or so
for now I'll just go eat more Gouda
Oh, oh, no.
Roquefort
starts my morning out
Doctor
says I'm getting gout
From my
diet of ricotta with spicy curd
Scurvy's
a way of life for me
Topped off
with a slice of Brie
If I
eat Romano
maybe then
I'll finally go
Correctol won't work
I feel like a jerk
I squat on the stool
just like a fool
I squeeze and I squeeze
But all I can do is pee!
Tell me
Why'd I have to go eat all that cheese and get
constipated?
I'm sitting on the
toilet and I'm pushing but I'm just so
constipated.
Days like these I
I moan
and I groan
and I push
my poor touché
and I plead
but it bleeds from all the
hemorrhoids peepin' out my backside
think I need a surgeon
Oh, no, no
Relax
What you straining for?
Feels like
I've got a two-by-four
lodged up
deep inside my colon walls
wrapped 'round my balls
Correctol won't work
I feel like a jerk
I squat on the stool
just like a fool
I squeeze and I squeeze
But all I can do is pee!
Tell me
Why'd I have to go eat all that cheese and get
constipated?
I'm sitting on the
toilet and I'm pushing but I'm so damned
constipated.
Days like these I
I moan
and I groan
and I sweat
but I bet
the Ex-Lax
won't kick in for a-
nother half an hour or so
for now I'll just go eat more Gouda
No, no
Why'd I have to go eat all that cheese and get
constipated?
I'm sitting on the
toilet and I'm pushing but I'm just so
constipated.
Days like these I
I sigh
and I cry
and I plead
but it bleeds
and I pray
and I say I'll swear off
Mozzarella, Provolone and Colby
even Gorgonzola