BLUE ALERT: number one (2)

American original Frank Zappa created his own form of jazz rock fusion after experimenting with form (Mothers of Invention) in the ’60s. By the ’70s he was no longer ahead of his time, but recognized to the point that he became nauseatingly popular (‘Valley Girl’). This is another of those moments, the song “Yellow Snow” from the album Apostrophe. You can dance to it, but out of respect don’t.

BLUE ALERT: number one (1)

Perhaps we’re going in circles running from where fudge is made to lemonade, but i’m working up to worse and worse… brown is for later. Now for yellow. (And we’ll explore snow in a bit.)

Precocious li’l ol’ Lori Mae Hernandez ‘tubes up her channel with parodies and ukulele stand up. Her Christmas songs are pretty straightforward, but “Yo Ho (A Pirate’s Life for Me) Christmas Song” uses that catchy Disneyed tune to wonder when Santa has time to go (fuller of milk than a 1990s ad campaign). Childishly naughty.

BLUE ALERT: flatulence (5)

As we finish arguing over who dealt it, let’s consider the prospect of God himself. Fallible now in human form, he might be prone to “letting a badger loose.”

Andy Dick and the Bitches of the Century discuss with “Colicky Jesus.” (Available on the Kevin and Bean: The Real Slim Santa album.)

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BLUE ALERT: flatulence (3)

Kids love to play. With their toys. With parental limits. With musical instruments. Heaven knows, i was there when Mike And John and Henry and all crashed together stringed instruments, strummed on percussive pieces and wailed Off Key about existential angst.

Here, another young collective (without appropriate supervision) chant their mystical noel “Giant Farting Christmas Tree.” Note the wiccan placement of musical supplicants as if to call forth Bloody Mary herself. Then get your naughty groove on.

BLUE ALERT: flatulence (1)

March is foul weather, foul lines, and foul language. 

So, for as long as we can stand it, follow me (children excluded) to the depths of depravity, the dirty-minded ditties… next stop the Tabu Zone.

FYI: There’s so much peppermint profanity out there we’ll spend the entire month on only bathroom-related  bad words (the big F can have its own month later).

So, starting out slowly, we’ll step on a carpet frog and blame the dog: (you know) flatulence.

Certainly the standard funny here is a collection of well tuned assholes vocalizing the songs. I’ve got one or two of those albums. Ever since 1990 any boob with a Casio keyboard and some knowhow has sampled the noises of bodily functions and played those ‘notes.’ Bored now. (If you’re not, give “Silent Butt Deadly Night” a try. It’s on a Red Peters album as done by Jingle Smells. My Smelly Holidays album has it by Pull My Finger–i worry these lowbrow guys don’t get the copyright protection they need.)

I’d rather delve into the subject matter of blowing, breaking, cracking, doing, dropping, letting loose, shooting, and squeezing during the holidays. So, to open the window, here are The Little Stinkers with “I Farted on Santa’s Lap (Now Christmas is Gonna Stink for Me).” This has gone ’round the block and been covered by self-appointed humorists (for their grandkids!) all over the ‘tube. There’s even a Karaoke set up. Stick with the 2004 original.

A Month of Love: Billy Squier

“Christmas is the Time to Say I Love You” may be the big Kahuna of Holiday heartfelt howlings. It was the B-side to Billy Squier’s 1981 single ‘My Kinda Lover.’ And it has it’s share of covers.

Alexa Vega tries to Disney it up a bit. Darlene Love torches it up. Katharine McPhee certainly orchestrates it up. SR-71 and The Cute Lepers try to and metal and sass. Hurts my throat to hear ’em

But it’s Billy’s song. Here he is on crappy videotape lip syncing with his hair on MTV. Hey, is that You in the audience?!

A Month of Love: Mark Schultz

It’s Sunday Again! Time for Love to mean agape’. For, you know, God.

Churches still churn out original material, inspired as they are. Here is Mark Schultz writing for his Street Baptist Church a few years ago, and singing “When Love was Born.”

Mark Schultz