The Weeble's powers of memory and recitation can be quite daunting. Now I find he can even outdo me on Tom Waits lyrics. This cannot be allowed. I feel it is necessary for me to revise a few of my favourites, and get back in practice.
This one, of course, is the bar-room recitation classic. (I might dig out a video for it one day, if I can ever get YouTube to work for me again.) [Well, I eventually managed to turn it up here; audio only, though.]
Frank's Wild Years
Frank settled down in the Valley, and he hung his wild years on a nail that he drove through his wife's forehead. He sold used office furniture out there on San Fernando Road, assumed a $30,000 loan at fifteen-and-a-quarter percent, and put a downpayment on a little two-bedroom place. His wife was a spent piece of used jet-trash; made good Bloody Marys, kept her mouth shut most of the time. Had this little chihuahua named Carlos that had some kind of skin disease and was totally blind. They had a thoroughly modern kitchen: self-cleaning oven, the whole bit. Frank drove a little sedan. They were so happy.
One night, Frank was on his way home from work; stopped at the liquor store, picked up a couple of Mickey's Big Mouths; drank 'em in the car on his way to the Shell station. He got a gallon of gas in a can. Drove home, doused everything in the house, torched it. Parked across the street laughing, watching it burn - all Halloween orange and chiminey red.
Frank put on a Top 40 station, got on the Hollywood freeway, headed North.
Never could stand that dog.
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