I Don't Know About You
Demonlover (Olivier Assayas, 2002)
With dispensation from upper management I achieved orgasm on an interplanetary Zeppelin. I don’t know about, I don’t know about, I don’t know about you. Crashed through the ceiling in something revealing with tingling in the earring and a dearth of proper learning as I’d been too busy scrubbing Ethel Merman and abjuring. I don’t know about, I don’t know about, I don’t know about you. A girl’s got to keep her skin real right and that’s why we only go out for dumplings at night. I don’t know about, I don’t know about, I don’t know about you. She took the Chevy to the levy and I’m afraid she gone and rolled it, crawled out from under, dusted herself off, and bolted. I don’t know about, I don’t know about, I don’t know about you. When you see them coming and you ain’t busy doing something, jump off that crate of Pabst Blue Ribbon and wipe off the spot where you been dribbling; there’s an army of kooks with semiautomatics saying they want to impound the station wagon and flagellate the missus, doing a fancy jig so that court summons can’t hit us. I don’t know about you. Since when does a computer wear tennis shoes? I don’t know about you. The soggy onion ring looks like you when you’ve had a few and wake up lost in New Orleans at 4:30 in the morning, lizard people swarming. I don’t know about you. Down at the stud farm they believe themselves conscientious, but they’ll pound your ass sideways at any sign of wetness, dagnabit, and cast a spell so you immediately forget it. How can I persuade you, he who misplayed you, cut himself shaving and affixed a small piece of tissue, that if the President of the Union of Situationships can't bend over backward for his friends from the syndicates, I’m-a smoke a blunt in his hiding place and wait to see the motherfuckin look on his face. I don’t know about, I don’t know about, I don’t know about you.
Cowboy, Hellfire
The Doom Generation (Gregg Araki, 1995)
Prepared to meet my maker I advanced upon the horde, I swung my sword and screamed and roared, from the heavens I heard a low, rumbling chord. The gates of hell opened up beneath, I tumbled in holding my testicles in my teeth and laid all out like a Christmas wreath. I guess that I was the most recent thief, all they gave me for ornament was this paltry leaf. I swear, I swear, it were not as though I were unaware, prancing around with my testicles hanging down, I just don’t care, round after round, a resounding sound. You are a loser. You have no control over yourself. How do you expect to take control of the room if you need to sometime soon? Jesus Hellfire Club Christ, the nine pound dildo that killed John Henry ain’t gonna kill me, Lord, ain’t gonna kill me. What do you mean accessory to the crime? I was out back having a pee. It’s my birthday, you fat fuck. Duck and cover, Moscow’s here, catch chlamydia by its ear, if the Irish don’t chase you out...you’ll earn yourself a bit of deadly clout. From the weaponized perspective of the local anesthetic everyone’s a proper dummy with big globs of cotton filling up their tummy, maybe they say ‘hi there’ and maybe they Shazam, maybe I get a read on what’s going on on the The Infotainment Scan. Your mamma raised a better girl than straightforward vanilla sex. To love a cowboy proper you say happy trails to all the rest.
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