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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.

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.