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Fuck Sandwich

by Unusual Squirrel

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jerm King Missile ... VI? Favorite track: The Guy Who Coughs.
doctea thumbnail
doctea There aren't many things that guarantee to put a smile on my face like hearing new King Missile or John S. Hall material. Just as hilarious and 'Zen anger' as ever, top notch. Favorite track: How They Fucked.
stiegr thumbnail
stiegr John S Hall's spoken word style spoke to me ever since the classic "Detachable Penis" seeped into the air waves back in 1990 something.

The album "They" is truly an opus of lyric and whimsical arrangements. The perfect yin of '70s revival to the yang of '90s ironic cynicism.

This spoken word musical style is right up there with the greats like Joe Frank, Jean Shepard, Alan Watts, Robert Bly, Spalding Gray, and somehow, John Lurie's Fishing with John TV show. Favorite track: The Quartet.
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1. How They Fucked (In Three Parts) I Well, yes, they fucked like bunnies, and yes, they fucked as if it was their last night on earth (when in fact it was early afternoon), but more than that, they fucked like so many, different other things completely. They fucked like dogs and cats. They fucked as if they were fucking in the rain. they fucked as if were raining cats and dogs. They fucked like cats and dogs from other planets, like a planet where a cat could be a land mammal and a dog could be a sea anemone, or a planet where a cat could be an insect and a dog could be still a dog. They fucked as if the feeling of emptiness that flooded their souls was somehow mitigatable, as if they could be anchored to bliss by the metronomic pounding of their fucking. They fucked as if Reagan had never been president. They fucked as if Reagan had never been born. They fucked as if they were cyanobacteria, poisoning the planet through photosynthesis, breathing out oxygen that destroys most of the life on the planet but makes way for the oxygen breathers that might one day evolve in to human beings that could then start fucking like cyanobacteria. When they fucked, it was if nothing else mattered, as if nothing else existed, because it didn’t. They fucked as if their fucking could change everything, when in fact, it could only change certain things, most of which were of no consequence. They fucked with pride and shame and honor. They fucked without fear of the aches and pains and sores and yeast infections that would no doubt ensue. They fucked like jackasses on that show Jackass. They fucked like records on a giant turntable while a needle slowly scratched them through their grooves. They fucked and fucked and fucked so masterfully, that if they had been in a porno movie that you were jacking off to, you would have to stop and marvel at the wonder of it, because it was like a ballet, and you never could jack off to a ballet, could you? Could you? They fucked like the first mammals to crawl out of the sea. They fucked like the mountains and the rocks and the trees. They fucked like they would die a final death that would break the cycle of endless rebirth. They fucked, then took a break then fucked again. Then fucked again. They fucked like a totally different story. They fucked like something your small unevolved mind can’t imagine, like--you know how they say that the human mind cannot comprehend god or infinity, or that a flower cannot comprehend a garden? Well, you can’t comprehend their fucking. To ask questions of gender or species or number is to trivialize and to degrade their fucking. Their fucking was made to stand the test of time, to be written about in Wikipedia, under “Fucking,” to serve as a model for all that come after them --pun intended -- fuck you, yeah, pun intended. They fucked as if they existed in a realm beyond time and space, greater than the universe, smaller than the subatomic. Recordings of their fucking were made and put into time capsules, one of which wound up in the voyager rocket, to be discovered by life on other planets, who will watch it in wonder and say to each other, fuck me, those motherfuckers sure knew how to fuck. They fucked and fucked, oblivious to my commentary about their fucking. If it seems boring to think about how they fucked, you are free to stop considering it and go jack off or fuck or eat a sandwich or something. don’t let me keep you. They fucked as if they were starving for sex, as if they hadn’t had it for centuries, when in fact, for one of them it had been relatively recently. Man, you should have seen them going at it. Everybody should have. They should have sold tickets. They should have fucked in a grand arena. They should have made a movie of their fucking, it was fucking amazing--did you get that yet? The way they fucked was amazing. My words do not, will not, cannot, do their fucking justice. It’s a Sisyphean task to try to convey to you the majesty, the artistry, the pornographic beauty of their fucking. The other day as I walked down first street, I saw a pigeon fucking another pigeon. That was nothing like this fucking of which I speak. I’d like you to close your eyes and picture the most awesome fucking fucking you ever had. That fucking was fucking bullshit compared to this fucking of which I now speak. At any rate, and to conclude this first part of this three part poem, let me point out the obvious: we cannot compose like Bartok, we cannot play like Yo Yo Ma or Paganini or Hendrix, we cannot write like Shakespeare or sculpt like Rodin, or fight Godzilla like Rodan, or fuck like they did, but all these masters can inspire us all, so the next time I fuck, I will think of them all: the fuckers, Bartok, Ma, Paganini, Hendrix, Shakespeare, Rodin and Rodan. And I will fuck with gratitude that I was born in at a time filled with so many inspiring figures. II The next day they began again. And because of their relief that last time wasn't their last time fucking after all, and partly because it was a new day, they fucked in an entirely new way. The fucking was more intense this time. There was a persistent sense of pounding repeatedly into the same place, over and over, and of a wound gushing out like a fountain. They both saw it in the eyes of each other’s minds, and in the minds of each other’s eyes. They fucked as if their immortal souls depended on it, even though they didn’t believe in mortality or souls. They fucked as if they knew they were fucking for posterity, for the redemption of humanity, to help alleviate the suffering of all sentient beings. III It was good of them to fuck in such a selfless way, and to do so with such gusto and commitment. I’m so glad they had that time together. It was really quite considerate of them to fuck the way they did. The next time I fuck, I will try to keep my mind focused in part at least on the way they fucked, because it should serve as a template for us all, and when all is said and done at the end of the day, I’d like to thank them for the excellent job they did fucking, and I’d like to ask you all to join me in giving them, as a show of our collective appreciation, a hearty round of applause. thank you. c. 2012 John S. Hall
Theme It's not a rat a-running down the subway track It's not a gerbil up in Richard Gere It's right here, all around the world Unusual Squirrel It's not a bunny hiding eggs for Easter It's not a rabbit hiding in a hole In your soul, don't it make your head swirl Unusual Squirrel Chipmunk chilling in his burrow Woodchuck chucking all that wood It's so good, It's so good Going to make you feel Like you never knew you could It's not a gopher fucking up your garden It's not a hamster running round the wheel Can you feel it, don't it make your toes curl Unusual Squirrel c. 2016 John S. Hall
Pants 02:54
God help me, I loved that man's pants. They were a dark and stately grey, with an understated green plaid pattern, barely distinguishable in a brief glance , which is all I dared to take. I didn't want to stare. But by God, they were fantastic pants. Cut in a traditional, but by no means stuffy or conservative, style. Not the least bit trendy or hipsterish, but timeless and tasteful and true. They were true pants, and God help me, I wanted them. I am not normally prone to jealousy or covetousness. To each their own I say, although I would favor a massive redistribution of wealth from those who have far more than me to those who have far less. But in that moment, when I saw those pants, I also favored a redistribution of those pants from the man who was wearing them to me. The man who was wearing the pants seemed perfectly amiable and had I had his self confidence and success, I might have been able to ask where he got the pants. Perhaps I would have learned that I could buy a pair for myself, around the block for forty dollars. Or perhaps I would have learned that they were purchased in Europe for 400 euros. But I learned nothing of the pants, so I will never know. I will never have such pants. In the moment, I could not ask, so consumed as I was by envy and greed. All I could think of was how I wanted the pants-those very pants. Not my own pair, but that pair, and not later, but now. I want them now, I thought. I wanted to hold a knife to the man's throat and say, "Your life means nothing to me, pig, but if it means anything to you, you will give me those pants immediately." Because I wanted those pants so much. Oh those pants! So much better than mine, that made me feel suddenly ashamed, as if I were wearing pajamas. Perhaps the man wearing those pants wears pants like the ones I have on for pajamas. I have very occasionally worn these pants that I have on for pajamas. But here I am, wearing these pants instead of those wonderful, glorious pants. Pants of transcendent splendor an‎d beauty. Fuck me, I wanted those pants so badly I could taste it, like ashes in my mouth. I wanted to tear the pants off of him and put them right there and then and head off in style to the recording studio. ‎Instead, I walked right past him, did not smile, did not acknowledge him or his pants. But he has ruined my day, perhaps my year, perhaps the rest of my life. That man and his beautiful fucking pants. c. 2016 John S. Hall
The Quartet 08:17
Lyrics: The Quartet sat down together to play the new work, both commissioned and composed anonymously‎ as a gift to the four of them. The cellist, the violist, and the two violinists had each rehearsed their separate parts but this was the first time any of them would hear the entire work with all of its parts played together, as this was their first attempt to play it together. At various times as they played the composition, each member of the Quartet was nearly certain that they would be unable to get through it. This was not because it was technically difficult. Rather, it was the sheer beauty of the work that made it so challenging. And in fact, as they played a motif near the end of the unbearably slow and unbearably beautiful second movement, all four players were weeping. Moreover, the lushness and simultaneous harshness of the sonorities, the strange, but never entirely alien tonal‎ idiosynchronsies, and the curiously teetering time signature, moved all four players not just to tears, but to an awakening within their deepest essences. They each reported later that they felt as if a small number of precious, golden droplets of sunlight‎ and love were dropped directly into their hearts, and they were overwhelmed and enveloped with a sense of timelessness and stasis and indestructibility and the feeling of being cradled in the arms of a supernatural being that would cherish and protect you forever. The Quartet had a performance scheduled for that evening and they all knew, without a word of discussion, that they would perform the new work as an encore. They played their scheduled program that night with unprecedented urgency and masterful brilliance so as to insure that the audience would demand an encore. Indeed, they played so well that a riot would have ensued had they not played an encore. Not only that, the quality of their performance thus far that evening was such that they had raised the expectations of everyone in the concert hall, all of whom had become profoundly aware that they were witnessing an historic event, not unlike that historic Sex Pistols concert in Manchester in June of 1976 that led to the creation of the Smiths, the Fall, the Buzzcocks and Joy Division. Decades later this concert would be recognized as one that permanently altered the landscape and soundscape of chamber music forever. Remarkably, not a sound was heard while the quartet played the new composition. Nobody coughed or cleared their throat. Nobody whispered or hissed. It seemed, in fact, as if nobody was breathing, although of course everybody was. Even more remarkable: virtually everyone in the concert hall had a nearly uncontrollable urge to take a selfie of themselves during the performance of the new work in order to prove that they were there; and yet every single one of them was, in fact, able to control that urge. The sense of golden droplets of sunlight and love being dropped directly into the heart was felt by every person in the rather large room, including all of the ushers, one of whom was nearly deaf. The essence of each being in the room had been awakened in a startling but somehow familiar way, as if each of them was experiencing the myth of eternal return. One could almost say that the intention of the composer was to offer up a means by which each individual listener might have direct experience of God, although it was later revealed that the composer had no such intention, and in fact, had no theistic (or, for that matter, atheistic) beliefs. Somewhat surprisingly, this news disappointed no one, although it did cause some people to reevaluate their religious conceptions. ‎About a half hour after the performance, it was discovered that the sheet music for the new piece had literally vanished. The composition had been written in disappearing ink, apparently timed to disappear directly following the evening's performance. Each member of the Quartet had followed the composer's strict instructions not to make copies. No one had recorded the concert and no one could remember the piece in its entirety. And yet, nobody who missed the concert was jealous of anyone who had been there. This was most likely because every single attendee carried the experience with them in their hearts and was able to transmit it to others. Indeed, they were unable to avoid transmitting it: simply being in the presence of one of the original attendees was enough to profoundly shift one's relationship to the universe. And then, having had a spiritual awakening as the result of their proximity to one of the listeners, they carried the message to others, who in turn carried it to still others. Over time, the awakened feeling penetrated the essence of every sentient being on the planet. The world was changed. The composer remained anonymous but did release a number of clarifying statements, such as the one about not believing in a supernatural creator god. ‎Perhaps the most significant of these statements was the one that revealed that the composer had never written anything before or after the composition, had no formal training, could play no instrument and knew no music theory. "It was as if something or someone had taken me over completely" said the composer, "As if I was merely a conduit, a messenger, an instrument." Soon it was discovered that many people were suddenly able to compose extraordinarily beautiful music. Others were able to paint magnificent paintings, and still others could dance, or write stories, or design urban landscapes, or tell almost dangerously hilarious jokes. Everyone, it seemed, had developed an extremely entertaining new talent. Everybody also had developed a much deeper appreciation for art and beauty. Many people became interested in theological or philosophical ideas. A large number of people felt the presence of God in their hearts in a more profound way than they ever had before. Many others, while not calling it God, acknowledged a presence or power deep within that made them feel a part of the totality of the universe, and made them feel connected to every living thing. The point being that the performance by the Quartet of the new composition was extremely fortunate for everyone involved--that is to say, it was extremely fortunate for everyone. c. 2015 John S. Hall
Bus 02:37
Being on a cross town bus Is like being‎ stuck inside An enormous turd Too heavy To move More than a few hundred feet Every few minutes A fucking glacier Made of shit That never Fucking Moves. c. 2016 John S. Hall
Monsters 03:50
There are monsters far more frightening Than the evil scary clown That waits behind the bushes Till he sees you come around There are monsters you don't know about And they will take you down They're manufactured in offices downtown Monsters of Accounting Monsters of the Law Monsters of Investment For the petit bourgeois Monsters Monsters Monsters of the Government That looks the other way What can keep These monsters at bay Monsters Monsters I said there are monsters far more frightening Than the evil scary clown That waits behind the bushes Till he sees you come around There are monsters you don't know about And they will take you down And they are made in offices downtown Monsters that have Brought down entire nations I'm talking about Collateralized debt obligations And there's nothing you can do my friend 'Cause there aint no way to stop A well positioned Credit default swap Monsters Monsters The earliest CDOs were constructed by Drexel Burnham Lambert – the home of “junk bond king” Michael Milken. But it takes a village: Securities firms;CDO managers, Financial guarantors; Investors, of course, and maybe most important, the Rating agencies, who helped cause the crash of 07 and 08 by giving really shitty junk CDOs the highest ratings. Credit Default Swaps were invented by Blythe Masters from JP Morgan in 1994. They are basically bets that a loan or investment will fail. There is no required reporting of swaps to a government agency. So investors had no way of knowing that the same motherfuckers who were selling them the investments were also betting against those same investments. Monsters Monsters There are monsters far more frightening Than the evil scary clown That waits behind the bushes Till he sees you come around There are monsters you don't know about And they will take you down And they are made in offices downtown Monsters of Accounting Monsters of the Law Monsters of Investment For the petit bourgeois Monsters of the Government That looks the other way Nothing can keep These monsters at bay c. 2016 John S. Hall
The Centaur 01:37
The Centaur was carrying a box Don't ask me how A box full of testicles Don't ask me why Testicles collected on the battlefield Don't ask about the war The battlefield full of fallen soldiers Don't ask who died Soldiers of fortune, soldiers of mercy Don't ask how their testicles Ended up in the box Or why when the box is dropped They bounce like ping pong balls And scatter themselves across the rainy city sidewalk The testicles in the box of the Centaur. c. 2016 John S. Hall
Everlasting 04:12
Everything swells up all pink and beautiful like flowers in a meadow. There is beautiful music, there is magic in the air, there is sunshine in the hearts of all the living, breathing beings. It is beautiful. The weather is beautiful, the day is beautiful, everybody smiles and laughs and forgets their sadness and troubles for a while. It is very, very nice. Nothing bad happens for a much longer period of time than the normal amount of time it usually takes before something bad happens. The period of nothing bad happening lasts an unusually long time. And everyone sits with it and enjoys it and breathes it in and breathes it out and it lasts and lasts and lasts and lasts and lasts. And then, at last, at long last, when it seems as if it can't possibly last any longer, it lasts even longer. It goes on and on. It continues to last and last and last. It continues to last and last. On and on it goes, lasting and lasting and lasting until it seems as if it may be everlasting. It seems as if it might last forever. The possibility that this state of seemingly eternal bliss might actually be eternal fills everyone so full of optimism and hope that the happiness that they had been feeling actually increases, so that everyone feels even more happy and even more hopeful. And still the feeling lasts. And still the situation lasts. The fact that everyone knew that it would not in fact last forever in no way mitigated the unprecedented feeling of joy that they all felt. They all felt joy, they all felt love, they all felt hope for as long as it lasted. And it lasted and lasted a long, long time. c. 2015 John S. Hall
Lyrics: I'd hate to be the one who coughs during a recital. It's bad enough to be in the audience when the one who coughs coughs, and somehow it's worse when there's just one one who coughs as opposed to many ones. Like that time when I saw the Philharmonic at what was then known as Avery Fisher Hall, at the beginning of Bolero, the very beginning, when it's very quiet, and beautifully slow, less than 30 seconds into it, and the guy let out this huge hacking cough that just took a shit on the whole thing, and the conductor, while continuing to conduct, turned his head back over his shoulder and looked back in the direction of the guy who coughed and just raised an eyebrow as if to say, do that again motherfucker, and I will fuck you up. And then there was that time, at Zankel Hall, when the Ligeti Quartet was playing The Ecstasy, from Terry Riley's Salome Dances For Peace, and it was so beautiful and clearly very difficult to play, and the guy who coughed just coughed and coughed, many, many times, like an endless stream of piss just pissing all over the whole thing, to the point where several people in the audience made little noises to signal their annoyance, and I was quite annoyed too, but mostly I was thinking how I would hate to be that guy, the guy who coughs. And the thing is, I know that if I keep going to recitals, one day, I'm going to be not feeling well, but I'll have tickets to something that I really, really, really don't want to miss, so I'll go, and yes, I'll grab a shitload of complimentary ricolas and I'll keep popping them into my mouth but still, inevitably, I will be unable to control myself and I will be the guy who coughs and it will be mortifying and I will hate myself and it will be awful and that will suck. c. 2016 John S. Hall
Tits 01:05
I kind of think it might be nice to have tits. Like so then, if I'm in bed with a woman, we could suck each other's tits. That sounds kind of nice. I think that would be hot. But it's a slippery slope, I would think. Next I'd probably want long hair and make up and then I'd probably want most of my body hair removed and then, before you know it, I'd want a vagina, and I assume that would mean I wouldn't have a cock anymore, and that would mean that instead of fucking women in the vagina with my cock, I'd be getting fucked in my vagina, with a strap on, because I like women, and even if I had a vagina, I would still want to be fucked by women, not men, which maybe is closed minded of me but there it is. So probably I shouldn't get tits. So probably I should stop eating so fucking much, else I'm gonna get tits. c. 2015 John S. Hall
Better Not Fuck A meteor might strike a major city A massive flood could kill off everyone The universe could collapse and every thing could disappear Mercury might fall into the sun All kinds of terrible things could happen that would suck If we fucked, so I guess we better not fuck I don't really know, you know I'm not a weather forecaster But perhaps if we refrained from fucking each other It would prevent a major disaster Another landslide could hit the Himalayas An earthquake could leave 20,000 dead A hurricane could cut across the East Coast I don't want that hanging over my head All kinds of terrible things could happen that would suck If we fucked, so I guess we better not fuck c. 2016 John S. Hall


The debut album from Unusual Squirrel!


released January 19, 2017

John S. Hall - vocals
Susan Hwang - janggu, accordion, backing vocals
Ray Brown - guitar, piano, percussion
Preston Spurlock - keyboards, percussion

with special guest Violet S. Hall - violin on "The Quartet," "Monsters," and "Everlasting."

Produced by Charlie Nieland


all rights reserved



Unusual Squirrel New York, New York

Unusual Squirrel is:

John S. Hall - vocals
Susan Hwang - janggu, accordion, backing vocals
Ray Brown - guitar, piano, percussion
Preston Spurlock - keyboards, percussion

with special guest Violet S. Hall - violin on "The Quartet," "Monsters," and "Everlasting."

Produced by Charlie Nieland
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