i write songs based on conversations.

darryl hall talked to his boogers.

last week we talked about wireless dildos. temporary tatoos. housing developments. frankenstein.

this week we discussed g-strings and the migration of anal bacterium to the pudendae of our most illustrious lovers. i'm coming out with a coloring book.

i shouldna have eaten that thing.

robert pollard, i was told, claimed to be able to pen five songs while taking a dump with three of them being good enough to publish. eat that, virgin records boy on your private jet. when you scratch, does anyone catch the spilling crackers falling from the sleeve? prepackaged, not ravaged by consumer tastes (testes, estrus, confabulation). i usta lick crackers 'til they were limp as boardroom execs with personal secrets. stop secrete-ing and start bleating, baby.

the dumps I take are a big parta my day. pure partin satisfaction. better'n breakin' it off with some two-timin' biddy, 'cause them meals... (bend at the waist) they done served me ensnared and enslaved by my good guts they are. my good guts.

i'm a gut jockey.