Here's another bunch of genetic defectives
Who've been turned loose on answering machines
These guys who cannot resist the urge to put music
On their outgoing message
You know, some guy spends eight thousand radio shacks
And suddenly he's a fucking record producer
And because he's busy in the basement, jacking off his dog
I, I have to listen to substandard music
And it's always rotten music, you know?
It's either new age that pointless meandering zombie noise
Played by pseudo-spiritual lunatics
Who think wind chimes are a musical instrument
Or else it's soft rock, soft rock
That lame-ass weak non-threatening suburban
White boy junk, played by bands like men without testicles
Oh, and folks, on these answering machines
Do me a favor, would you please?
When you record your outgoing message
Don't bother telling me you can't come to the phone
I understand that
Apparently, that's why we have these machines
And don't tell me, leave my name and number
Somehow I figured that out
And if you work in an office, never mind that stuff
I'm away from my desk, if you had to take a shit, say so
You say, hi, this is Mary Louise
I had the Mexican jalapeño bean chili dip
And I washed it down with a gallon of gin
I'll be eating out all day
|
