Is Shlong Havapee propagandizing for the destruction of the ‘Merican family?

Peepul: I have been silent long enuff, sitting on the porcelin throne waiting for the drop. Well, sir, I’ve had my ruffage, my colonic and it’s time to spill. I toon into The Shlong Havapee Show most every night at six pee em, (that’s two in the afternoon in Zimbabwe, the two that’s already passed, not the one comin up, and eight in the morning in Russia, the one that’s comin up, not the one that just passed, and two in the morning in Islamabad—the one that’s coming up where ‘Merica’s enemas are cowering in the dark, working fuses into bombs to ship overseas to try and kill your grandma and mine, so that gives us eight hours to get over there and stop em! And if we had a Repubicon in the Not-so White House, he’d be using that eight hour head start to hop a plane and stick that fuse up where it really belongs. BOOM! Now there’s a colonic, a butt-bustin’ splat that makes a baby Haitian’s diarrhea seem like nothing worse than a fart.) and I hear and tolerate Mr. Shlong Havapee’s theme song, constipated for his genius.

Sadly, it’s always a distressing beginning. Sadly, it’s so regular, as regular as a clock, as my grandma taking her pills, as the Lolita next door squirmin’ like she does—right after school, slowly twistin’ that beige school polo up over her head, 3:10 pm sharp—playing with her bra straps, no hurry there cause she enjoys seeing the neighbor again at his window regular as the aforementioned clock, his two fingers propping apart the blinds…: Lolita…Loleeeta… working himself into a tortured frenzy, ah….ah….ah….aaaahhhh!.... as regular as that neighbor’s wife finding satisfaction with a workmate cause her damn husband can’t escape his infantile fantasies and hasn’t touched her in over a year, as regular as that sonbitch workmate’s climax.

Sadly, it’s Mr. Havapee’s regular endorsement for the disintegration of the ‘Merican family, for the extinguishment of the “Merican marriage, for the orphaning of this country’s most sacred treasure: our children, and for his endorsement of…murder, that I must tolerate.

Sadly, regularly, every night, it’s this:

Let Freedom ring, let the white dove sing
Let the whole world know that today is a day of reckoning
Let the weak be strong, let the right be wrong
Roll the stone away, let the guilty pay, it's
Independence Day

That’s right, the Martina McBride song that tells the woeful tale of the ugly underbelly of Leftist ‘Merica.

And our still-too-far-to-the-Left Mr. Havapee honors these evils in ‘Merica which have been foisted upon the virtuous Right by the God-hating atheistic Left by trumpeting their chorus with every opening of his show.

Mercy.

The lyrics are simple; the interpretation is obvious (lyrics in italix).

The song chronicles the testimony of an eight-year old child (and I was only eight years old that summer): The child’s father—his occupation suggested, (They said he was a dangerous man) perhaps he was a policeman or a prizefighter like Russell Crowe in Cinderella Man—comes home from working late and finds his wife feeling tired (she looked a little worried and weak). He has a little beer and tries to cheer her up with maybe a kiss on the cheek (daddy left the proof on her cheek) and the self-centered child, not getting the attention she craved, runs away from home to join the circus (I took myself down to the fair in town on Independence Day). The inferred prospect of the lost child being kidnapped, raped, her tortured body dumped in the river likely sent such fear and anxiety through her hormone-charged mother that, not knowing how else to release her pain, she turned on her husband and thereby betrayed the ‘Merican dream by setting fire to the house and burning it to the ground, killing her hard-working, hard loving husband, sending herself to jail and orphaning her child.

It’s a sad, sad tale, one that should be put to rest, swept under the carpet, denied, forgotten, dismissed, like slavery, like those Japanese Internment campgrounds, (free room and board, fresh air, unaccounted hours for gossip—you’re complaining, why?) like that time the guy had a couple of beers and okay maybe three shots fine a bottle and picked up that sashaying young thang signaling from the sidewalk and whipped the car around the corner where she did a damn fine job imitating a tot lapping at the cone ‘fore any of the three Neapolitan colors can drip past his fingers… but what does Mr. Havapee do with such a rueful tale of ‘Merican betrayal? HE CELEBRATES IT!

THAT’S RIGHT! EACH AND EVERY NIGHT MR. HAVAPEE PLAYS THE CHORUS FROM THIS SORDID SONG AND USES IT TO PROMOTE HIS SHOW! Independence Day! Mommy got mad and burned down the house and killed my Daddy and now she’s in prison and I gotta do what the headmaster at the orphanage tells me to do and I don’t want him to take my temperature any more. I’m not sick, but he tells me I gotta!

That’s what you want to be celebrating, Mr. Havapee? A child being repeatedly assaulted by the headmaster of an orphanage? It’s obvious what’s going on. It’s right there in the lyrics, it’s as clear as the Constitution (before it was mutated, twisted, and butchered by those unholy amendments!) WHY DOES MR HAVAPEE CONTINUE TO CELEBRATE THE DESTRUCTION OF THIS “MERICAN FAMILY BY DRILLING ITS MESSAGE INTO THE MINDS OF THE ‘MERICAN PEEPUL EACH AND EVERY NIGHT?

Mr. Havapee, there are so many other songs that could serve to celebrate your message.

Please Mr. Havapee, change your toon and stop chronicling the story of a pyromaniacal, murdering woman and the grotesque death of her husband! Stop indulging in death! That’s a Leftist ideal. Those death panels are real. I’ve seen em!* Stop encouraging women to murder their husbands, taking them from their children, robbing them of their Sundays at the beach, their families, their backyard barbeques cooking up brats and ninety percent lean beef, with corn on the cob, and beans, and chips, Lays not Vintners, and lemonade squeezed by Momma’s (Not the child’s mama—she’s a cold-ass bitch set to kill ya, but the man’s momma, the momma who let him sleep in her bed till he was twelve, but finally had to kick him out cause he never could stop all that bed-wetting) hands and please Mr. Havapee, above all—first and foremost—stop celebrating the meandering appendages of the headmaster at the orphanage, (Hey pal, nobody really believes that bit about the thermometer. And Martina—don’t be writing no more violent porn songs, we’re country folk and we ‘preciate holesome shit).

Shlong, please. Use your time to celebrate reel ‘Merican values like TV and football and carbohydrates and diabetes and shooting guns and lovin’ Jeezuz and sucking up social security and putting pork in my county and not wanting no taxes and demanding that government be shrunk and hating, just downright hating the other side cause it’s just so much darn fun!

And finally, I ask you deer reeders, please submit suggestions for songs that would better celebrate Mr.Shlong Havapee’s message. Go to the restroom of this website, take a leak and spray it into the subpission box. ‘Merica depenz on your ideas.

And should The Shlong Havapee Show change its theme to your suggested song, this website will sponsor a party on your behalf, but with Vintner’s not Lays cause the Left has destroyed the economy George Bush had previously razed from the ground.

* Last year I had been visiting some dear friends in Mexico when I slipped into a mystic trance. During my state of Cuervo-induced altered consciousness, I began a deep meditation just outside the town of Cananea, Mexico. During my abstraction, apparently I levitated across the border and landed, amid grime, vomit, and urine, south of Sierra Vista, Arizona where I was abducted by the U.S. military and transported to Fort Huachuca Military Base. It was there where I awoke from my spiritual journey, and saw the death panels: row after row of four by eight boards, hundreds of them, thousands, being plucked from semitrailers and moved via forklift into a warehouse where they were being stacked and stored, until word from the Not-so White House would have them laid-out in readiness for the first shipment of, dare I say it, Soylent Green. I survived this ordeal simply by pretending to have been overly-served. The military, of course, disingenuously jumped on my pretense and called me a worthless bum to deny my claims, then fabricated the rather outlandish story that the boards were nothing more than sheets of drywall. Absurd to the extreme, wouldn’t you say? Everyone knows that a single sheet of drywall could not possibly withstand the ever-increasing weight of our costly graying ‘Mericans. And the conspiracy continues as a Leftist-leaning judge threw out my eighty-million dollar lawsuit against Secretary of Defense Robert Gates as having no merit.