Shoehorn!

Bad Conscience: Han min noon toon han toon han
Good Conscience: No, Chase!
Bad Conscience: Han toon ran toon ran toon fran min han toon ran toon nan toon fram
Good Conscience: No no no!
Me: Man! This stuff is great! It's just as if Donovan himself had appeared on my very own TV with words of peace, love, and eternal cosmic wisdom . . . ! Leading me. Guiding me. On paths of everlasting pseudo-karmic negligence, in the very midst of my drug-induced nocturnal emission.
Good Conscience: Oh, I am your good conscience, Chase. I know all. I see all. I am a cosmic love pulse matrix, become a technicolor interpositive!
Me: Okay . . . Where'd you buy that incense? It's hip.
Good Conscience: It's the same and mysterious exotic oriental fragrance as what the Beatles get off on.
Me: I thought I recognized it . . . Sniff, sniff . . . Mmm, what is that, MUSK? Sniff, sniff, sniff . . . mmmh!
Good Conscience: Chase, I know what's good for you.
Me: Right. You're heavy.
Good Conscience: Yes, Chase, I am your guiding light. Listen to me. Don't rip off the towels, Chase!
Bad Conscience: Piss off, you little nitwit!
Me: Hey man, what's the deal?
Good Conscience: Don't listen to him, Chase, he's no good. He'll make you do BAD THINGS!
Me: You mean, he'll make me sin?
Good Conscience: Yes, Chase. SIN!
Me: Wow!
Bad Conscience: Chase, I'd like to have a word with you. . . about your soul.
Good Conscience: No, don't listen, Chase.
Bad Conscience: Why are you wasting your life, night after night playing this comedy music?
Me: You're right, I'm too heavy to be in this group.
Good Conscience: Comedy music . . .
Bad Conscience: Chase, YOUR SOUL!

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strobi

come again?

Shoehorn!

Bad Conscience: Does this kind of life look interesting to you? Night after night, dinners with Herb Cohen. Thrill-packed, fun-filled evenings on the French Riviera at the MIDEM convention. A big tie, the whole bit. Watch Mutt eat, and Leon feed the geese. One thousand green business cards, with your name and the wrong address. Plus six royalty statements, inspected and customized by ran toon tan han toon frammet and dee. Followed by twelve potential suicides as the members of your group, past and present, find out they can't collect unemployment. A dog, a car, an epidemic of body lice with your own record company, your name on the door, electric buzzer to the inner office, Ona's tits, and a three month supply of German bookings with tickets on Air Rangoon. Does this kind of life look interesting to you? As a big rock and roll guitar player in a comedy group?

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