Producing satire is kind of hopeless because of the literacy rate of the American public.
I think love lyrics have contributed to the general aura of bad mental health in America.
Weedly-weedly-wee, make a face, hold your guitar like it’s your weenie, point it heavenward, and look like you’re really doing something. Then, you get a big ovation while the smoke bombs go off, and the motorized lights in your truss twirl around.
Sexual gratification can only be achieved through the use of machines.
Her head is full of bubbles, her nose is petite, she looks like she never gets nothing to eat.
Hey ugly folks, go get some cyanide and die.
Tosses her head and flips her hair, she got a whole bunch of nothing in there.
She is an office girl, her name is Betty. Her favorite group is Helen Reddy.
Find her, blind her, see who designed her. Act like a dummy until you grind her.
Michael is Janet and Janet is Michael.
Hair growing out every hole in me.
Listen honey, would I lie to you to get in your pants?
Don’t go to bed with any woman crazier than you are.
He just got in the car, but the batteries dead. So he asks to use the phone and she gives him some head.
The NRA, with the fingers on the triggers when they kneel and pray.
Moses, Aaron, Abraham, they’re all a waste of time. It’s your ass that’s on the line.
Did he really choose Tammy to do his work?
Catholic girls with tiny little mustaches.
Wisdom is not the domain of the Wiz.
She use to knock me out until her face broke out.