September 05, 2004

Last Call for Submissions to

Last Call for Submissions to “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” First Annual Stupidest Lyrics in Rock Music History Contest

Alright, dear reader, let’s get down to brass tacks. On September 9, 2004—a few short days away—we shall no longer be accepting entries to our highly touted First Annual Stupidest Lyrics in Rock Music History Contest (the announcement of which you can read here).

Essentially, given the frequency of the contest, if you don’t get your submission to us in a few days, you will probably have to wait a year to enter. And that, as many a rock musician has said, would be a cryin’ shame.

As a result, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are again taking time out of our busy weekend schedule to drum up enthusiasm about our contest, and thus to exhort you to send in some abominably horrid lyrics.

We know what you are thinking, dear reader: It’s Labor Day weekend, and the crack young staff needs a break. Au contraire, friends: We need a break like Rob Reiner needs a piece of cheesecake.

Without further ado, then, we are content to serve up some wretched lyrics. Our Official Research Division worked around the clock (literally: The clock was on the floor) in order to come upon these gorgeous monstrosities.

First, here’s a lyric from a song by the king of cheesy elevator music, Paul Anka. This tune, which bears the off-putting title “(You’re) Having My Baby,” has a lyric that goes a little something like this:

The need inside you, I see it showin’
Whoa, the seed inside ya, baby, do you feel it growin’?

Now we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” aren’t experts on sexual education, but we have a hunch that this line would do more to promote abstinence among children than naked pictures of Janet Reno.

In addition to that rebarbative lyric, our Official Research Division honed in on a tune called “Muscrat Love,” which was performed both by a group ingeniously named America, as well as by Captain and Tenille. The words to this song are truly atrocious, and should be witnessed in full. The following, then, is merely a sample of its execrable content:

Nibbling on bacon, chewin’ on cheese
Sammy says to Susie, “Honey would you please be my missus?”
And she says yes
With her kisses

Oh, dear. That isn’t even catchy. And it’s really, really odd. We suppose you don’t name a song “Muscrat Love” if you aren’t a mite deranged. Somehow, J. S. Bach never got around to composing a piece of the same name.

Well, dear reader, there you have it: Our last exhortation to submit an entry to our humble contest. Simply drop us a line by clicking on the “Contact Us” link at the top right-hand corner of your computer screen. Come join a contest that is even more popular than David Lee Roth.

Posted at September 5, 2004 12:01 AM | TrackBack