Our program is coming to you from under the pier and is sponsored by Mr. Jack Mackerel of Allure Fish and Tackle. When you think Allure, think stink...
Say, did I ever tell you how to make Pop's Graveyard Stew? You pour some hot water and ketchup over the food you find from dumpster diving, add salt and pepper to taste, and voilà c'est magnifique! Well anyway, so much for the "Helpful Hints" segment of the program. Let's get into the real meat and potatoes...
See these people? They could be miscreants or millionaires, the poor and pawn, court jesters in the judiciary, entrepreneurs, or just your average John and Mary Doe.
Some may be corporate executives, titans of industry, union blues. Intellectuals, academics, politicos of every persuasion, even presidents. They could be me or you---all bums! I'm just showing you a picture of what's on the inside, scratching beneath the surface, sort of providing an x-ray, if I may, of the impoverished soul of Man.
And this is the warbler's song emanating from my heart in high intensity as I speak of the last pretense of lost pretenders of the commercial herd, complete zeroes who consider themselves the center of the universe, living like animals in a somnambulant dance copulating their way to the grave in a teenie-weenie, three-dimensional space. Drifters restlessly wandering from Point A to Point B like pin balls in a penny arcade machine, tramping on weekends from place to place unable to escape, hopping from bar to bar and hoping from sale to sale to fill that rat hole in their soul with more and more junk like bag ladies at the city dump. Rogues who scheme, cheat and chisel their way through the day and have elevated petty knavery to an art form and made primitive greed the essence of being.
Indigents reading newspapers and magazines full of fascinating nonsense and interesting misinformation, popping pills and drinking while endlessly watching mindless movies on TV or the big screen as they're lied to over their fries on the nightly news. Ever-manipulated by the latest craze, charades with the vernacular of slaves. Arrogant airheads oblivious to everything except their own vacuous existence filling the airwaves with their mental evacuations and vitriolic, convoluted obfuscations and bifurcations, vociferously sharing the barf of their lives in plain sight for all to see.
Vagrants choosing night instead of day to proudly parade each and every depraved notion right in front of your face. Parroting caricatures resembling effete winos posing and gesticulating clichés and regurgitating inane miasma like egregious three-year olds spewing the zilche of their puerile blabbing into that piece of plastic called a cell phone, while honking car alarms announce macabre hobo clowns with horns in the circus of empty dreams.
Derelicts who loose it completely seeking to develop a meaningful relationship with their pet piranha or snake or cat or dog or goldfish, or those silverfish trapped in the books of their trash bag tents and cardboard box houses. Of the same ilk are churls who are obsessed with saving the life of a tsetse fly, yet picket for the right to kill an unborn child. We've become tramps drifting from trash can to trash can for trinkets and trolling the gutter for chump change, mere men of flesh and blood vainly speculating of unrealities, living in a system of lies, and calling it life.
I ain't peddling pretty pictures, hawking my wares like those rejects from the 60's with lamb chop sideburns and tonsurial pates wearing double-knit, striped bell bottoms at the hometown faire. I got no driftwood coffee tables or oil lamps or stained glass wind chimes or scenic floral doormats in my oeuvres to peddle---all my stuff clashes with the wallpaper! Let's just say that I'm an itinerant preacher to homeless souls with the world for a church.
Through art and books, I pin point the problem, point out the starting point and point people in the right direction like a breath of fresh air to a used balloon---I wanna change the world, make it beautiful again; but I can't do it without you...
I tell you this, I proclaim it from the very center of my being; this is the portico of my bidding. I've searched high and low, looked and lurked in every murky hole, and fallen into every trap and web; there ain't no other way. I'm not asking you to do a pirouette and stand on your head. I want you and me, Bunny Bananas, P.U., Disco Dan, Trash Can Sam, Six-Pack Hanna, Jack Pot, Mr. and Mrs. More, Fox Hole Freddie, Fox Trot Jane, Patty Cakes, Douglas Fir, Beverly Hills, Hot Pants Harry, Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac, Franklin Mint, Kelly Karaoke, Kung Fu Ken, Trapezoid Jack and Tegretol Suzy to jog or crawl or limp or stagger to the foot of the cross: May we all come together in one accord. One hope, one peace, one love...
With the white tiara of the vicar and the saint, febril yet cool, feral and undulating, I'm prepossessed by a light in the black flame of night. I'm the Fu Manchu of too much booze who's lost withou his mousse, just another frozen yo-yo yoked to a rainbow doin' the ol' soft shoe for you...
From Pop! Radio,
More yours than a gold card and trip to Tahiti,
This is,
