Grills

So, in a former life (read: before I got a full-time job), I used to enjoy writing song parodies. I thought I would post one I wrote in 2006. Below is a link to the real song, if you would like to sing along. Enjoy!


Grills
Parody of “Grillz” by Nelly
2006

Call the hardware store, tell ‘em get me a grill
Got a whole top rack and on the bottom charcoal
Yo, we ‘bout to grill us up some chicken with this one
Yeah, I’m warming it up, so, so, so

I’m grillin’ dogs on the bottom, vegetables on the top
Such a wonderful smell, I’m drinkin’ Coke on the rocks
I got some mo’ on the table, gonna char me some brats
If you like chowin’ on meat, you gonna like this a lot
I got, like, butter and bread rolls, and Twinkies and Ho-
Hos, Grillin’ out “er” day, in rain or snow
I might be grillin’ on a nice day, drinkin’ iced tea
On my porch swing, in my wife-beat
Bring out the buns wit’, I can tell that they’re done wit’
You see, the restaurants all hate it, but my neighbors all love it
‘Cause when I (open up the grill I am divine
I’m the best that you will find)
I got a grill and meat tenderizer, you know what that means?
It looks like Applebee’s, Outback and Black-Eyed Pea
Are out of business forever, ‘cause I be grillin’ so good
So if you catch me in your city, grillin’ in your neighborhood, just say…

Cook it for me, daddy, let me see a brat
Let me see you grill, you better kiss the cook!
Yeah, the grill, yeah, yeah, the grill
Call the hardware store, tell ‘em get me a grill/Got a whole top rack, and on the bottom charcoal (x2)

How you doin’, ladies, it’s the grill man DP*
I got my grill burnin’ hotter than infinity
I got my apron on, I’m ready—throw me a steak
If you think I’m lying, dude, you just made a mistake
Now I’m grillin’ some Zucchinis wrapped in aluminum foil
Never bakin’, fryin’, nukin’, God forbid that I should broil
I put my money where your mouth is and bought a grill
Twenty dogs, thirty steaks at once, you know I’m so for real
My motivation is the hungry stares I’m generatin’
I’m goin’ into the house, I’m stallin’ ‘cause they waitin’ (that’s right)
I got the ketchup, the mustard, the cheese I’m gratin’
But it’s my meat that’s got these onlookers spectatin’
My porkchops, make your tongue excited, the best imagined
Open up the fridge and put some mo’ carrots on that salad
My skills are mind-blowin’, keepin’ everybody filled
Screw that George Foreman, cause I’m cookin’ on a man’s grill

Cook it for me, daddy, let me see a brat
Let me see you grill, you better kiss the cook!
Yeah, the grill, yeah, yeah, the grill
Call the hardware store, tell ‘em get me a grill/Got a whole top rack, and on the bottom charcoal (x2)

Yep, got the matches, got the charcoal, got the bread
Burgers so good make you woozy in your head
Have some seconds, ‘cause I know you want
Get addicted to my cheesy brats
‘Cause when you do, I know you, you’ll be back on the weekend
Never fear, you’ll bring the beer, drinkin’ Killian’s and feastin’
On what I’m heatin’, a pile of meat and much more food than we can eat and
Every cow is scared stiff and the sheep are all bleatin’
I ain’t dissin’ nobody, but let’s all agree on this
I am the best with a grill there is
The meat I’m grillin’, make your eyesight blurry
Takin’ every bite is a flavorful flurry
I got four different grills, it’s a wonderful thing
One white, one yellow, one black and one green
And on all of them, you know, I got my name in solid gold
and a whole top rack and on the bottom charcoal

Cook it for me, daddy, let me see a brat
Let me see you grill, you better kiss the cook!
Yeah, the grill, yeah, yeah, the grill
Call the hardware store, tell ‘em get me a grill/Got a whole top rack, and on the bottom charcoal (x2)

Boy, how’d you learn to grill that way, and how long did it take?
Every time I see you, the first thing I want to say, is…

Cook it for me, daddy, let me see a brat
Let me see you grill, you better kiss the cook!
Yeah, the grill, yeah, yeah, the grill
Call the hardware store, tell ‘em get me a grill/Got a whole top rack, and on the bottom charcoal (x2)

C’mon.

*Close personal friend Doug P.

Bravo's Infamous Plan B.

I had known Bravo for about three months at the time. I was not yet sure where he received his income. It seemed that he continually pulled from some bottomless reservoir of funds, and although he indulged in (and seemed to enjoy) extravagances occasionally (usually while putting up a front during a con job), in actuality he lived modestly. We shared a small, three-bedroom condo, sparsely furnished, and filled with bookcases. Most were his; I owned a few.

I was flipping through one of his copies of Madame Bovary when he walked in. As usual, it was impossible to tell his mood. “We have a problem,” he said.

“Really,” I responded.

He walked into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of wine. He thought for a moment, looked at me knowingly, and walked out again, the full glass still on the table. “I’ll be back.”

In an hour, he made good on his word. I had dozed off in a chair. When I fully awoke, he was in the kitchen. He had returned to his glass of wine.
“My patrons have pulled their funds.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I just looked at him.

He picked up a slip of paper in his hand. “This is Plan B.” It was a lottery ticket.

“You’re crazy,” I said. “Do you know the odds of winning the lottery?”

He replied, “Do you know the odds of surviving a colossal squid attack?”

“No.”

“The odds are zero. It’s never been done. It can’t be done.” With that, he rolled up his left sleeve. There, just above the elbow, was a circular scar, about the size of the bottom of a coffee cup.

“A plastic surgeon took care of the rest. I left one as a reminder. A reminder that believing the odds is for suckers.”

At precisely ten o’clock that evening, he became a millionaire. At precisely 10:02, he went back to reading his book.

I didn't sleep for a week.