200 Motels Page #3

Mo-honnitz! What are you doin' here?

You just called me, didn't you?

All I said was "Opal, you hot little b*tch".

I am known by many names.

Mm-hmm. You got many friends who call you

"Opal the hot little b*tch"?

Please-please-please-please Mr. Black, let us cut

the small talk, and get on with your briefing.

Fine, you can brief me all you want as long as

you can tell me two things . . .

I know, when do we get paid . . .

No, I wanna know where's that waitress,

Yes, waitress..

And if she comes in this place, will she sit on my face,

and loan me a couple bucks until the end of the week.

. . . couple of bucks . . . . end of the week . . .

week . . . week ending, the week ending,

what-what that, what's the date?

Uhhh, Tuesday was the 5th, uh Monday was

the 3rd, uh make that out for Sunday-

Eh-eh-eh, don't say Sunday!

What's wrong with Sunday?

Eh!

The Lord's day! Br-r-r! A day of rest! Br-r-r! Just

make that sucker out for the 23rd of March, wouldya?

Very well, Mr. Black. Oh, by the way. I have

here the special beer I promised you earlier.

Oh man, it's about time, I've been waiting.

Would you care to sign for it?

This is a pencil?

No, Mr. Black, it is a pin.

A PIN?

Would you jab yourself in the finger with it?

Listen, Mo-hannitz, I may be professional, but I'm

not THAT professional. I just want my beer.

Sign first! In blood.

F*** you! Who do you think you are,

the devil or something?

I am known by many names.

You probably got some more weird names for

yourself, but I'll tell you one thing you ain't nev-,

definitely ain't never

gonna be called and that's the devil,

because you ain't the devil.

Oh, I'm not?

You bet your sweet ass you're not. The f***in'

devil's got an english accent.

I seen him three weeks ago on TV. So you know,

you can just take this big needle

here and hang it in your ass as far as I'm concerned! (cough) F***in' guy musta been a communist!

Hello there. When you go on tour with a musical group,

it's possible that any town can seem like this.

Whether it's large or small, or busy, or if

there's nothing happening in it.

The reason for this is quite simple. A musician,

if you consider the normal pattern

of modern civilized life, is on the outside of it all.

He doesn't build things, he doesn't

work regular hours like a decent god-fearing citizen,

and the life he leads, in many ways,

seems useless and irrelevant to those of us

who'd prefer a quiet evening in front

of the television and a bottle of beer. Amazing

as it might seem to some of us,

musicians have basic physical needs, just like real people. Many of them study for years,

learning to play the violin for instance,

only to be rewarded

with a humdrum job in the fourth row of

a symphonic string section.

That's why the governments have constructed,

at great expense,

this experimental reorientation facility.

To find a way, perhaps, to retrain these useless

To find a way, perhaps, to retrain these useless

old musicians with their brown

fiddles and little horns.

Give them a trade! A reason to exist in the modern

world! A chance of a happier, more productive life.

Some will enter the military, some will learn

shorthand, and some will disappear in the middle

of the night on a special train they're

sending in.

It's the only way, really, to bring about

the final solution to the orchestra question.

I'm sure that many of us realize that a pop group can

earn a vast amount of money compared to these

other kinds of musicians. That's why the special government agencies for mass response

programming and psychological stultification

prefer to treat them in a more subtle manner.

They know, just as many of you vigilant and thoroughly upstanding citizens have discovered for yourselves,

the power of pop music to corrupt and putrify the

minds of world youth are virtually limitless.

Ooh, the way you love me, lady,

I get so hard now I could die

Ooh, the way you love me, sugar,

I get so hard now I could die

Open up your pocketbook,

Get another quarter out,

Drop it in the meter, mama

Try me on for size

Open up your pocketbook,

Get another quarter out,

Drop it in the meter, mama

Try me on for size

Ooh, the way you squeeze me, baby,

Red balloons just pop behind my eyes

Ooh, the way you squeeze me, girl,

Red balloons just pop behind my eyes

Open up your pocketbook,

Get another quarter out,

Drop it in the meter, mama

Try me on for size

Open up your pocketbook,

Get another quarter out,

Drop it in the meter, mama

Try me on for size

Do you really wanna please me?

Well, you know I do, babe

Well, tell me why you do it

I really wanna know

Oh, no, no, it wouldn't be right

For me to tell you tonight

You better tell me right away

Or I'll pack up and go!

Don't get mad

It ain't no big thing

You better tell me right away,

Don't you treat me cold

HOLD IT, HOLD IT, HOLD IT, HOLD IT!

Well, there are a lot of reasons why I'd . . . I'd

drag a girl such as yourself back to this . . .

plastic hotel room and . . . rip you off

for spare change to run a

. . . to run a vibrating machine attached to

this queen-size, bulk-purchase,

kapok-infested,

do-not-remove-tag-under-penalty-of-law type bed

and . . . and make you take off all your

little clothes . . . until you were nearly

STARK RAVING NUDE! (Save for your chrome-with-heavy-duty-leather-thongheh . . . )

Peace Medallion, heh . . . ) And make you assume

a series of marginally erotic poses involving

. . . a plastic chair and . . . an old guitar strap

while I . . . did a wee-wee in your hair and

. . . beat you with a pair of tennis

shoes . . . I got from Jeff Beck

(mumbles . . . ) I gotta write this down

. . . I got everything I need

. . . for my new symphony

. . . (mumbles . . . ) "See, this is what happens

when you join up a rock group, George,

get off that jazz syndrome . . . there's no lust in jazz"Fantastic. Yes, I've got then now. Ah, give it soul,

brother, get it on. Ah, those boys, those boys.

They're driving me crazy.

Hey, look what's comin' through the door!

MUHAMMITZ . . .

Ah, it's really great now . . . more paper,

more paper . . . page two..

(mumbles . . . ) Ah, another page! Don't leave

me, oh, I can't live without your super substances,

oh let me write that down, super substances!

Yes! Oh, show me a little ass! Oh, scuze me

. . . Oh, I want you now! C'mere you little darling!

Blorp

The lad searches the night for his newts

Blorp

The girl wants to fix him some broth.

Tinsel cock!

Doo-wee-do

Tinsel cock, my baby

Would you like some broth?

Some nice soup

YUM! Some hot broth?

Small dogs in it, Doggies!

Yooooouuuu . . . Do you?

You like broth? Doo-wadnum!

Dog broth? Hot broth?

Hot dog broth? You like dog broth hot?

Hot dog debris DEBRIS!

Dog debris!

How do you like it?

Dog breath?

Doo doo

Debris of the four styles offered

DOG BROTH?

DOG BREATH BROTH?

Debris, broth, breath,

And the ever popular hygienic

European version

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