Saturday, August 31, 2013

My Alarm Cock

My Alarm Cock
By: David McGhee

I wake up at six in the morning
  Every morning.
    I wake up to my alarm cock.
It hits me in the face, begging me to play with it.
 But it's so fucking early!
   I awake to my alarm cock.
But to be truthful it's really Frank's alarm cock.
  I'm just a part time fellow myself.
    I hear they don't make them like this anymore.
      Frank is corn fed, hung like a horse, feet like a Roman emperor.
        His cock is one of alarm.
          For he owns the alarm cock.
Safe in bed and safe with his alarm cock.
  Although, technically it is mine,
    because I set the timer.
He lets me make tea. So I make chai.
  Chai gives you better blood flow to your alarm cock.
    That's if you're a dude.
      Dudes rule!
        Cocks rule!
And alarm cocks slap me in the face!
  Wake up!
I awake to my alarm cock.
  He rests it on my forehead, my alarm cock.
    Frank is inside my mouth, my alarm cock.
      It rests on my shoulder, my alarm cock
Frank puts it in my eye.
I love my alarm cock.
One day I will be a man of my own.
  And I will use my own alarm cock
    To wake me up.
      To have and to hold.

Give me my alarm cock! Goddammit, or I'll cut a bitch!!!

Wednesday, August 21, 2013

If I had a dogey dogey.

Dogey Dogey
By: David McGhee

They had a pug. His name was Alfred and he had the happiest little stupid face of all puppydom. Alfred loved to partake of the occasional trashcan, as most mutts tend to do. He would lick your hand and la di da. It's a fucking dog. I have a problem with dogs personally. They are stupid entities that have been bred into a state where they rely solely on human help. Most breeds can't hunt on their own like a cat could.
In fact dogs were originally domesticated because they would venture into towns and the townspeople would feed them, causing the hounds to come closer and closer until they had no qualms about having to mess with these wonderful beings with the delicious foodstuffs like bacon and birds. Alfred loved chicken.
For such a small dog Alfred sure knew how to raise hell. Like how I said that little pup loved to eat the fowl he also loved to kill and then eat the fowl. We all thought that Alfred would just bark at the chicken. Well he sort of did that. The chicken just started flapping it's wings and Alfred went immediately for the neck. That little bastard had the bite of a frigging diesel powered machine. Like a god damn deer tractor. I wouldn't be damned if the little fucker enjoyed himself either. When he was done shaking the shit out of the chicken neck he ran up to me and dropped it at my feet. If you've ever seen a pug smile then just imagine a self satisfied serial chicken killing monster dog. All ten pounds of chicken killing machine. I wouldn't trust the little fagot loving dog with my hamster.
Then again I wouldn't trust myself with a hamster. How long do those things live anyways? I could never get one to live past three weeks.
I took Alfred for a walk today and like any good dog owner I carry around trash bags so I can grab the poo for future disposal. It was on this walk that I learned that Alfred could talk. If I am remembering correctly there was a series or is still a series on the FX Channel by that name. But this was my Alfred. My little pug. My little bundle of fur, flesh, and stupid.
We were walking near Cheeseman Park when this tall scruffy blond haired dude walked up to me when I was watching Alfred at his worst. If I didn't know any better I would swear that Alfred was giving himself head! He did that a lot. So much in fact that when I asked my vet if something was wrong with him and he said “Eh... Everybody jerks off.” and left it at that.
One of the many awkward moments this dog has orchestrated just to spite me. I know I talked about dogs having a sort of stupid intelligence but this thing must be the Einstein of poop eaters. That's another thing that pisses me off about this fucking white fuck of fluff. If I don't get to his poo before he does then he will ingest it, then throw it up, and then eat it again. All of this takes place at my door every night.
He has lately taken to shitting on my door step. I can't say for sure but I think that maybe me kicking him in the kidneys for fun just might not be what the little fella is thinking of in a human companion. Little asshole. Once I started petting it and calling it stupid retarded names with a coo in my voice it started to mind my door step. It utterly amazed me that the little fucker could put two and two together.
Dogs scare the crap out of me sometimes. But the cool thing that I like about old Al is that even when he is trying his hardest to come off like a bad ass, he is still a ten pound pug. He's utter hilariousness and sometimes I get caught up in the fun and I punt him like a football. I want to try my pug out for the Denver Bronco's as the franchise's first ever living football. Just imagine Tim Tebow gunning his foot on a ten pound pug ugly son of a bitch? I can imagine it's stomach exploding with the mighty foot force of Tim Tebow's amazing legs. Sigh...
Tim Tebow is the kind of fellow I would love to see in a locker room. But I have no delusions of grandeur. I can take the idea of a six inch Tim Tebow. If the man is modest then all the more hurray for him! And I mean that. Because normal penises are well... Well they're just great.
El oh el.
Smily face.
That little pig faced son of a bitch. I know it was a son of a bitch too because technically all male dogs are sons of bitches. Because females dogs are called bitches? See how I did that? Hilariousness!
Alfred once found a pocket in the ground containing trace amounts of uranium. I shit you not! Little asshole just ate up the radioactive rocks, and this is not to say that he only ate the uranium specks he saw and left most of the regular rocks and dirt unscathed. It was like the little hash tag stupid dog just got the itch that could only be scratched by swallowing lethal doses of uranium. But to all of our amazement the little shit just pooped them out. He stayed radioactive for a few months after that but thank goodness he must have a good metabolism because he's no longer reading on the geiger meter. I mean any more than any normal living thing. I swear this fucking dog has nine lives!
Speaking of it swallowing things I swear this thing must have the internal plumbing of a fucking battery processing robot. Not shitting you, this little pug bastard ate and shit a battery. A double A battery. My dog Alfred ate and shit a double A battery. Beautiful.
“Fucking A!” My dog would shout at me. Oh yeah, remember when I said my dog could talk? Well he can. And he's annoying as fuck!
Imagine if a pug could talk slash bark his way into the American people's heart. I imagine that in some awesome Oriental country they would dine on a delicacy that is a pug bug stupid dogey. They would eat his righteous ass with teriyaki sauce. That smug bastard. Leg of some young chow. If there were any animal that should be eaten it would have to be man's best friend. Those things have an awful intelligence about them, as I have ranted on before, and they know that you don't like them.
But they don't care though. Because they know that by pooping on your door step and eating your third copy of Stephen King's The Stand is yet one line that has long since been drawn. You never have a cat doing shit like that. They know that because they know that if they fuck some shit up then theys are getting boots to their puss! Talking about an angry pussy!
Rowr!
Smiley face.
And let's talk about meat for the military, you could feed our starving troops over seas if we just take a cue from the Chinese. And I don't mean to sound racist but they really do do that shit. Just look it up. When the Beijing Olympics happened the government officials over in China banned the sale of cat and dog as an edible commodity. I shit you not.
Heard it from a reputable sounding site. Then again what can you truly trust on the internet? I mean come on! The most believable things you hear of nowadays are Onion headlines.
Right?
Yeah?

*Grasshoppers chirp*

But seriously. You may think I'm being racist but when the truth is awful to our uppity culture and is delicious on the other side, I tend to side with the deliciousness. If somebody afford me some barbequed chow I'd live to have a breast piece. Because chows piss me off and they be eating dogs. That's why they're called chows!
It's like some big fucking practical joke. But it isn't. And they do and would offer me Barbeque chow. And I would eat it. Because that means they would have had to kill the dog. I fucking condone puppy murder. But I would never hurt one myself.
What can I cay? I'm just a hardcore cat lover.
Either you're with us or you're not.

Although this little shithead is growing on me. Who knows? Maybe I won't eat my doggy after all.

Tuesday, August 13, 2013

“Sexy McSex Sexifies the Sexy McSex With a Sexy Sex McSex Female Riding on Top of Me Having the Best Sexy Sex Ever! I Was like Booooooing!"

“Sexy McSex Sexifies the Sexy McSex With a Sexy Sex McSex Female Riding on Top of Me Having the Best Sexy Sex Ever! I Was like Booooooing!”
By: David McGhee

“She came to me the other night” Ryan said to his two friends sitting on either side on his next to the raging camp fire. All three of them had alcohol in their hands. Marty and Matt were drinking Coors Light while Ryan sipped from his Tennessee Honey Jack Daniel's whiskey. “I was all like, playing my Xbox and shit, and she knocks on my door. I'm dressed in my boxers, sporting a boner, and I answer the door. She was all like 'I was thinking of you and it got me wet.' It wasn't raining, but I'm used to girls messing their pants with their pussy juices thinking of me. She's all like “May I come in.' And to this I said 'Yes. Yes you may.'
“So she followed me into the living room where she took off her wet clothes (wet because she was like, totally wetting down there for me. I swear bro, her sex juice was staining her tight, tight blue jeans) and sits down on my couch next to me, like, totally naked. And she turns to me and says 'I love men who know how to rock an Xbox.' And I was like saweeeeeet! Did I mention that she's like, a model and junk. Tall with light, light bleached blonde hair and I'm sitting here all like, six foot six and two hundred and twenty pounds of man muscle. My dick is probably a fifth of my total weight. Plus I totally look like handsome and shit. I'm a sex God. And I get chicks like this all the time because my dick is like, twelve inches! No joke! I fucking impale them bitches!
“All right man!” Matt high fives Ryan and continues listening intently as he sipped from his beer. He imagined the chick like, all naked and shit. That totally turned him on. Which is why Ryan's story connected with him so much. He liked pussy too!
Damn it is awesome having a dick!
Ryan raises his bottle and the other two clanged their containers together, symbolizing male unity or some shit. He sips from his whiskey. “Like, my boner is going away at this point because I'm all like, shit girl, I've nailed finer bitches than you before breakfast this morning. But she was all like 'Let's have some fun, this beat is sick, I wanna take a ride on your disco stick.'
“To which I reply, 'All the girlies say I'm pretty fly for a white guy.'
“And she's all like crying and shit because I'm holding out on her. Bitches can't get enough of the big D, bra. And I can like, make them make me dinner and wipe my ass when I use the rest room. One girl even saves my spit and errant hairs in a jar so that she can carry me around with her everywhere.
“But this chick just wouldn't stop, bra! She's all like tearing my boxers off, which sucks because I liked those boxers, but it's cool because I'm like, totally rich and it's a chick doing it, so. You know. If it was a dude I'd be all like, sorry bro, I'm not a fag. Then I'd kick his ass for being a fag. Fags are fags. ¿Uh huh huh ha ha ha ha huh uh?
“Then I said 'Ooga ooga! Me man. You woman. Me on top!'
“And then she like, started sucking me off dude, but she couldn't get it all in her mouth because my schlong is, like, twelve inches. It's totally huge, bra! Some chicks get scared when they see my massive man meat. They're all like 'My vagina is so small and you're so big! How ever will you fuck me? Oh stretch me! Stretch me, Ryan! Stretch my vaginal cavity to accommodate your Eiffel Tower sized one eyed bandit!' Sometimes when ever I'm in an argument with another dude or a ho, I'll whip it out and smack them with it. Hit them right side on their noggin. You know, instead of punching, I use my dick. It's so big that it's like a little extra arm that can be used to beat the shit out of fags with. Fags totally hate it when I beat them with my massive pulsating man cock.
Matty and Marty gave each other a quizzical glance. Then they laughed.
“But she was just sitting there, sucking on it. I put my hand on her head and I pushed it all the way down to the base of my cock. And she totally took it bra! She did a hand stand on my legs so her throat wouldn't be bending when she took it in; so she could take all of my penis!
“Then I turned her over and slammed it right into her stinker! She screamed with pain and lust. She screamed 'La cucaracha! La cucaracha! Da da da da da da da!' over and over again! It made me so hard bra. I went deep into her colon and gave her a one of my special Ryan cock enema. She'll be shitting so good for years to come man. That is unless I packed it in so tight that she now has to get pieces of her colon removed, but hey, bitch can't complain, she totally asked for it! Begged me even!
“So I'm pounding away at her incredibly fat ass, bitch has got to weigh like a hundred and ten pounds, fucking blimp, and it occurs to me that if I come in her ass then I'm a fag. And I'm not a fag. Are you guys fags?”
Marty and Matty shake their heads. Marty laughs “Na bra. I ain't no fag.”
Matt smiled. “Honest to God pussy lover.” He laughs.
Ryan, satisfied with his friend's sexual tendencies, continues. “So I take it out and wipe the shit and blood (from busting her pussy) off my pulsating twelve inch cock and then I bring it home in her cooch. I ram and ram and she's moaning from the best sex she'll ever had. Seriously bra, chicks tell their friends then they cheat on their man with me. I don't condone it but I'm not going to stop a chick from mouth hugging my cock. It's here for all bitches to enjoy.
“But if a fag wants to suck my cock maybe... Um... No way! I'd kick his lily ass! Fucking fags!
“So I asked her 'Hey' I say 'you want me to cum? Inside or on your face?'
“So she replies 'On my face! Make me into the dirty whore you think I am!'
“And I'm all like, I can't argue with that, so I pull out and jack it until a huge glob of my stuff comes shooting out, hitting her in the eyes and getting all in her hair and shit. She feels around for it and what sticks to her fingers goes in her mouth. She then kisses me and I'm all like 'huh. Semen isn't that bad.' But then I'm all like 'Bitch! Trying to make me into a fag!' and I hit the bitch with my dick, not at all unlike how I deal with fags who are tall and hung. Then she cries, wanting more of my cock. But I'm all like, spent. So I says 'get out of here bitch!' and she's all like 'But Daddy Ryan! I needs your legendary phallus!'
“And I'm all like 'get out of here you dirty cunt! And she puts on her now even wetter clothes (Because I like, came all over her clothes too. There was enough to go around bra!) and heads out the door crying like her Pug just got ran over by Dick Cheney. So I am left sitting naked on my recliner and I notice my cock. It's big and bulging and it makes me wonder what Cory's dick looks like. But then I remember that I'm not a fag.”
“Cory Leechman?” Marty asks, eyebrow raised.
“Yeah.” Ryan says with a wistful look in his eyes. “Yeah, he's a fag.
Marty thinks about how much ass Cory gets and is confused by the non-sequitur.
Ryan continues. “So I start playing Xbox again, and I hear a knocking at my door again. I'm all like 'fuck! It better be a chick at the door!' Because if it was a fag I'd fuck'em!
Matt and Marty both say “What?!” at the same time.
“I meant fuck them up! Not fuck them.” Ryan laughs “I'm not a fag.” He then returns to his story that he had started after being asked what time it was. “Anyway, sure enough, it is! A small bodied, bit big boobed, red head with streaks of eyeliner dripping from her eyes and onto her cheeks.
“'I've been masturbating to my memory of you like all day.' She says.
“And I'm all like, 'Cool.'
“And then she's all like 'You wanna fuck me in the ass and cum inside my colon?'
“Normally I'm not a fag, but that sounds just great. So I rub some water based lubricant on my junk (Pineapple flavored) while she's getting undressed. And right as her panties drop I'm inside her like a fag on a fag. It was awesome! She was like totally into it too. My twelve in cock rammed into her tight ass like a chainsaw through a cow. It was amazing! Then I came in her trunk and the junk slowly leaked out of her as she was putting back on her clothes. Cuz, you know I don't let bitches stay at my place. Bitches can stink a place up. Make it smell like sour fish.
“As she was leaving she stuck a finger up her ass and then tasted it. 'Tastes like Ryan's liquid children all right.' she said with a smile. Because, you know, my stuff is like sweet and sort of tastes like apples.”
Matt leans back instinctively. Ryan waves him off. “At least that's what chicks tell me and their friends. I could seriously market my jizz as a protein shake for bitches. Anyways, she left the house through the front door and I locked it behind her. You know, in case some burglars were to come in the house and rape me like a fag. They would tie my hands behind my back, strip me naked (If I wasn't already naked that is) and then tie my feet up. I wear like a size fourteen dude. That's one of my pick up lines. 'You know I got pretty big feet.' I would say. Then I'd add 'And a twelve in cock.' because, you know, bra, girls love big dicks. All that shit about size doesn't matter. Tell that to a girl who just got fucked by a twelve inch dick. She can't possibly say that's better than your tiny six inch thing that no one cares about.
“No offense.”
“None taken.” His two friends, Matt and Mark said as they sat around the camp fire, both enthralled and a little frightened by their friend's tale of love and big boobies.
“So I'm sitting here thinking about the anal raping I would get from these fags so I go work out in at the the twenty four hour fitness place down by Colorado Blvd. Working on my delts, you know. I like working out. It keeps me in shape. I like totally got an eight pack. Here...” Ryan lifted his shirt for his friends to see. And indeed, he had an impressive set of abs. “Touch it.” He said.
Matt looked at his friend with concern in his eyes, he took another sip of the Coors Light in his right hand and poked Ryan's abs with the other. It was hard to the touch and the skin on top felt like it was rolling on his muscles. Ryan smiled, bearing his massive set of white teeth. He then turned over to Marty. With a nod, he smiled. Was Marty supposed to touch him too?
Marty took a long, deep gulp from his beer and shook his head. “I'll take your word for it.”
“What?” Ryan said, offended. “Think it makes you a fag?”
Marty looked at Matt, who nodded nervously, insinuating that it was Marty's turn to touch Ryan. He did so. And cringed as his finger tips slid from one ab to the other. He pulled back immediately
Ryan slapped the two of them on their backs where they sat on either side of him. Ryan let out a horrible guffaw that sounded sorta like a donkey getting kicked in the balls.
“Anyways,” Ryan said as he took a drink from his Tennessee Honey Jack Daniels. “I'm working out and I get a boner. So I'm all like, I need a bitch man. So I call every girl in my little black book, and what do you know? Every one of them wants to fuck me. I'm telling you bra, chicks love the twelve inch cock.” Ryan pointed to his nether regions and took a long swig from the whiskey bottle. “But also my mind. Because I can do Einstein shit with my brain. But instead of instantly getting some head by the chick working out next to me, I decide that I gotta work on my gluts, you know. You gotta work out bra!”
Ryan lifted his shirt again to show them that yes, yes indeed, he showed signs of having worked out many times over the course of many months and / or years. Matty stared at it like it was something you'd see in a zoo. He was afraid that it would bite him if he got too close. Marty seemed to share his sentiments exactly. They both took a swig from their beers. Marty finished his and crushed the can with his meager size eleven Converse sneakers. He got up and went to the cooler by the car and got another beer. He sat back down, but this time he was sitting in front of Ryan instead of right by him. Matt looked at him nervously, as if he needed an excuse too. But he had none. So Ryan continued.
“So I go outside to smoke a fat blunt, right? And this fag comes up to me. And I'm all like 'What? You wanna fuck me or something?' Then he says I'm kinda cute and he'll think about it. So I whip out my dick and decide to make him pay for messing with a hetero. So I sodomize him with my twelve inch cock!”
“You what?” Matt said excitedly.
“You know. Back in the old days if you wanted to punish somebody you'd sodomize them. It's all in the bible, bra. Have you ever read the bible?”
“Yes.” Marty says, exasperated. “I have. And they condemn sodomy!”
“But, like the olden guys who wanted to teach somebody a lesson, they'd sodomize them. Right?”
Matt looked at Marty, who offered no help. Then he looked toward Mike, not looking him in the eyes. “In fact Leviticus says if you lie with a man like you lie with a woman, blood will be on your hands, and you will surely be put to death.” Matt took a deep breath. “Or something like that.” He took another long sip from his beer and finished it.
Ryan laughed. “Well I found a loop hole. Because you aren't technically supposed to lie with a chick in her ass, so I'm not lying with a woman the way I'd lie with a man.” He took a swig of his whiskey then wiped his lips with his CU sweater sleeve. “Right?”
“No dude.” Marty said. “I think you just fucked a guy.”
“No.” Ryan said defensively. “I sodomized him.”
“What's the difference.” Matt asked with his hands up in the air
Marty shook his head, irritated. “In fact I think the whole Bible is pretty much against sodomy. I mean, isn't that what those guys wanted to do with the angels in Sodom and Gomorrah. Sodomy is basically Sodom with a 'y' tagged onto it, if that tells you anything.” He spit on the ground to the right of his feet. “Besides, it's really, really gay to sodomize a dude.”
“Yeah.” Matt said, uncertain of what to say next. “I mean. That's like 'Lady Gaga supports your lifestyle' gay.”
“Sodomy means I'm not a fag.”
“Anally raping a man because he pissed you off is still homosexual.” Marty said.
“Whoa.” Ryan raised his hands and then lowered them, as if settling a cosmic force with some hand gestures. “I'm totally not a fag.”
Marty and Matt stared at him for the longest time.
“Seriously bra. Would a fag do this?” And he stood up and started to unzip his pants.
“Holy shit!” Matt said. Marty did a spit take with the cold Coors in his mouth. Marty then looked at Matt, who then looked at Marty, and then both of his friends sprung up from where they sat and started running towards their cars. Ryan stood there like a wooden squirrel with his jeans unzipped. Within seconds Ryan heard their respective engines come to life. And as fast as they had ran from Ryan's privates, they were gone just as fast. Within a minute they are already headed for the highway from the back road that led to the camping spot far, far from the Rocky Mountains. They left in such a hurry that they even left their camping shit there. Ryan, deterred and alone, pulled out his five inch penis from the fly on his boxers. He stroked it and was disappointed when it did not respond.

“I'm not a fag...” He said with a sigh.

Pretty Fly for a White Guy - A Psycoanalysis


Pretty Fly For a White Guy – A Psychoanalysis
By: David McGhee

First off I would like to set the tone of character for our subject, Bryan “Dexter” Holland, of the acclaimed punk rock combo “The Offspring.” The name itself rife with meaning and does suggest a sense of superiority towards his elders. But we are here today to discuss the band's most popular song. Which if you take a closer look, you see a cascade of racism and pity for the lesser endowed man.
Dexter grew up in Garden Grove, Orange County, California, which was at the time and still is, a high rent area. So we know that Dexter had means during his young and adolescent years. During puberty he attained what only 3.9 percent of American men will be at full height. Standing at 6'2” he automatically exudes authority and could have possibly been self entitled. Though it is rare to have a tall person without an equally endowed temperment


it can probably be said that all in all, he is probably a nice guy. We have witnesses Seth Green, who worked with the band in the movie “Idle Hands.” He said that they were really cool guys. Guys as in two or more or as in all? The world may never know. But for the sake of this argument say he is of the average male variety with an average height / temper ratio.
He has admitted in the press that not attaining success until he was nearly thirty has made him appreciate his wealth and social standing. But as said, he grew up with means and was in a family that actively encouraged academia and he has a degree in molecular biology. So he's an intelligent man. Which, you guessed it. Is common in men of higher altitude


And before you start judging this man, remember that taller men also get more poon tang.

*Look up citation for taller men more sex*

“Gunter glieben glauchen globan”

This sample (from Def Leppard's “Rock of Ages,” a song presumably about the history of rock and roll, from it's blues inspired roots up to the eighties “cock rock,” or “Hair Metal”) has no actual meaning in the words themselves. But the vein in which it proceeds is very German in sound. More Austrian maybe? Perhaps this is a shout out to the great Austrian physician, a one “Dr. Sigmund Freud,” most famous for being the father of analytical psychoanalysis. Perhaps this song has great historical context and has, in facto, opened itself to evaluation by even the most amateurish of thinkers.

“Give it to me baby
Ah ha, ah ha
Give it to me baby
Ah ha, ah ha”

The female voice is not that of his sexual partner. It was a session artist. And one of that nature can be told what to say and how to say it. The fact that Dexter had her say sexually suggestive lyrics in a Hispanic accent is perhaps a euphemism on the subject's choice of quality in girls. The “Ah ha's” can very well be coming from a deep lingering for attractive Hispanic females. Or if one was to play Devil's advocate you could say that he is, in that way that rich people seem to be, just a little bit racist.
He has already said “Niggers” twice in the deceptively catchy little diddy titled LAPD. Although you could put it in context as an allegory for the oppressive LAPD and their arresting methods. He also calls out his own race when he says “Beat all the white trash” during the same song. But it does not seem to have the impact that the other word did.
So with that in mind and from reading the lyrics ahead of time (pardon me for that) it is probably more in the vein of one mocking Latino's and their dialect. Dexter uses a lot of Spanish influence his music. Their fourth album was titled “Ixnay on the Hombre” and had matching Spanish inspired album art with references to Day of the Dead. So there is a chance he does not see just how racist he is being and is just portraying them as he accurately sees and hears them, you know, like in cartoons, specifically Speedy Gonzales.

“And all the girlies say I'm pretty fly, for a white guy”

Is this a declaration or a presumption? It has to be assured that a female has said this to the song's subject at least once during his life time. A man of his height, attractiveness, intelligence, and money can easily get any girl to say positive things about your esteem. Which may be the case here. After all, women be hookers and stuff.

“Uno, dos, tres, cuatro, cinco cinco, seis”

The use of Spanish in this song signifies the racial boundaries Brian Holland will cross. For he knows no limit to his mockery. Undoubtedly suffering from self esteem of the positive variety. Brian is confident enough in his standing to pronounce his personal ideals on those within ear shot of this song's lyrics. Pushing an agenda maybe? Let's look further.

“You know it's kind of hard
Just to get along today
Our subject isn't cool
But he fakes it anyway”

Dexter incites observations here that he would not know unless the subject was he himself. Dexter's Latino fetish can be observed on two other tracks “Original Prankster” and “OC Guns” which makes one to think that he possibly has lower self esteem than he puts out? Perhaps this song was written in order for him to come to terms with his longing to be a wigger. Oh Dexter, if only you had the money and means to seek therapy, it could help you with your identity crisis (another example of this aforementioned identity crisis: “Days Go By”)

“He may not have a clue
He may not have style”

Dexter sings this, yet is continually seen wearing T-Shirts of a more humorous, and juvenile, nature. Making one wonder what his standards for the appropriate dress just might be. Perhaps he is a shirt and jeans man, like so many others. He lacks the sense of pride that would prevent him from wearing such ill advised attire.

“But every he lacks
Well he makes up in denial”

But Dexter, aren't you aware that you yourself may be in denial. Perhaps about you may believe that the high notes you normally hit are in fact that, normal. But typical for most males over the age of thirteen, such pitches are well out of range. Although I would go as far as saying that singing in that high of a key is effeminate, but, come on, Sting!
*It is also to my knowledge that The Offspring have in fact covered The Police record “Next to You.” which sits perfectly well in Dexter's range. So... Like, come on, Sting!

“So don't debate
A player straight
You know he doesn't get it anyway”

Perhaps Dexter's assessment of this man's place in society has been askewed. For everyone has their own uniqueness to them. Who is to say that he in fact does have style, perhaps one that will be fashionable in the coming years. This is a narrow remark that would be common amongst men of his height, temperament, and upbringing. To him he sees what many people have been dubbed “Wiggers.” A combination of both “White” and the highly negative word “Nigger,” this term can given to anyone of limited means who may enjoy that recordings from rap artists and DJ masters and acts in mannerisms and speaks in dialect as such as the widely accepted and popularized persona of the ignorant male or female of African descent. It is considered a racist term for having both the root word being racist and the word itself being a blatant bigotry against white Americans. Wigger's British counterpart is the word, slang “Chav.” Leave it to the British to make racism sound refined.

“He's gonna play the field
And keep it real
For you no way, for you no way”

This seems to be confusing on some aspects. Seeing as Dexter clearly states that the subject in question will, in fact, play the field and keep it real. But for you no way? It appears that the man in question will revert from his lifestyle and music of choice back into his original personality if another human being is present. Confusing matters is that when does the subject display his ebonic vernacular or his jeans that fall to the bottom of his glutes, he is immediately dismissed as a “poser.” Which I believe constitutes posing of some kind. I don't know, kids today say a lot of mean things about each other.

“So if you don't rate, just overcompensate
At least you'll know you can always go on Ricki Lake”

Assuming the subject of the song is still “posing” at this point, it is suggested that if he does not meet up to the strict codes of the commercialized African American conduct and appearance, then one is to take it up another notch, which would in fact make Dexter's fictionl “wigger” that much more racist.
And to say that him and people of his ilk are entertaining enough in their private affairs as to give it audience on the Ricki Lake show. Forever burning 1997 into the song, making it dated once, and since, the Ricki Lake show went off the air. But once it was the epoch of eastern southern culture. A many a baby daddy gonna man up and do the right thing thanks to the assistance of Misses Ricki Lake. Exploitation never became so much of a theater and to mind you that this predates the most offensive of Jerry Springer shows. Ricki Lake was once the woman with the magic touch. One straight talk from Miss Lake would in effect cause a troubled young man or woman to change their promiscuous ways in ebonics too slurred in southern drawl to decipher properly.

“The world needs wannabe's
So hey! Hey! Do that brand new thing!”

Dexter for once applauds the ones undetermined to make their place rightly in society. For if one is rich, then another must be poor. We are not a nation of equals, which this song presents with an astounding amount of shouting. We are all different and unique snowflakes who must make our mark anyway you can. If you can't, then strive to be around those who are of a greater fortune than oneself.
Basically we need all kinds of people to make a proverbial rainbow. Everyone fills some niche that society needs filling. Some are just taller, more handsome, richer, have a bigger dick, is a stupid awful human being who is shitty and takes my girlfriend and fuc... I mean, everyone is important. That works right?
Also, Dexter declaring that his subject must do this “brand new thing,” after multiple listenings and deep analysis, I have determined this to be sarcastic.

*Cow bell*

The cowbell can only represent the ideology that our civilization was founded on agriculture and the breeding and slaughter of animals. The fact that the cow wears a bell is not lost on Brian Holland, who in reference to our great industrialized nation, sampled the cow bell from Rock of Ages.

“He needs some cool tunes
Not just any will suffice
They didn't have Ice Cube
So he bought Vanilla Ice”

To make the assumption that even the most limited of thinkers would not be able to discern the difference between Ice Cube (who has, in the past, been associated with various bitches and hos) and Vanilla Ice (who has been associated with various defunct reality programming). But if such a person of low IQ exists, it is perhaps due to a genetic abnormality that prevents one from recognizing that Ice Cube, to quote my Djing and rapping counterparts, da man gots skillz.

“Now cruising in his Pinto, he sees homies as he pass
But if he looks twice
They're gonna kick his lily ass!”

This is of course assuming the size and quantity of said “homies” with the physical dimensions, health, size, and fitness of the accosted party. To say one is “lily” is to compare a rose with a dying fetus, in aggressiveness that is. If one is to go by the young male in the video, we would assume that some of the more aggressive fifth graders could take this guy on in a bout of fisticuffs.
Although this might be the idea, putting one of small stature and of dubious mental functionality into the adver-tainment (advertising meet entertainment) that is the musical video, therefore cementing one's idea of the song's subject. To further this idea of the young male being sung about in the video is sporting a backwards cap and a basketball jersey. Also he is seen throwing gang related signatures to passing “homies.” Thus connecting in that social way that is a beat down.
One last point about these lyrics is that they are killing two very racist birds with one stone. Insinuating that these “homies” are ill tempered and that the white protagonist cannot be an effective member of the hip hop culture are both, how do I say this gently? This is one racist song.

“Now he's getting a tattoo
He's getting ink done
He asked for a 13, but they drew a 31”

If one was not to receive the tattoo they had inquired about previously prior to sale, then that would definitely be a great disadvantage to the tattooer and the business establishment in which he works. It would open up all sorts of legal action. Which men of limited means and inadequate education are known to do with the prospects at receiving a large cash settlement are in the forefront of their minds. Perhaps this set up is another one of Brian's dexterous word play? Open to psychoanalysis this song is indeed! For Brian has made the connection between “white trash” and malpractice at law. Truly clever.

Friends would say he's trying too hard
And he's not quite hip
But in his own mind
He's the dopest trip”

What constitutes a good friend? Somebody who tells this poor man he's an important addition to the getto culture of our suburbs, or somebody (male or female) who does not encourage his attempts at being street and helps him find his own unique identity. This is assuming, but it is clear to see, that perhaps this song is in effect a deep personalization at Brian's own identity crisis, seeing as he prefers to be called “Dexter” in parody of his intelligence. Thus assuming an identity of the lead singer / lead guitarist of the Offspring. Can one separate themselves from their career? Or does the labor induce such gratifying heights that one cannot separate himself.
The man being sung about is also of the mind to believe that he is “the dopest trip.” This signifies a multitude of possible personality disorders ranging from narcissistic personality disorder to delusions of grandeur. The subject would be advised to attend empathy help groups provided by his mental health provider, should he seek one.

“Give it to me baby
Ah ha, ah ha
Give it to me baby
Ah ha, ah ha”

It is to be assumed that these words take on a darker context with the prior analysis in mind. They offer to give it, and Brian agrees, but what has been given in the first place? Has one achieved greatness through working through one's racism and hate through song? Has a higher level of empathy been acquired? Perhaps not, but for one to conspire against one another via a tuneful romp in B minor? That shows a level of malevolence not seen outside your local high school. It is a sad state of affairs when a rich kid jock goes about making fun of those less endowed than he. But is is known that those with narcissistic personality disorder revel in the aftermath of ruining another's social standing in the surrounding territories of concerned persons.

Monday, August 5, 2013

Achey Breaky Heart – A Psychoanalysis


Achey Breaky Heart – A Psychoanalysis

By: David McGhee

 

“You can tell the world

You never was my girl”

 

            These here are lyrics of a most complex nature, showing off the linguistic capabilities of a one, Mr. Billy Ray Cyrus. First off, there is the underlying aggression for his former lover. Second, he is accepting the fact that she has broken off the relationship and he understands if she was to sink to the childish level of denying her relationship to the subject. He has come to terms it seems but he also hints at the fact that he still wishes her well. Perhaps he hasn't gotten over her completely? Oh thine bard, whilst your secrets unravel as this musical sonnet unfolds?

 

“You can burn my clothes when I'm gone”

 

            If given his rustic country boy flavor to the idea that he may have grown up having great responsibilities. One milestone in life that people sometimes forget once they accrue age is that taking on the responsibility to handle fire on your own is a big thing to most kids. The first time you light something on fire, a primal self comes about via our collective unconscious, which comes to say as to why Mr. Cyrus has a preoccupation with fire. He is indeed the very specimen of a man. Tall with broad shoulders. Has a deep baritone vocal range and without the mullet, he isn't that bad looking. The kind of man who could pick up any woman he wanted at his local musical venue / bar establishment, or “Honky Tonk.” It is no surprise that he shows interest in his girlfriend setting his clothes aflame. He is the very primordial Neanderthal in all us males. This, I believe, is why he suggested her to do such an action. A small minority of fetishists do however “get off” on seeing things burn. Perhaps he finds sexual gratification in it?

 

“Or you can tell you friends

Just what a fool I've been

And laugh and joke about me on the phone”

 

            Subject shows signs of paranoia. Perhaps paranoid schizophrenic? This along with the previous interest in burning his possessions strongly suggests that this may be an avenue worth pursuing. He appears to believe that the woman (or man) in question has enough interest in defacing his name that he just out right lets it be known that if she (or he) is going to do it then she (or he) has his blessing.

            I'm sure many people have laughed and joked about Mr. Cyrus on the phone but as to whether or not the woman in question has ever done it is not certain to this author. Upon research he has yet to become violent to a woman when looking up his personal statuses on Google, Wikipedia and other reliable world wide web search engines.

            There is also a bit of sarcasm to these lyrics. Which may indicate intelligence on Mr. Rays part. Fascinating.

            My final analysis on these lines proves to me that Mr. Cyrus has histrionic personality disorder, seeing as he assumes that the goings on of his former mate concern him in an all encompassing manner.

 

“You can tell my arms go back to the farm

You can tell my feet to hit the floor”

 

            Apparently he suffers from a suggestible psychosis where all one has to do to obtain something from the multiplatinum country artist is just to ask. His mind is weak and has no conscious control to override such demands as telling his arms to go back to the farm. From where his arms surely must have come from. Sort of a black market with limbs. Has Mr. Cyrus discovered the secret to limb extraction and reattachment? There is no evidence that he has been educated on such matters. So we are safe to assume that he has found an outside source for such surgical mastery.

 

“Or you can tell my lips to tell my finger tips

They won't be reaching out for you no more”

 

            This is an example of the mental illness apperceptive visual agnosia. Where inanimate objects are sometimes given more credence to motion and intelligence than one would normally give. He has to tell his fingers not to engage in the outreach of the his love interest. He believes he only has the power to do so if he actually vocalizes his request. To him, his fingertips have ears in which to hear and obey commands. This is a sign derealization, where the real world is filtered through a psychosis where many thing such as inanimate body parts have a consciousness and can act upon command.

 

“But don't tell my heart

My achey breaky heart

I just don't think he'd understand”

 

            As many men personify their penises, Mr. Ray Cyrus has apparently personified his heart. As to what such a name could be is anybodies guess. The fact that he embodied it with a male gender suggests a misogynistic view on women. Or it could be that he being a male, assumes that other parts of his body have gender running more toward the “Y” chromosome. But surely from previous evidence it is in this author's opinion that he sees women as proprietors of the fall of masculinity.

 

“And if you tell my heart

My achey breaky heart

He might blow up and kill this man”

 

            Finally we get to the heart of the matter, to borrow a phrase from the popular lexicon of modern clich├ęs. He has identified another male in which to suffer the brunt of his angst of being dumped. This is what us psychologists call “Transference.” Transference is where rage and or affectionate feelings are transferred from the one whom is the instigator of such feelings and puts it onto another human or inanimate object. He transfers his aggression out on an unsuspecting man and proves that his condition is one in which is of the more worrisome variety.

            Many unmedicated Paranoid Schizophrenics have the capability to take a man's entrails and wrap them around his waist. Not that many do this however. It is supposed that many normal men have this capability. But I'd like to digress and say that Mr. Cyrus can be a frightening creature when he wants to be. We all have this inner aggression as males that cannot be satisfied with mental processing strategies. It is in this professionals opinion that he take up knitting.

 

“You can tell your ma

I moved to Arkansas”

 

            Is this a command or is he conceding again? Let's prepare for both scenarios shall we?

·        If he was telling her to relay this information then he would in fact be demonstrating histrionic personality disorder. A disease where the subject is infatuated with one's self and cannot bear the sting of rejection. Which brings me to the second point.

·        If he was indeed giving her the okay to do what she was already going to do then that further enforces the histrionic personality type. He feels that he has ultimate say in other people's actions, here demonstrated is him commanding his former lover to relay false information to her mother. Perhaps he owes her money and she is doing her a favor at not telling her his whereabouts?

 

“You can tell your dog to bite my leg”

 

            By allowing her dog to bite to his leg by her dog probably is him filling the role of the apologetic boyfriend. By being bitten, he hopes, presumably, that he is showing retribution to her. But under normal circumstances and with typical personality types, he is only showing his ability to feed into his masochistic tendencies, normally found in fifteen year old female cutters.

 

“Or you can tell your brother Cliff

Who's fist can can tell my lip

He never really liked me anyway”

 

            Subject seems to have quite an imagination. It is not known at this current time whether or not said brother “Cliff” indeed wants to let his fist do the talking. Of course we went over the reasons for him to feel as if such an inanimate object is capable of conversing with Mr. Cyrus.

 

“Or you can tell your Aunt Louise

Tell anything you please”

 

            With this he gives his permission to her to completely fabricate a story as to why they have separated. One could only assume it involves Jedi knights and Playdough.

 

“Myself already knows I'm not okay”

 

            He is talking both in first person and third person at the same time here. That to me indicates a strong likelihood of a disassociative disorder, in which a man or woman is disassociated from him or herself to the degree where they see themselves not as an autonomous thinking creature, but a far off object or animal in which they have no control over.

            See “fingertips.”

 

“Or you can tell my eyes

To watch out for my mind

It might be walking out on me today”

 

            Again, he personifies a body part to the point where he does not recognize them as his own. Whereas typical human beings feel as a whole it appears that Mr. Cyrus sees each individual part of his body as having a consciousness of its own. Again we see signs of Visual Agnosia of the  apperceptive variety. In where the subject does not recognize the body part as one of his own, in this sense, so he assumes that it has a will and consciousness. Some sufferers even hear said article vocalize a response. Does the subject hear his eyes agreeing with him? Such is mental illness...

 

“Don't tell my heart

My achey breaky heart

Don't tell my heart

My achey breaky heart

Don't tell my heart

My achey breaky heart”

 

            This repetition shows signs of either a slight autism on his part or an undiagnosed case of mild obessive compulsive disorder. Subject feels the need to repeat himself ad nauseum to the point of irritating listeners. While this researcher can personally admit to the catchiness of the lines, it is more likely designed in nature to appeal to listeners of a certain capacity. It is certain that the twenty million plus human beings who had purchased this album are of the atypical typical type. Modestly intelligent people who have no impulse control, hence my theory on as to why this album was so successful.

            Upon many listens, the novelty of the lyrics wear off, as does the melody. It is that rare diddy that can eat at your brain like a carnivorous ear wig*. But as most things of this caliber do, has gone from the public consciousness off to greener pastures of one hit wonderdome. Forever frozen in a list on a VH1 countdown show.

 

*Carnivorous ear wigs in actuality, do not consume the brain matter of humans. There are too many fail safes keeping outside articles of mass from getting inside the cranial cavity.