Worm Quartet

Secret Hidden “Mental Notes” lyrics page!

I'm Not A Girl

Music and Lyrics by Timothy F. Crist

I 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)

C Is For Lettuce

Music and Lyrics by Timothy F. Crist

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.)

What Your Parents Think All Your Music Sounds Like

Music and Lyrics by Timothy F. Crist

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!

Your Bird Smells

Music and Lyrics by Timothy F. Crist

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

Music and Lyrics by Timothy F. Crist

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)

Gift Certificates and Intense Agonizing Throbbing Pain

Music and Lyrics by Timothy F. Crist

You fucking figure it out.

you were wrong cabinet sanchez

Music and Lyrics by Timothy F. Crist

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.)

Princess Of Ohio

Music and Lyrics by Timothy F. Crist

Everyone’s the princess of Ohio

Even Ed Meese?

Especially Ed Meese.

Drugs and Masturbation

Music and Lyrics by Rev. N0rb.

Corn

Music and Lyrics by Timothy F. Crist

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.

Adventures In Creative Nostril-Swallowing (A Tribute To Plants That Suck)

Music and Lyrics by Timothy F. Crist

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've Got A Wife (or “Juxtaposition of the Matrimonious and the Masturbatious”)

Music and Lyrics by Timothy F. Crist

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

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

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

(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.

I Want To Be Taken Seriously As An Artist

Music and Lyrics by Timothy F. Crist

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!"

(NOTE: It is my greatest hope that someday my son will listen to this song and say to me "Dad, what's a boy band?")

You Will Go To The Moon

Music and lyrics by Ford/Foster/Ghomeshi/Matheson, and yes I friggin’ licensed it.

-=ShoEboX=-