August 24, 2006
Hi Folks.
We’re Fred Flaco and Francine Baleine reporting from the Ethical Culture Society on Central Park West to bring you this year’s annual New York Times Thanksgiving Day Parade. Francine, could you describe to our audience some of the spectacular highlights we are going to see today?
Well most notable will be the giant balloons, of course. They’ve replaced Mickey and Spiderman with representations of such cultural luminaries as Saul Bellow and Truman Capote. In addition we’ll see actors on flatbed trucks re-enacting famous events in history. And of course, the ever-present marching bands and baton twirlers, as well as popular New York celebrities. Mayor Bloomberg and Hillary Clinton are scheduled to appear.
And might we as well expect Mrs. Clinton’s illustrious consort, the ex-president?
No, he’s doing humanitarian work in Thailand.
I bet!
Now the parade is starting up. The first group to make its way down Central Park West is the Neoconservative Skate Dancers dancing to the music of Barry Manilow singing “Copacabana.” Michael, have you noticed how the dancers have foregone the use of roller blades, and are preferring the little steel clip-on skates with the skate key that haven’t been seen for fifty years?
I think they decided it was more in keeping with their attire. Clip-on skates you can attach right over your brogues, and they don’t clash with your bow tie.
Nevertheless, these boys are fantastic athletes. Look at how David Brooks lifts Thomas Friedman and twirls him around his head like that!
It’s nice to know that Brooks can do more then write lame little book reports and mundane homilies about going to school all the time.
Now, here’s a historical float of Henry Kissinger meeting Indonesia’s president Suharto, informing him that the Bush administration would not protest the Indonesian army’s invasion of East Timor as long as it was done “Quickly and cleanly.”
Naturally, it was neither, and thousands of protesters and ordinary citizens were massacred.
Kissinger himself freely admits that he has made some blunders, but he has stated, “Power was made to be used.”
We still enjoy having him up to lunch at The Times.
Now marching down the avenue are The Forgotten Jews of America. These are public dignitaries who were too busy or distracted, until one day they woke and discovered they were Jewish.
The experience was so traumatic that they decided to form a support group to get themselves through the crisis.
I mean, I don’t know what I would think if I suddenly discovered I was, pardon me, Jewish. Who can you turn to?
Tell me, Francine, what’s the significance of those white feathers they’re waving around.
That’s the symbol for “You Could Have Knocked Me Over With a Feather!” That’s how shocked they were when they found out they were Jewish.
There’s Madeleine Albright. Although Madeleine’s relatives from Prague repeatedly sent her numerous notes telling her she was Jewish, all the notes mysteriously disappeared.
Somebody should investigate the U.S. Postal Service!
The only thing that bothers me is, how intelligent can she really be if she wasn’t bright enough to figure out she’s Jewish?
Let history decide. Now here’s John Kerry waving his feather. Kerry’s a very religious Catholic, but he’s also got enough Jewish blood to get elected prime minister of Israel.
How soon we forget! Here’s former Times restaurant critic Ruth Reischl, who’s famous for wearing disguises to eat in restaurants, like Inspector Clouseau. She’s wearing one of her disguises now, dressed as a duck.
She better not go to Chinatown with that suit on.
And right behind her, on a float, is a representation of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden with Frank Rich and Maureen Dowd playing the title roles.
With the brisk temperatures we’re experiencing here as a result of this cold front, I think it’s safe to say that Frank is probably shivering a little bit under his fig leaf.
Maureen is a little more sensible with her stylish layered look that she got off the rack at Bolton’s. Her only concession to the story of Adam and Eve is the boa constrictor she has wrapped around her neck for a scarf.
I don’t think that snake’s going to derive much warmth from Maureen.
Next are the ladies from the Political Correctness Brigade. These ladies, Republicans and Democrats alike, have buried their political differences and arrived at a consensus of priggishness and humorless intolerance that they enforce with baseball bats. Or, even worse, they lecture and berate you.
Frankly, I’ll take my chances with the baseball bat.
Now on this float here, we have the New York Times Believe it or Not All-Time Greatest Hits, with Jayson Blair fabricating front page news as Howell Raines practices fly fishing. Then we have Judith Miller in the balcony scene from Cyrano de Bergerac, dressed in a gold lamé straitjacket designed by Gauthier of Paris, swooning on the balcony as Lewis Libby recites her love poetry from below while Dick Cheney feeds him his lines from the bushes.
And there’s the lady who was acting as The Times’ Baghdad bureau chief, sending e-mails to the wives of correspondents, telling them that the men were messing around with Iraqi women.
Right on, lady. Why do nothing when you can do real damage.
The next float recreates a modern New York Times wedding, where two young men, Romeo and Homeo, Princeton graduates, are joined in holy matrimony by Merle Shuster, the lesbian female rabbi of Fire Island.
They’ll be honeymooning in Greece, I understand. They say they want to study the latest French techniques in rectal insemination so they can start a family.
Now we have the gigantic Saul Bellow balloon. Bellow was a literary giant, but even he couldn’t have imagined being 50 feet tall and flying around over Central Park West.
And behind him, the balloon representing Mel Gibson, who couldn’t be here for the parade because he’s shooting a film in New Zealand entirely in the Maori language.
What’s the film about?
It’s about the heroic resistance of the Maori people when the Jews invade New Zealand.
Well, we have Mel’s balloon with us, as well as the Mel Gibson Dancers, a group of racist skinheads doing karate kicks and chanting “Are You a Jew?” to the accompaniment of percussion drums.
Sounds kind of creepy, if you ask me.
Are you a Jew
Are you a Jew
That’s what Mel Gibson’s asking you
Be careful what you answer
The truth is in your pants there
Now comes the float bearing the Times’ publisher, Pinch Sulzberger. It’s a scene from ancient Rome, and Sulzberger is dressed in a toga like a Roman emperor and playing the lyre.
What’s a lyre, Michael?
What's a liar? Funny you should bring that up, because the next float portrays Times editor Bill Keller who, since he has lived his entire career in a world of manipulation and news management, couldn't identify the truth if he ran over it with his Volvo. But back to your question, a lyre is an ancient musical instrument a little like a harmonica with strings. The reason people stopped playing them is that the strings kept getting stuck in their teeth.
And Pinch Sulzberger's all sprayed in gold. What do you thing is the significance of that, Francine?
I’d say he has too much time on his hands. Say, what’s going on at the back of the parade? There seems to be some disturbance.
Right you are! It looks as though the giant cartoon balloons from the Macy’s Parade have got loose and now they’re attacking the cultural balloons from the New York Times parade.
Oh, I can’t look. It’s so awful!
Mickey Mouse is beating up Saul Bellow and Pluto is biting his leg. All the gas and hot air is escaping from Bellow’s leg and he’s just collapsed and completely blown out. What a way to go!
Now Spiderman flies up to Mel Gibson and he kicks him in the butt, and he’s opened out a hole in Mel Gibson’s butt and all the gas is escaping. But instead of collapsing in a crumpled heap, Mel Gibson is flying around over Manhattan, propelled like a rocket by all the hot gas shooting out of his ass!
But what if he crashes and injures someone?
You’re right, and that’s why the fighter jets from the aircraft carrier Intrepid are here, to shoot down Mel Gibson. They’re tearing him to bits with the machine gun fire!
And with the last gasp of gas escaping from his butt, Mel Gibson comes to rest, clinging to the outside of the Times Tower. Good riddance to bad rubbish.
And that ends our coverage of the New York Times Thanksgiving Parade. Ta-ta!
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Posted on 8/24/2006
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August 20, 2006
Aug. 20
The news reported that it’s 120 degrees In Iraq. That means Americans are running around in full body armor in a steambath.
Bush and his idiot gang of neoconservative knuckleheads and thieves are burying the United States so far down that we’re never going to climb out. Bush cronies The Custer Battle Corporation just had their fraud conviction thrown out on the technicality that they weren’t billing the government, but a company set up by the government in Iraq.
Custer Battle Corp. does not have any factories or fleets of ships. It is a group of wise guys with a suite of offices in Washington D.C. and Republican connections, who call themselves “consultants.” Their job is to milk their connections for war-related contracts and to kick part of it back to the Republican Party.
These guys must have had a jolly time when their Defense Department buddies told them, “The best part of it is, you can’t be convicted of fraud because you are not billing the Defense Department, you’re billing an Iraqi company set up by the Defense Department.”
“Haw-haw, that’s rich, Joe!”
Meanwhile, Iraq is disintegrating by the minute. Saddam Hussein was a prick, but this is worse and it’s getting worser.
The only way we are going to put a band-aid over this mess long enough to get the fuck out of there is through international cooperation, and now that they have to send troops to Lebanon to protect the Hezbollah, the other countries are not going to want to go into Iraq as well.
The way this is going to turn out, and I’m truly unhappy to be the one who has to deliver the bad news, is that this mess is going to end up like that old black and white Foreign Legion movie where the only survivor left alive in the fort is the sergeant, and he is propping up all the dead soldiers at the parapets to fool the bloodthirsty Arabs, who are jumping around outside the walls waving knives and swords, leering with anticipation at what they’re going to do when they get inside.
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Posted on 8/20/2006
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August 15, 2006
What is going on with the Yankees and the Mets? Both teams are doing fantastic, and meanwhile the players are behaving like a bunch of lunatics.
First, Hideki Matsui sits down on his hand and breaks his wrist. Out for the whole season! Then A-Rod turns into a total spastic (oh, excuse me, a challenged person). He can’t hit, he can’t field and he can’t throw.
A-Rod, there, should go out to Chicago with Juan Contreras. The whole time Contreras was in New York he couldn’t throw the ball over the plate. Maybe Steinbrenner scared the hell out of him. Maybe he just couldn’t handle New York. It’s been known to happen.
So he got the luckiest break of his life – he got traded to Chicago, where a cultural afternoon is taking your boat out on Lake Michigan for a day of drinking and smoking reefer with 10,000 other maniacs. When Juan Contreras got to Chicago he said, “Now I can play baseball.” And he became a fantastic pitching star, helping Chicago to the World Series Championship for the first time in 80 years.
Meantime, back in New York, A-Rod is tying his shoelaces together. Things are so bad that yesterday he popped out and they almost gave him The Medal of Honor because he sent a run home.
If that isn’t enough, now you got Paul LoDuca of the Mets who, it turns out, has got a girl in every city and they’re coming out of the woodwork like cockroaches for the publicity. The last one to emerge works at an OTB in Philadelphia where he met her when he was betting on the races. That should sure help his reputation at MLB, where they’re already all over his ass for betting.
LoDuca’s wife, who is a Playboy bunny, is divorcing him for adultery even though Texas is a no-fault state. What is she hoping to accomplish? What else, publicity! And the girl from the betting parlor, and the other one from Long Island, what do they hope to get out of this, a movie contract?
Now that sucking baseball players’ dicks is becoming the Stairway to Heaven for all these fantastic dolls, I wish I would’ve spent more time in the batting cage.
We have The New York Post to thank for all this hysteria. By the time the girl comes out of the nightclub toilet with the sperm still dripping from her mouth, The Post has got a reporter with an Instamatic camera to record all the gory details.
On top of everything else, Randy Johnson’s illegitimate daughter comes out in, what else, The Post, and bitches, “He promised me a car and he never gave it to me, the prick!”
This is the ugliest kid imaginable, and to make matters worse she dresses like the gang that shot up Columbine, so Johnson hid his head in the sand, though he did come up to reach 4,500 strikeouts, but I said at the beginning that these jokers are having a fantastic year.
Except for A-Rod. Now it turns out that he told an interviewer he’s been playing with an undisclosed injury all year, and everybody’s going nuts trying to figure out what it is.
I know what it is. When the Yankees played the Mets in the subway series earlier this year, A-Rod went into the toilet just as LoDuca was coming out, and now he’s got crabs.
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Posted on 8/15/2006
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August 12, 2006
Sometimes the visionary can overcome the boundaries of concrete reality, where most of us are more or less condemned to dwell, and fly to the moon.
More than one high flyer has said, “If you can conceive something, then you can achieve it.” Was he just talking about shrinking a submarine full of scientists to the size of an atom and sending it through a person’s blood stream, as in “Fantastic Voyage,” or perhaps something a little more mundane, like defining Reality in America?
In the initial euphoria of the Iraq war where, instead of reporting the facts, CNN was pasting the heads of American heroes on a Wall of Honor, Judith Miller was breathlessly reporting in The New York Times the latest White House info on WMDs, and embedded journalists (and I use the word loosely) were happily transported as guests of the army, a Bush spokesman grandly put it this way, “We’re an empire. We define reality.” This unfortunate hyperbole, having been put through the stress test of physical concreteness, has fallen short of the truth. Wishful thinking has rarely been so successful a technique for achieving policy goals as managing hard facts.
A graphic way of imagining our brief transit through the world is a personal corridor that opens to each person when he is born. It is a narrow passage lined with an infinite number of doors, which are our options. You can step through any of these doors into a room, but the only way out of the room is back into the same corridor. A gifted person like Casanova or Beaumarchais could step into a room and perform a set piece of exquisite significance, but ultimately even he must step back into the corridor of his life.
In the modern world there are infinite diversions, from air travel to Nintendo. Writing words on a page can transport some people better than opium. But we are subject to the corporeal limitations of physics and market forces, though even those are not immutable, as Einstein and Ken Lay have demonstrated.
Though, as Fidel Castro proved, large realities can be achieved in small spaces, a large physical stage is conducive to the vast sagas that make Americans happy. That is why the stereotypical Texan, waving his cigar across a vast expanse and shouting “Everything’s big in Texas,” has such resonance. The transformative experience of Rene-Robert Chevlier de la Salle, almost mystical in his travails, who trekked countless times across seventeenth century New France with a canoe strapped to his back, fighting Indians, black flies and freezing winters, sailing the oceans to France and Quebec, Hispaniola and Louisiana before being assassinated in a mutiny on the plains of Texas in a drama seemingly lifted from Puccini’s “Manon Lescaut,” and the stories from Louis L’Amour’s frontier, where bad people and good spearheaded the European conquest of the Great Plains, require an epic panoramic tableau of magisterial expanse to please a people for whom once is never enough and the cameo lives of the lesser peoples of the world have no significance.
The other large national entities of the world are also living their passions, the Brazilians and Chinese with their space programs, the French ever-determined to reassert world dominance, the Russians who are our mirror image – all are bursting at the seams with national growth hormone. The emergence of Islam as a transnational entity with a huge territorial expanse, population and resources suggests yet another polarity. As these material and psychic spheres of influence expand and crash into each other like blobs in a lava lamp, merging and separating to remold in another configuration, what will be the impact on an American psychology which centuries of isolation have conditioned to an attitude of exclusivity, as though the lessons of past human experience are not relevant in our circumstances. Will we reject the lessons of history, incomplete as they are, and through childlike petulance and willfulness allow ourselves to get bumped from the top spot, where intelligent analysis and skillful strategic action might have kept us?
The controversy here is not willingness or unwillingness to use military force to achieve what intellectually and diplomatically seems to be beyond our reach, as might the skillful managing of resources to achieve rational and realistic objectives. The doctrine of American exclusivity, while it may have had some useful purpose in past ages, is not advancing our interests as well as rational analysis and management of resources, but, like many other critical cultural issues, rethinking of it is not even on the cultural agenda.
If reality can come to seem an elastic concept to one whose immediate needs are satisfied, so is the rationalism to discern and negotiate the material world. This lack of immediacy is the defining factor that characterizes our ruling class, which is centuries removed from the means of production (now that the Chinese are manufacturing all of our goods, nobody seems worried that soon we as a country won’t know how to do any more with our hands than type at a keyboard or push a broom, our hands to eventually atrophy and fall off like redundant appendages). Lacking consequences, all decisions become academic, except where the real world so rudely intrudes, as George Bush’s face on 9/11 so poignantly expressed when told that an eventuality he had previously dismissed as fanciful had erupted with traumatic consequences.
It’s useful to have grandiose dreams. As the Roman Empire demonstrated, imagination and audacity can produce overwhelming success. An elastic concept of reality is fundamental to the arts and is essential for conceiving real-world solutions. The talent for knowing the distinction between what is real and what is not real can be the key for devising imaginative solutions for a lovelier life.
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Posted on 8/12/2006
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August 05, 2006
Floyd Landis was out plowing the back 40 acres of his family’s Amish farm in Pennsylvania. His family was too poor to have an ox, so the plow was being pulled by a sheep. Floyd wiped the sweat off his brow and said, “When I get some money, I’m going to buy the biggest ox in the county. Maybe I’ll get an ass too.”
Just then, his mother, Myrtle, came out into the field. She handed Floyd a handful of red beans. “These are magic beans. Take them to Lancaster and give them to Mr. Klingonmeister and he’ll give you a bicycle in exchange. If you take the buckboard and leave now, you can be in Lancaster before dark. Then you can sleep in Mr. Klingonmeister’s barn and return by buckboard tomorrow.”
But young Floyd had his own ideas. He was going to push the outside of the envelope and go where no Amish had gone before – he was going to take THE BUS! “I sure hope those things are safe,” he said.
When the bus came and Floyd boarded, it was scarrrry. All those people were lined up and sitting in rows, and they were all looking at him in his black Amish coat and hat. He went to the back of the bus next to the toilet. “Wow,” he exclaimed, “an outhouse on wheels. And it smells real good, not like our outhouse back of the chicken coop. What will they think up next!”
Because of all the stress of going on the bus, Floyd was tired and he decided to take a nap. The problem is, he had boarded the wrong bus, and instead of going to Lancaster PA, this bus was the Express to Los Angeles!
The bus pulled into the depot in LA just as Floyd awoke from his nap. “Gee, everything looks different,” he said. When he got off the bus, Floyd went up to the first person he saw and asked, “Can you direct me to the Amish meeting house?”
As it happened, this person was Mel Gibson, who was distractedly walking through the bus station fingering a rosary and reading “Mein Kampf.” Gibson looked up from his book, saw Floyd Landis in his Amish hat and coat and said, “Are You A Jew?” Then he went back to reading his book and walked away.
“Wow, what a nut-job!” exclaimed Floyd. He went up to another person and asked, “Can you direct me to the Amish meeting house?”
This person was Barry Bonds, who was waiting for Greg Anderson to arrive on the bus from Vacaville State Penitentiary. Bonds smoothly asked Floyd Landis, “What are you going to do at the Amish meeting house?”
“I’m supposed to give these red beans to Mr. Klingonmeister for a bicycle,” said Floyd. He showed the beans to Barry Bonds.
When Bonds saw the red beans, his eyes bugged out. These were the red beans that made you hit homeruns! He said to Floyd, “Mr. Klingonmeister couldn’t make it so he sent me instead. He told me to give you these.” Bonds produced a handful of syringes. “Do you know what these are?” he asked Floyd.
“Sure, those are needles, like the ones my mother uses to sew my bloomers when she cuts up the old flour sacks.”
“Not exactly, there, son,” said Barry Bonds. “You take this needle and you stick it in your butt, and it makes you big and strong.”
“Oh, you mean like the magic beanstalk?”
“Yeah, like the beanstalk. C’mon, gimme the red beans!”
“Not so fast.” said Floyd, “I’m thinking.”
Seconds ticked by as Floyd thought. A little angel appeared on his shoulder. It was Lance Armstrong. Lance said, “Don’t take that stuff. You don’t need it. Winning isn’t everything!”
A little devil appeared on his other shoulder. It was O.J. O.J. said, “Go ahead, take the juice. They’ll never catch you. Look at me. I got away with it. Shit, if we would have had that stuff when I was your age, I would’ve killed twenty people, not two.”
“What the heck,” said Floyd, “I took the bus and that didn’t kill me. Maybe I’m on a roll.” He gave the red beans to Barry Bonds. “OK, you got a deal.”
Barry Bonds grabbed the beans, shoved the syringes at Floyd Landis and hurried away. “Send me a postcard,” he shouted over his shoulder.
Floyd took one of the needles, pushed it into his butt and pushed the plunger. His head lit up like a light bulb. “Whoop-De-Dooooo!” he exclaimed. “I feel like taking a little BICYCLE RIDE!”
He ran out of the bus station, knocked down a bicycle messenger and stole the bike. The bicycle messenger got up and started chasing Floyd, screaming, “Give me back my bike!”
Floyd reached 120 MPH on the San Bernardino Freeway, but when the cops started to chase him, Floyd Landis Took Up Out Of The Parking Lot And Into The Sky! Now he was really flying. On the way, he caught up with ET, who was riding his bike to the moon.
“Whoa, mama! I’m a peddling fool! Step on my dick! Whoopee!” cried Floyd. When he got to New York, he just kept peddling, right over the Atlantic Ocean to Paris France. As luck would have it, the Tour de France bicycle race happened to be ending there, and Floyd came in as the leader, mainly due to the fact that all the other riders had been arrested for doping.
When Floyd arrived at the finish line on the Champs-Elysses, instead of being awarded a bottle of champagne, he was greeted by Inspector Clouseau, who slapped handcuffs on him. “Monsieur, in the name of the law I arrest you for illegal possession of a controlled substance, illegal steroids, punishable by a prison term of five years.”
“Five years!” exclaimed Floyd.
“It’s up to the discretion of the investigating magistrate,” said Closeau as he led Floyd to the police van.
“Who’s that?” asked Floyd.
“Judge Judy.”
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Posted on 8/5/2006
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August 03, 2006
Hi folks! This is Mel Gibson live at the San Diego Zoo. You know, a lot of people come up to me in bars and ask me, “Mel, how come you don’t like Jews?”
Well, nothing could be farther from the truth. Not only do I like Jews – I collect ‘em. That’s why I spent $250 million of my own money to build this authentic Jewish habitat at The San Diego Zoo.
So come with me as we explore the wonderful, wacky world of the Jewish people on MEL GIBSON’S JEW PARADE!
My assistant this week is Heinrich Müller of Paraguay. Heinrich, yours is not a typically Paraguayan name.
“No, mein family immigrated to South America after Vorld Var II, vere ve vent back into the family business of manufacturing lampshades.”
Is that where you became interested in Jewish people?
“Vell, you know, it’s the same as with any vild animal. You can’t show fear or they’ll tear you apart.”
Exactly! Now folks, just one word of caution. The Jews in this habitat are cute, but always keep in mind that like wild animals, you have to treat them with caution. Don’t get too close to the cage. And be careful if you’re wearing jewelry because they’re apt to attack if they see anything that resembles gold or silver.
Now, here we have our Holy Land habitat. One of our stuntmen, who is dressed as Jesus, is entering the cage. Wow, look at the attack! They’re ripping Jesus to shreds. It sort of reminds you of a school of piranha fish. Fortunately, our Jesus is dressed in protective body armor and he’s been trained to withstand all the brutal assaults that the Jews can throw at him. Kids, don’t try this at home!
Next is our New York habitat. These are your peaceful, domesticated Jews, and as you can see, they’re all sitting around in easy chairs and reading The New York Times.
Now here are your Jewish comedians in a comedy club setting. These Jews spend most of their time stealing each other’s material, so they’re not even likely to notice your presence, but don’t heckle during their act, because Jewish comedians can turn particularly vicious when they are provoked.
Here is our Stock Market environment. Watch what happens when I take a dollar out of my pocket. If it weren’t for the inch-thick iron bars on the cage, all of our lives would be in danger from the stampeding herd of Jews trying to get their hands on this money. Lookit,’ they’re fighting each other to get their arms between the bars. Now I put the dollar back in my pocket and they immediately stop fighting and go back to trading stocks and bonds. Sort of like seagulls, or should I say “Segals” ha-ha!
“Say, Mel, what about this cage? How come this guy’s all alone?”
Oh, that’s the Israeli. I don’t know. He’s a bad one. I haven’t decided what to do about him.
This is our Beverly Hills Jewish habitat. See how well groomed and beautifully attired are the Jews of Beverly Hills, while some Aryans in this country can’t even scrape together bus fare? Well, no matter…
“Vell, back in my country ve haff a saying, ‘Be nice to ze people you meet on ze vay up, because you meet ze same people on ze vay down. Say, Mel, you see that blonde Jewess lounging around the pool mit ze Brazilian bikini? Vell, mit her beautiful skin, she vould make a fantastische lampshade.”
There you go again, Heinrich! Now, folks, what do you need after a hard day of lounging around the pool? Why showers, naturally! So now the Jews will all line up at the shower, and Heinrich here will tell them what showers to go to.
“Dis the part I like best!”
Well, that’s all for today. Remember, this show’s all in fun. I thank the Lord for all my Jewish friends, and I thank him every day in my prayers that I am lucky enough to live in a great country of such diversity.
Be sure to tune in next week when we travel to France for The Jewish Tour de France, where Jewish bicyclists on pre-war bikes race a German panzer division over the Pyrenees to try to get to the Spanish border.
And don’t forget to see my new movie “Apocalypto”, where the Jews invade Mexico.
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Posted on 8/3/2006
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August 02, 2006
Let’s take a moonlight cruise down Highway One-oh-One
That’s where ol’ Mel Gibson makes his midnight run
It’s the street where the Nazis meet
And you don’t have to be discreet
About cursing out any Jew you meet
Are You a Jew?
Are You a Jew?
Mel Gibson’s asking that of you
Be careful how you answer
The answer's in your pants there
Are You a Jew?
Are You a Jew?
We got some cyanide from you
We’ll find a coupla’ rabbis
And some professors too
We’ll pour a six-pack on their heads
And say to them
Are You a Jew?
I ain’t no bigot no siree!
You Jew-boys mean the world to me
Let’s get together and eat some pork
We’ll spend the week-end in Jew York
O Jew you are a beautiful thing
Of all great things your nose is king
When you sneeze it’s like the tsunami
That devastated ol' Mi-am-eeee
O Jew-o Mio
Give me your money
I’ve got a shotgun
And it ain’t funny
The Aryan Nations
Ain’t got no patience
With your Jew movies
And T.V. stations
Hey Jew-boy it would be real cute
To kill you and seize all your loot
Quit making such a fuss
We’re just taking back what you stole from us
Tomorrow it may be too late
But we got Mel Gibson and he is great
We got Mel Gibson to fuck the Jews
Since we’re already morons what can we lose?
After this mess is over
And we’ve got us a new fuhrer
We’ll line up in front of a picture of Mel
And shout out “Hallelujah!”
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Posted on 8/2/2006
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