Picks and Pans Review: The Electric Spanking of War Babies
Had enough of them John Simon/Edwin Newman pointy-head types complaining about their colon pains, how you use "hopefully" and what ails Alexander Haig's diction? This might be the perfect antitoxin. Pay attention, Ed and John (and other dookie sticks and krazoids), because this is going to be complicated. See, if you are a micro groove (a/k/a masterjam) and are tired of yang and muckle heads and aspire to P, one option is to jam this fluid coalition of thumpasaurus people, geepies and breakdrakes (not to mention maggot brains) on your lunch box. You've got to zip out of your bondo condo, leave any e.t.s there and give yourself up to the bop-u-lation process. Pull your bad self up to a rooster poot, say A-1, and let him massage your ozeep layer with a zappic on the boppa-tron. Before long you'll find that you've become a bop-tusi thanks to splank and can forever say Z-3 to the zone of zero funkativity. If you succeed, you'll find yourself freed from the cosmic slop, able to bop-u-late with the best of the bun-zai. If all that is not reasonably clear, buy this record and check out a funkadelic glossary. Or stick with John and Ed.
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