Not Very Talented

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Recipe for Tramp Scamp:
1 black leotard from 1988, wedgie optional
1 wig from Splash
A dash of crack

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Once again, it’s our old pal Shane, looking like an air traffic controller and sounding like, well, Shane. And – wait for it – he brought sheet music this time, beyotches. The planes can wait.

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I could mock Eli – yes, Eli from the class of 2005 – hit the easy target, but instead let us all tune in for the following finer points:

- My boy Marv-O looks like he’s at sea, a very rough sea at that, and will soon be in need of some motion sickness meds.
- Marv-O’s sea-worthy movements are so out of control he has to hold tightly to Jeremy (aka J-Dub) the whole time.
- A little heads up to Envy: Cripple doesn’t actually rhyme with cripple. Perhaps ripple, triple, nipple – any of these would be acceptable substitutes.
- At the 2:06 mark, Envy exhibits his greatest talent of all – making his arms disappear. Sadly, they are never seen again.
- “That was great. It had to better than last time,” says my boy Marv-O. What exactly happened last time? Did one of the rappers pee his pants?

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I remember my own wedding as if it were yesterday: my best friend getting wasted and then projectile vomiting after the rehearsal dinner, my mother’s third husband getting into a screaming match with my soon-to-be mother-in-law the morning of the big day, and my spouse’s drunken childhood friend giving the toast to end all toasts, chock full of f-bombs and air drumming.

Unfortunately, we didn’t have an Uncle Sal, aka Ashley, to make the day fully complete by devoting a song to us that may or may not have won the Grammy a couple of years ago. Does anyone else think this guy bears a striking resemblance to a cross between Harry Dean Stanton from his Pretty in Pink days and Boris Karloff as the monster in Frankenstein? Oh and, Ash – can I call you Ash? – methinks the DJ was trying to do you a favor by keeping the volume low on your mic.

Video Credit: shane12lee

With each note, the suspense builds. Nostrils flaring, eyebrows quivering. Is he going to burst into tears? Have an orgasm? Make his head explode? Attract a goose looking for a suitable mate? No. He’s just going to sing us five octaves on the pee-ana and then walk away, with his completely non-ironic facial hair and striped shirt fully intact, leaving us breathless and wanting for more.