200 Motels Page #4

Tinsel cock!

Tinsel cock!

Oh-oh-oh oh-oh-oh oh-oh-oh oh-oh-oh oh-oh-oh oh

Which do you choose?

The girl . . .

In a statement to the press . . .

Duh-D-Duhhh!

Explains . . .

Broth reminds me of nuns

(Nuns)

I see them smashing

(Kids)

With rulers

Disciplining munchkin cretins

(Munchkin cretins)

Tortured munchkins

(Munchkin cretins)

Tortured munchkins

Irish Catholic victims

Little green scratchy sweaters

(Sweaters)

Little green scratchy ones

(Courduroy pants)

Brown courduroy ponce

(Doo-ahh)

Courduroy ponce

And green scratchy munchkin

Irish Catholic victims

(Munch-kins Munch-a-kins)

Munchkins get me hot

Munchkins get me, get me hot

Hot!

Gets her real hot

Why don't you strap on this here bunch

Of cardboard boxes, daddy-o?

Joy of my desiring

You'll certainly look suave and get me hot

Hot, hot, get me hot and

Horny

(Ow!)

If there's one thing I really get off on

(YOINNNNG!)

It's a nun suit painted on some old boxes

Some old melodies

4/4

An aura

An areola

Pink gums

Stumpy gray teeth

Dental floss

Gets me hot

Wanna watch a dental hygiene movie?

Han-Min-Noon-Toon Han-Toon-Ran

No, Jeff!

Rantoon, Rantoon, Rantoon, Frammin, Hantoon,

Rantoon, Hantoon, Frammin

No no no!

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.

For I am your good conscience, Jeff. I know all. I see all. I am a cosmic love pulse matrix, becoming a technicolor interpositive!

Huh? Where'd you buy that incense? It's hip.

It's the same and mysterious exotic oriental

fragrance as what the Beatles get off on.

I thought I recognized it . . . Sniff, sniff . . . Mmm, what

is that, MUSK? Sniff, sniff, sniff . . . mmmh!

Jeff, I know what's good for you.

Right. You're heavy.

Yes, Jeff, I am your guiding light. Listen to me.

Don't rip off the towels, Jeff!

Piss off, you little nitwit!

Hey man, what's the deal?

Don't listen to him, Jeff, he's no good. He'll

make you do BAD THINGS!

You mean, he'll make me sin?

Yes, Jeff. SIN!

Wow!

Jeff, I'd like to have a word with you . . . about

your soul.

No, don't listen, Jeff.

Why are you wasting your life, night after

night playing this comedy music?

You're right, I'm too heavy to be in this group.

Comedy music . . .

Jeff, YOUR SOUL!

Oh, ah Oh, you're wasting your life

To be . . .

Ah Oh, ah Ah, ah

Too heavy, Jeff

In this group, all I ever get to do is play Zappa's

comedy music. HE EATS!

Jeff!

I get so tense!

Of course you do, my boy.

The stuff he makes me do is always off the wall!

That's why it would be best to leave his stern employ.

And quit the group!

You'll make it big!

That's right.

Of course!

And then I won't be SMALL!

Ha ha ha ha ha!

Ha ha ha!

Ti-diddly-diddly-dee

Ha, ha, ha . . .

He-he-he-he-heh!

Cough, cough. Ahmet Ertegun used this towel as a bathmat six weeks ago at a rancid motel in Orlando, Florida, with the

highest MILDEW rating of any commercial lodging facility within the territorial limits of the United States, naturally

excluding tropical possessions . . . It's still damp. What an aroma! This is the best I ever got off! What can I say

about this elixir?

This is the real you, Jeff. Rip off a few more ashtrays. Get rid of some of that inner tension. Quit the comedy group!

Get your own group together. Heavy! Like GRAND FUNK! Or BLACK SABBATH . . .

No, Jeff . . .

Or COVEN!

Peace . . . Love . . .

Bollocks!

What can I say about this elixir?

What?

WOWWWWWW!

What can I?

WOWWWWWW!

What?

What can I say about this?

WOWWWWWW!

Dwee-doo dee-ooo-poo

Pa-dan!

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 fake 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 Rantoon

Tan, Hantoon Frammin, 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,

and 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 fake

rock and roll guitar player in a comedy group?

Hunna hunna hunna

200 Motels

200 Motels

Ran toon han toon

Han-toon-hannnnnn!

200 Motels

I'm stealing the room!

I'm stealing the room!

I'm going to die. I know I'm going to die, I can tell because my pulse is so weak. The pills . . . I took so many downers

that I know this is the end for me.

You poor thing. You want us to fix your hair for you

so you look good when they find you?

Oh . . . would you?

Sure, whaddyawant? A ponytail? A flat-top with fenders?

I'm gonna die, Janet, I'm gonna O.D.! So,

make me look good.

Listen, the best I can do for you is fix your hair, so why don't you get up and wash that melted eye makeup off your face.

Is it smeared? I've been crying so much . . . it's so damn sad when you know you'll never see all your friends anymore.

Every week it's the same old thing. You're gonna die. You're gonna die. Somebody went out on you. Somebody

doesn't love you anymore. How long you been a groupie? You should get used to romances which are so obviously

cheap. Listen, just in case you crash out, and the imaginary rock and roll newspaper from San Francisco wants to get

any pictures of you, you'll look like you

washed your face. Really.

It's better this way with a clean face.

People think groupies are such dirty girls.

Heh . . . I wouldn't mind sort of f***ing all

three of them!

Look, over there!

What?

He's doing it, he's watching us from the fake

bandstand with the binoculars!

Who, the English dude?

Oh, rivet-boy!

The rivet boy? Where?

Over there, wipe that stuff out of your eyes.

It looks like he's beating off.

Beating off? I knew he was a pervert.

Eww, how exciting. Hey, are you still

trying to O.D.?

Yes, this definitely is the end for me!

I feel so faint! So weak!

Good evening honey, that was the most imaginary

collapse I've seen since last week.

Janet, do you think she's going to die?

Are you kidding? Did you see her hit

the floor?

God, well it was so obviously cheap. Lift up

your head, honey.

I'm going to die. This time it's real.

Listen, Lucy, we gotta get ready for our big dance

number, we're going to the fake nightclub tonight.

Everything's getting dim.

Why don't you tell her a story while you put

your makeup on? Good evening.

Oh. Listen, toots. I'm going to make up a nice

little fairy tale for you.

The pills, the Mandrax, I took so many of them.

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