The Authorized Al 0809251337, 9780809251339

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Acknowledgments: I would like to thank “Weird Al” Yankovic for many years of hilarious music, as well as for giving an unofficial OK for this document. I would also like to thank Jon “Bermuda” Schwartz (Al’s drummer and webmaster of weirdal.com) for his fantastic informative website and for letting Al know what I’ve been doing here. Send all questions or comments about this document to [email protected]. If you would like contact information for the band, you will find addresses (as well as a ton of really neat stuff) on Bermuda’s website: http://www.weirdal.com.

—Meganurd (a.k.a. Dan Savad)

By Tino Insana And Al Yankovic Design by Tony Lane and Nancy Donald

Produced by: Imagnary Entertainment

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Insana, Tino The authorized Al. 1. Yankovic, Al, 1959-

2. Accordionists—United

States—Biography. 3. Rock musicians—United States— Biography. 4. Parody (Music) I. Yankovic, Al, 1959- II. Title. ML419.Y35I6 1985 786.9'7'0924 [B] 85-19459 ISBN 0-8092-5133-7

Copyright © 1985 by Imaginary Entertainment All rights reserved Published by Contemporary Books, Inc. 180 North Michigan Avenue, Chicago, Illinois 60601 Manufactured in the United States of America Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 85-19459 International Standard Book Number: 0-8092-5133-7 Published simultaneously in Canada by Beaverbooks, Ltd. 195 Allstate Parkway, Valleywood Business Park Markham, Ontario L3R 4T8 Canada

Photography by Dennis Keeley Additional photography by Jon “Bermuda” Schwartz Art and production staff: Mary Ann Dib, Lisa Joko, Cindi Stark, Drew Stark, Noboru Tarui, Janice Wilkins and Christine Wilson

Special Thanks for the following people for donating snapshots: Nick and Mary Yankovic, Jon “Bermuda” Schwartz, Masha Nordbye, Tino Insana, Tony Scotti, Drew Stark, Robert Wuhl, Jan Poss, the Moller Family, Jana and Bill Serrano, Nancy Zegler, Howard Stevens, Pam Anderson, and Cindy Schenk. Thanks to Josh Donald, Sebastian Lane. Siiri Lane and Thomas Wilson for hand lettering Cover lettering: Bob Maile Retouching and hand coloring: Charles Wild and Associates Sampler on page 41 by Dana Insana Photography and art: pages 90-93 by Jay Pope ©1984 CBS Inc., pages 94-95 by Rogerio Nogueira ©1983 CBS Inc., page 101 by Sam Emerson ©1983 CBS Inc., pages 104-105 by Jim Heimann (illustrations) and Dennis Keeley and Jay Pope (Photography) ©1984 CBS Inc., page 107 by Sam Emerson ©1984 CBS Inc., page 110 by Sam Emerson ©1984 CBS Inc., page 114 by Sam Emerson ©1984 CBS Inc., pages 115-116 by Lou Beach ©1985 CBS Inc., page 118 by Robert Bauer ©1984 CBS Inc., and page 121 by Dennis Keeley © 1985 CBS Inc. The albums “Weird Al” Yankovic. In 3-D, and Dare To Be Stupid are available on Rock ‘N’ Roll/Scotti Brothers/CBS Records The Authorized Al is based on The Compleat Al. the CBS/Fox Home Video written by Robert K. Weiss, Jay Levey, Hamilton Cloud, Al Yankovic Management (if you can’t reach Barry Cohen): Jay Levey, IMAGINARY ENTERTAINMENT, 925 Westmount Drive. Los Angeles, California, 90069. Correspondence: Al, 8033 Sunset Boulevard, Los Angeles, California, 90046

This book is dedicated to all the little people I had to step on to get where I am today –Al

ewlyweds Nick and Mary Yankovic moved to Southern California in search of their dream. Nick heard about a good job opportunity in Lynwood, a little town just south of Los Angeles. The Shuckman Pharmaceutical Company was opening a new plant in Lynwood that would produce its new nasal decongestant SINUSPRAY. It was touted to be the newest and the best nasal spray on the market—something about the most comfortable fitting stril-stem, the part of the spray bottle that goes into the nostril.

Like other newlyweds who were starting their new life together, Nick and Mary had trouble making ends meet, so Mary took a job at the local Dairy Queen, where she would spend endless hours sorting out candy sprinkles. Life in the sleepy suburban town of Lynwood was a simple one, Some called it simple, others called it stupid. Nothing much happened in Lynwood. As a matter of fact, the Dairy Queen was one of the “in” places, a favorite hangout for the Lynwood in-crowd, Mary Yankovic liked her work and was popular with the customers. She always dropped on a few extra sprinkles for the regulars, and loved to see the expression on people’s faces when she presented them with 9

their yummy treats. When Mary found out she was going to have a baby, she told Nick she would continue to work. Nick was at home, editing some of his home movies from the last SINU SPRAY company picnic when he got the phone call. It was time for their son to be born. He hopped into his Plymouth and sped over to the Dairy Queen. He scooped Mary into the car and accelerated off to the hospital. Nick knew the way; he had mapped out the fastest route to St. Vitus Hospital months ago and secretly practiced the drive every day. He was trying to obey the rules of the road, but Mary was in labor and kept screaming out. Suddenly Nick started to experience the strange phenomenon called symbiotic psychosis, where he physically shared Mary’s labor pains. These strange new feelings frightened Nick, and he put the pedal to the floor. Finally Nick’s car screeched to a stop outside of the hospital. He gently helped Mary out of the car, then hurried her into the hospital. Nick really wanted everything to be perfect, so he had a team of doctors waiting for them when they arrived. They quickly prepared Mary for birth, then all boarded the elevator for the ride up to the delivery room. Alas, there was no room for Nick, so he stayed behind. Mary rode up alone, but the next time the elevator door opened, there was a new Yankovic on board. Alfred Matthew Yankovic was born in an elevator on the way up to the delivery room. Surely a prophetic beginning for a man on his way to the top. _

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uring the period of Al’s infancy, the craze among new mothers in Southern California was the controversial method of child development set forth by Baron Rudolf Kapatchski. In his best-selling book, The Embryo Has Plans of Its Own, Kapatchski explains his theory that all embryos have an innately predetermined future. Every detail of the child’s life, except for maybe where to go for an inexpensive weekend getaway, has already been decided at the moment of birth. To tamper with the plans the infant has already made could lead to very deep emotional problems later. Yet at the moment of birth, the parents have made plans of their own for the infant, including choosing a name, and will continue to meddle in the child’s affairs. So why does the baby allow the parents to always get their own way? Kapatchski suggested that because the baby is so tiny it is literally intimidated by its gigantic parents. He further theorized that the infant’s total lack of a vocabulary and all the fuss and affection and free food it gets cause the baby to feel he shouldn’t blow a good thing. Babies are cute and sweet and generally don’t want to make any trouble. This, coupled with an instinctive fear of spankings and a quickly acquired dislike of stupid baby talk, makes a newborn baby quietly go along with the whims and wants of the parents. But left alone, free of the fears that trap it into helpless submission, the Kapatchski method enables the infant’s psyche to be set free. Anyway, that was his theory.

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Mary Yankovic and some of her friends enrolled their babies in a nearby Kapatchski Child Development Institute. Some of the toddlers just cried, others used the time there to lie on the floor and sleep, but Al’s sessions at the Kapatchski School were profoundly revealing.

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aestro Dino Zamour was born in Tortoni, Italy, in 1910. To make a long story short, he moved to Southern California in 1957 and founded the Famous Zamour Academy of Music. He wanted his music school to be an institution of serious study, where each student was encouraged to express a personal musical style. This was no place for blowing on a comb kazoo, clinking on a water glass, or clapping out hand farts. The coveted scholarship was awarded to the most promising students. Mrs. Daisy Perimutter was the head of the Accordion Department at the Zamour Academy when young Al first enrolled there. Upon discovering Al’s talent and ambition, she immediately arranged for a Zamour Scholarship. Thrilled by this good fortune, Al’s parents expected free tuition and all of the other special privileges normally connected with a scholarship. But the Zamour Scholarship was limited to purchasing an accordion through the school, at a discount. As it turned out, everyone enrolled at the Zamour Academy was awarded its coveted scholarship; and every student earned the privilege of purchasing his or her instrument through the Zamour Scholarship Program. Once a month the Zamour Academy held a talent contest for cash prizes. The only eligible entrants were Zamour students, and the only way to enter was to be booked through the Dino Zamour Talent Agency, a booking agency that charged the standard ten percent commission fee.

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Besides the many talent contests he would win, Master Al’s earliest paying gigs would be on those days he visited his grandmother. She gave him a dollar whenever he would play his accordion for her. Catching on quickly, Al decided to tour the homes of other relatives in the hope that they too would reward him for a private recital. It was during a particularly busy holiday season that Al received a telephone call from someone at the Dino Zamour Talent Agency. The tough-sounding agent reminded Al that they had a binding contract with him, and the agency was owed money from commissions due on all of Al’s family recitals. But the whole Zamour era suddenly ended one day when the Maestro mysteriously disappeared. No one knew what happened, no one knew where he went, he just simply vanished. The Zamour Academy of Music closed its famous doors forever. There were all sorts of stories concerning the whereabouts of the Maestro. The most popular rumor was that he ran off with a beautiful female demolitions expert, but no one knew for sure. The riddle was never solved. With the demise of the Zamour Academy, and summer vacation about to start, an enterprising Al was available for all sorts of new opportunities. Together with three other exZamour Scholarship winners, Al put together a group and prepared for what was to be called the Al and His Special

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Best Friends National Tour. The plan was this: because Al had done so well performing for his relatives on what he called his Family Tree Solo Tour, why not quadruple the audience? The four musickers mapped out the homes of their respective relatives state by state. From coast to coast the bookings were planned. Grandparents, aunts, uncles, first cousins, second cousins, third cousins, half cousins, anyone who was even remotely related was considered as potential audience for this massive undertaking. The entire idea was kabashed when the four kids went home and asked their parents if they could go on the road. The answer was a unanimous no. They could, however, do something together if they stayed closer to home and got back before the streetlights went on. This enterprising quartet of youngsters started their own singing telegram service, and once again found their fortune with nearby relatives. It looked as if young Al’s life would be going the way of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, Johann Sebastian Bach, and Morty Gunty, when one Sunday afternoon someone’s Uncle Bert suggested the group could double its income if they would also help him with yard work. It was then that Al realized relatives held a limited appreciation for his music, and he would have to seek out a new audience.

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Can you find Al in this picture? If you see him, tell him his parents are waiting out in the car.

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NAME

EXERCISE

51

Understanding What You Read

DATE PERFECT SCORE

10

MY SCORE

Read the story below. Then write a brief answer to each question that follows.

THE HISTORY OF THE ACCORDION Friedrich Buschman of Berlin (or thereabouts) built the first accordion in 1822, but he called it the Handaoline instead of the accordion. History doesn’t tell us why he made that mistake, but Cyril Demian of Vienna realized the error in 1829 and started calling the instrument the accordion, thus ending the confusion. Since then it has been a popular instrument in folk music as well as with dance bands. The accordion is a small, portable free-reed organ. It has two keyboards joined by an expandable bellows that drives air over the reeds. The reeds are arranged in such a way as to produce a single note as the bellows are expanded, and a different note when they are compressed. So one key can sound two different notes. Sherlock Holmes often laid down his Stradivarius and picked up his accordion. Big mustachioed organ grinders in wide-striped shirts and funny-looking hats are more known to play the concertina, a relative of the accordion, as their filthy monkeys beg for coins. 1. What was this story about? 2. How many keyboards does an accordion have? 3. Do you have a sister? 4. How old? 5. What is her phone number? 6. What is the law? 7. Do you own an accordion? 8. Do you want to buy an accordion? 9. What time is it? 10. Can you lend me five dollars?

W R I T I N G I S F U N Writing the Theme Write a theme that best states your plans after high school. Sit up. Eyes on your own paper. Use your own words. Spit out your gum. Begin.

Name

Teacher

l was a gifted child. He entered Lynwood High School at the young age of twelve. Al was an excellent student who seemed to enjoy his studies, but he was frequently singled out for his unique manner of dress. While the other students were enslaved by an unimaginative compulsory dress code, Al was a fashion rebel. His choice of bright plaids, contrasting stripes, and the nowfamous colorful Hawaiian prints made him a standout in a drab and colorless student body. Al paid for his valiant, if not gaudy, efforts. He was frequently sentenced to detention hall for wearing disruptive clothing and spent many afterschool hours under the watchful eye of Miss Bulah Lunquist, a rather tough-looking teacher who, like Al, seemed to be growing the beginnings of a moustache on her upper lip. Al maintained a straight-A average throughout his high school career, and also found time for extracurricular activities. During this period of his life, Al was known as the King of the Hawaiian Accordion. Along with his band, the Lynwood Hawaiians, Al played at school dances, pep rallies, and private parties. This early band finally broke up when the drummer’s family moved to Arizona. After Alfred Yankovic and the Lynwood Hawaiians disbanded, Al tried his hand at a variety of part-time jobs. To impress his parents, Al took the job of quality control tester on the nasal spray production line down at the pharmaceutical factory where his father worked. His job

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was to randomly select a spray bottle from the moving conveyor belt then squirt it up his nose to ensure a perfectfitting stril-stem. He was expected to test one bottle every fifteen seconds. At the end of his first day on the job, they found Al unconscious on the floor. That was the end of that task, although to this day Al never has to blow his nose. It was time for his mother to step in. She contacted her old boss, who by now had sold the Dairy Queen and opened one of those fancy new ice cream parlors in town. That was Al’s favorite place to work, and that is where he acquired his famous affection for Rocky Road ice cream.

by Craig Swanson

Alfred Yankovic, Lynwood senior, saved the day—or should this reporter say he saved the game?—last Friday night at the conference basketball finals in Westm i n s t e r. W h a t h a p p e n e d

was the bus carrying the Lynwood pep club and band got lost, or broke down, or something. What happened still isn’t clear, except that they never made it to the big game. A quick-thinking Alfred, at the game to cheer on the

Lynwood Knights, ran out to his car (borrowed for the night from his father), popped open the trunk and grabbed his trusty accordion. (This reporter is sure all my readers have danced to the beat of the king of the surf accordion, Alfred Yankovic and the Lynwood Hawaiians.) From the opening strains of the national anthem to the upbeat tempo of the Lyn-

wood Knights’ fight song, Alfred played his accordion all night, and led his team to an 84 to 79 victory and the conference championship! Congratulations to new basketball champs, the Lynwood Knights, and thanks for the extra school spirit, Alfred Yankovic, another kind of champion. Alfred will be honored at an assembly today, after school in the auditorium.

Drama Club presents South Pacific Friday evening 7 o’clock sharp in the gym. (No street shoes.) A representative from the Rainbow Jewelry Company will be in the cafeteria this week taking orders for class rings. Bring ring size and proof of passing grades.

he old sampler shown on the facing page was stitched by one of Al’s ancestors, Martha Yankovic. Martha (a sweet woman, who really was the salt of the earth) and the apple of her eye, Abraham Yankovic (a crusty and hard-boiled old farmer), settled in New England in the early nineteenth century. The needlework that Martha had intended to stitch was the slogan “FINISH ALL OF YOUR DINNER BEFORE IT GETS COLD,” but they were too poor to afford that much thread. This heirloom has survived for over a century and a half, and has proven to be food for thought from one generation of the Yankovic family to the next. The influences of this tasteful handiwork and the family’s clean-plate philosophy on Al’s music are apparent in his songs Eat It, I Love Rocky Road, and My Bologna. All have tasty lyrics and seem to reflect the recipe for life that Martha Yankovic cooked up so many years ago. It wasn’t easy to get these scrumptious songs recorded, however. Al’s sweet dream almost turned sour. First of all, Al had to butter up the top bananas at the record company before he could even get a nibble. Then, after all of that work, all Al got was a polite thank you and would he please just let them digest the idea. Frankly, Al felt they didn’t care beans about his music. He was steamed. Later, a couple of those record executives popped into one of Al’s sold-out concerts. They found themselves sandwiched in among a crowd that was starving for something different. When they

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saw how the fans ate up the songs, the executives licked their chops. Now, you might find this little tidbit hard to swallow, but Al really does relish that cross-stitch heirloom. It inspired him to dish out a series of hits and make a lot of bread.

l’s outstanding academic achievements in high school allowed him to select the college of his choice. He chose California Polytechnic State University at San Luis Obispo because it was nearby, and declared architecture as his major because it was listed first in the school catalog. During the course of his architectural studies, Al’s innate talent blossomed with ambitious, creative designs. The result of Al’s growing up in a time of a burgeoning fast-food industry was revealed in his architectural rendering of “Burgeropolis,” a futuristic city built with structures shaped like hamburgers and french fries, et cetera. For his vision of Burgeropolis, Al was awarded the International Institute of Architecture Award for Excellence. Unfortunately, Al’s architecture teacher, Professor Gus Beam, was not so openminded. Angered by Al’s unorthodox designs, he agreed to

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give Al a passing grade on the Burgeropolis project only if Al would solemnly vow to never really become an architect. By now Al had his own weekly show on the college radio station. His strange choice of music and his unusual behavior on the air earned him the nickname “Weird Al.” He liked that moniker and kept the name. His mother continued to call her son Alfred, but the “Weird Al” Yankovic era was born nevertheless. Al’s main love continued to be his music. He was a prolific composer and had written many songs, but hadn’t recorded anything yet. Flipping through a folio full of songs, he decided to make his first recording. It was in the men’s bathroom that Al recorded My Bologna, the song that was to be his first hit. It was really quite a stroke of genius. Al knew that the acoustics inside a bathrooom would give him the precise sound he was looking for. The reverberation of those little diamond-shaped tiles, combined with the echo available from the showers, was dynamically perfect. Al did have a lengthy search before he found the right bathroom, and there were a lot of recording problems that needed flushing out before he got the right sound. Things started to look up. Since his childhood days, Al had been an avid fan of “The Doctor Demento Show,” a national radio program known for broadcasting madcap music for more than ten years. It was the legendary Doctor’s show which first introduced Al to his musical heroes, including Tom Lehrer, Spike Jones, and Allan Sherman, and now Al realized a dream come true, as the good Doctor began to play My Bologna.

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l was clearly on the road to success, but he was broke, so he had to take the bus to get there. During this period in his career Al was without professional representation and was still finding his own work. He took any gig that came his way so he could continue to play. His weekends were booked. On Friday nights he donned a sombrero and performed at El Casa del Frijoles Mexican Restaurant, and on Saturday nights he wore lederhosen and led the singing in the beer garden at Der Salzig Futtersack and De Brat House. He worked for tips, and sang for his supper. Free meals were all he could afford. One day, while seated on the bus stop bench, waiting for the bus to come and whisk him off to work, he found himself next to a talkative derelict who was having a congenial chat with an invisible friend. Not one to eavesdrop, Al turned away and wrote the song Another One Rides the Bus, a personal articulation of his particular urban predicament. That evening, the famous Doctor Demento invited Al to his studio, and Al played Another One Rides the Bus during the broadcast of “The Doctor Demento Show.” The celebrated Doctor recorded Weird Al’s live, onthe-air performance, and that became the record. Al was getting national airplay but he still wasn’t making any money. Al was suffering for his art, and the bills were piling up.

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arry Cohen was a wheeler-dealer type. If there was a buck to be made, Barry was there with his empty wallet open. He had a small theatrical agency representing a few novelty acts, and was also in the business of marketing certain specialty merchandise for business and promotions. He eventually combined both professions and gave out a free gift when someone booked one of his acts. Promoters who through Barry booked a performance by Brickman’s Poodle Review enjoyed the added bonus of a set of four grapefruit spoons, a package of happy-face auto fresheners, or a set of monogrammed golf balls. He was the type who liked to have a gimmick. That’s the way he worked; that’s the kind of guy he was. It was around this time that Al was appearing every Thursday night in the lounge of Mickey’s Bowl-A-Rama. Barry Cohen saved his Thursday evenings for his bowling league. He, too, was at the Bowl-A-Rama one fateful Thursday evening. So here’s what happened. After bowling, Barry went into the lounge for a beer. Al was on stage. Cohen had never managed a pop artist before, but from the moment he saw Weird Al, he knew this was his destiny. After Al’s lively set, Barry went up and introduced himself. He promised to make Al famous and guaranteed him a record contract with a top record company. Al signed a management contract with Cohen. They shook hands and Barry presented Al with a free cutlery set. That was Barry’s way of sealing the deal;

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that’s how he did business. People criticized Cohen for his unusual tactics, but he did orchestrate Al’s meteoric rise in show business. And you’ve got to hand it to Barry: he’s the guy who thought up the top-selling Al’s Buns Calendar. A whiz at marketing and promotion, Barry Cohen orchestrated the selling of Al and got him into the big time.

Barry

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eird t “ Wk d i s c c a t c es li n e w big s n s h i p r h i s ie for a p u n s m a e v o i n g ; sure p s i c a l b e a mr i s t i s a A l ’s m u s i n o e d C o h t / H u m We i r a r r yo r d i o n i s c t s t h a t B r u i r e n e he acc p r e d n t r e pl e d g e s t e l s , a n d . e / r e a n a g hen p o r l a b world b i z mo v i c . C ot h e m a j r i e r o c k w o h t k S e of e in Ya n Al” l w i t h o nbig nois a a d e make will

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a-da-beep, Ba-da-bop, Ba-da-boom.” That was Barry Cohen’s favorite catch-all phrase. “It’s like the tortoise and the hare, the yin and the yang, supply and demand, Ba-da-beep, Ba-da-bop, Ba-da-boom.” Barry was that kind of guy. Today Barry and Al were going shopping, looking to find the “Al Image”. Clothes make the rock star, you’ve got to have a gimmick, dress for success. . . Ba-da-beep, Ba-da-bop, Ba-da-boom. They went to the best clothing shop; this boutique had everything from white silk to black leather, and Barry made Al try it all on. Spikes and chains, ruffles and paisley, tight blue jeans and faded t-shirts, sunglasses and sharkskin. Barry was getting a lot of ideas, and Al was getting bored. This whole thing can be better explained by Dr. Ludwig Singer, Director of the Vienna Institute of Fashion Disorders. Doctor? “Zank you. You zee za visual image of za rrrock zinger shticks in za mind of da rrrock and rrroll fanz. Zat iz vhy shince da beginning of rrrock you can’t tell za performers wizout za costumez.” Thanks, professor. That is why Barry wanted to be sure of the “Al Image.” After a full day of shopping, Al emerged from a dressing room wearing his own clothes, his familiar colorful Hawaiian shirt and checkered sneakers. When Barry Cohen saw Al, his eyes lit up. “Yes! Yes! That’s it. That’s the perfect Weird Al image, Ba-dabeep, Ba-da-bop, Ba-da-boom.”

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Cohen, You screwed up my order again. golf balls, not ping-pong balls!

I want monogrammed Please make the

proper adjustments and get my order right next time.

Oh, and I’m keeping the ping-pong balls anyway,

so don’t expect them back. Let me say, though, that I was pleased to find such a great bonus enclosed with my order.

Although

I only needed a couple more grapefruit spoons to make a complete set, the record by this Crazy Al Yankovic kid has interesting possibilities.

My brother Ronny

is as impressed with Wild Al as much as I am, so why don’t you and Big Al come down to the office, I think we can do business together. Oh yeah, and bring some of those flashlight pens with you.

Johnny Ronzoni

cab slowly rounded the corner of the dark empty street, then c a m e t o a s t o p u n d e r a d i m streetlight. The cab driver was too scared to go any further, so he let Al out and screeched off before Al could pay for his fare. The full moon shone brightly against a clear black night sky that was splattered with twinkling stars. Al walked alone. The only sound he heard was the clip-clop of his own footsteps, yet he felt he was being followed. He quickened his pace. Al stopped at the huge, ornate, locked iron gates. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a bright bolt of lightning lit up the sky, followed by a loud clap of thunder. Then nothing more . . . only silence. Al pushed on the ivory intercom button with a shivering finger and waited. A deep voice answered through the intercom box. Al identified himself and announced that he had an appointment with Michael Jackson. A hidden surveillance camera focused in on Al’s lone figure. Then, with a clank, the huge wrought-iron gates swung open. The deep voice commanded A l t o enter. He swallowed a frightened gulp, then tiptoed through the gates. As he walked up the long, dark path leading to the manor, Al was being spied on by two blood-red eyes hiding in the bushes. He finally arrived at the huge wooden front door. Al grasped the bronze Grammy door knocker and hit the door, the loud banging echoed through the cavernous

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halls of the huge house. The door creaked open, and Al stood face to face with a very scary looking butler with a slimy snake wrapped around his neck and arms. The butler led Al to a dark room, then pushed him inside and locked the door. Now he stood at the end of a long, dark room. Shafts of diffused light illuminated the chamber, revealing a figure hidden in the shadows at the other end of the long room. The apparition beckoned Al to come forward. Al swallowed another frightened gulp, then took the long, slow walk towards the form. There before him, on an ornate hand-carved throne, sat Michael Jackson, hidden in the darkness. All Al could see was a sequined-gloved hand. The besequined hand gestured for Al to be seated. Al wiped the perspiration from his brow, took a long deep breath, then made his pitch. He explained to Michael that he wanted to do a parody of one of his songs. Eat It would be a takeoff of Michael’s hit Beat It. Of course it would be done in good taste. The gloved hand started to drum its sequined fingers impatiently on the arm of the gilded throne. Al was drenched with sweat. Suddenly the gloved hand stopped, then gave the thumbs-up sign! Al was overjoyed! After the huge success of Eat It, Al became one of the world’s most sought-after celebrities. His face appeared on the cover of every major magazine, and the nation’s newpapers followed his tours on their front pages. His musical parodies had turned in huge profits. The money was rolling in and Al was spending it as fast as he could. Eating in the fast food joints of the past was not replaced with dining in fancy restaurants, though. Al didn’t

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change where he ate; he still dined at the same greasy spoons. But he did have more money, so now he could order triple cheeseburgers and the family-size french fries. His success was not without its problems. Al couldn’t go anywhere without being mobbed and would be forced to dine in the kitchen of his favorite eating houses, then slip out through the back door in order to dodge his fans and the press. Barry Cohen had his hands full arranging for a concert tour that would take Al and his band to every city in the nation. That record-breaking tour would culminate with twenty-seven sold-out performances in the entertainment capital of the world, Las Vegas. The Ronzoni Record Company set up a press reception to wine and dine all the media people in exchange for a lot of publicity. Johnny and Ronny Ronzoni spared no expense. They laid out an extravagant feast and the press gobbled it up. Finally it was time for the press conference. Al sat alone at a long table. Dozens of microphones were set in front of him. Smoke, the press, and an air of excitement filled the room. Everyone was anxious for a story. Then Al made the controversial statement that some thought would be his downfall. He claimed that he was bigger than the Partridge Family. Needless to say, this statement ignited a tremendous controversy. Partridge Family fans and followers called for a worldwide boycott on all of Al’s records. Only after many frustrating days of this did Al call for another press conference to rectify this bad situation. He explained that by saying he was “bigger than the Partridge Family,”

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he only meant that he was taller than any of them. He pulled out a chart which illustrated the heights of all of the family members, and sure enough, he was taller than each Partridge. Meanwhile, even as he was enjoying the results of his newfound stardom, success was beginning to change Al. He was starting to show signs of burnout.

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Why We Like Al We i r d A l i s o u r h e r o. H e ’ s a party animal, a real p a r t y d u d e. We p a r t i e d with him once, and man, w h a t a p a r t y m o n s t e r. H e y, d o y o u w a n t t o party? Oh, don’t get us w r o n g, t h e r e ’ s m o r e t o life than just partying. We a l l h a v e g o o d j o b s. Ye a h w e ’ r e t h e b o a r d o f directors at partying.

First there was the Motown sound, then the disco sound, and now there is the Al sound. Al’s introduction of the accordion to rock and roll music has had a tremendous impact on contemporar y pop culture. I think he was right when he said he was bigger than the Partridge Family. People who criticized him were wrong. And another thing: Al is a lot bigger than a lot of stuff, but I’d better keep my mouth shut or I’ll start up another raging controversy.

Al is my idol, and I want to be just like him when I grow up. I’m trying to learn to play the accordion, too, except I keep getting parts of my body caught in the bellows. Get Down Magazine

Certified Public Accountants Established 1929

Dear Al, My secretary told me you stopped by the office and dropped off a grocery bag of receipts from your tour.

This brown bag turned out to be full of more than

just receipts. A complete accounting of each individual food wrapper is unnecessary.

Therefore there is no need to

save empty candy bar wrappers, empty pizza boxes and crushed soda pop cans.

The store receipt is all we need.

Thanks for your help. Furthermore there are some questionable expenses submitted for reimbursement.

Here is the list:

One hot dog stand with multi-color umbrella. Five dozen terry cloth robes with the monogram “Al”. Ten dozen assorted posters. Lava lamps in a variety of shapes and colors. One carton of toy dinosaurs. Six dozen towels with the monogram “Al”. Ten dozen assorted magazines with one magazine rack. Various Yoda sheets and pillow cases. Limousine service for someone named Sugar. Give me a telephone call when you have the time. Best personal regards,

Mortie Cash

Yankland ....................

The Shrubbery Is Shaped Like Food! Set in the plush, rolling, grassy hills of a very exclusive and expensive section of Lynwood, California, is Yankland, the palatial estate owned by pop star “Weird Al” Yankovic. Yankland is a luxurious fortyroom mansion set on fifty acres of land surrounded by unusual topiary. The shrubs and trees around Yankland are all trimmed into the shapes of foods like hot dogs, french fries, and fried chicken! These sculptured bushes fence off Al’s

accordion-shaped swimming pool. This extraordinary estate is Weird Al’s personal hideaway. A l even has a recording studio at Yankland, so he never has to leave home. Yankland was worth one million dollars, but Al negotiated a deal whereby he would trade a truckload of halfeaten hot dogs, bologna sandwiches, used bedsheets, wet towels, and other valuable Al memorabilia for the deed to the mansion.

Woodstock at Yankland

Behind the main house, Al built an outdoor concert stage complete with festival sound system.

Welcome Aboard Al’s Airline!

Yankland has a private landing strip where Al keeps his personal jet airplane.

How About a Dip in the AccordionShaped Pool?

Each of the ten toilets at Yankland are tiled so they are acoustically perfect, a throwback to the days when Al used to record in the bathroom. Pop star “Weird Al” Yankovic loves cars and even has a fleet of limousines. Al is sometimes driven around his huge Yankland estate by one of his chauffeurs just to go for a ride!

Al’s true love is the very first car he ever owned, kept with the other exotic autos in the Yankland automobile museum, which is closed to the public.

In the huge baroque ballroom at Yankland, Weird Al often throws lavish parties for hundreds of his closest friends. These parties sometimes go on for days.

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Al pampers himself in his own plush private wing, set off from the rest of the house and off limits to guests.

THE MIDNIGHT STAR

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ll of his good fortune took a turn for the worse and led to a dark period in Al’s life. He was looking for something more than tremendous wealth, the smashing success, his fragrant following of fanatic female fans . . . wait . . . no, that’s correct, he was looking for more than all of that. After much expostulation, he expounded his expressed conclusion that his exploited existential experience was in an explicit state of exigency and he needed to no longer extentuate, but to extirpate his externalism and also needed some extra exploration for an explanation, if it was explicable at all. Al was in a confused state. Who was he? Why was he? Where was he going, what was the quickest route, and what was he supposed to do once he got there?

Al tuned out, and dropped out. He looked everywhere, but couldn’t find himself anywhere, so he turned inward to search for the meaning of his life. This introspective period of Al’s life spawned the highly personal and emotionally charged album entitled Me, Myself and I. This infamous lost album embodied his search for enlightenment. From clairvoyants to fortune tellers to astrologers to mystics, Al was seeking spiritual insight. Through all of his spiritual journey, Al experimented with a variety of recording techniques to intensify his personal expression. Tragically, the Me, Myself and I album was lost forever when the master tapes were accidentally erased as Al absentmindedly carried them through an airport metal detector. We can only guess what impact this album would have had on the world. We will never really know.

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A troubled Al spent most of his time in seclusion at Yankland, talking to mystics and psychics on the telephone.

Al bec am Power e a disciple spread s of the Bub of the ancie ble an nt the m or at le essage acr d tried to oss the ast do wn the la block. nd,

Yoga, of Tofu fe he e te o v li de d of is ame a Al bec ing this perio e this. k r u li d t sa and always

Al discovered his own powers, most of wh mystical ich had no practical use whats oever.

What They Did Before They Made It Big The story of recently disappeared rock star “Weird Al” Yankovic moved NEWSMAKERS reporter Bob Woody to investigate a bit of the popular musician’s background. It seems like every time you turn on the radio you hear another record by “Weird Al” Yankovic. Was he an overnight success? Hardly. Al was an enterprising child with great musical abilities. “Weird Al” Yankovic is still a young man, but even when he was only a child, he was a very popular performer.

Al was a popular young star. He was asked to appear as the entertainment on a luxury ocean liner, and said yes, only if he could bring his family with him.

Have you seen this man? If you are the first to spot the missing Al, you may have already won a cash prize in our Find “Weird Al” Yankovic contest.

Was the Titanic Sunk by a Flying Saucer? And was the captain of the ill-fated ship really a Yeti?

Al played three shows a night, but still had time to play tourist in every port.

What did you do on your summer vacation? Child prodigy Alfred Yankovic treated his family to an ocean cruise.

Was the iceberg that sunk the Titanic really made of ice, or was it a spaceship from Mars crashing in the ocean? Recent information uncovered by top scientists shows that the so called iceberg that sunk the historic Titanic was no iceberg at all and may have been an alien ship on a crash course with the Atlantic Ocean. The flying saucer was probably attracted by the bright lights on the deck of the Titanic and tried to land there. NEWSMAKERS NEWSPAPER

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T H E R O C K R E P O R T E R All the rock and roll news that’s fit to print, man

WEIRD AL ROCKS THE WORLD OF ROCK (Rock Reporter Stu Chicago was invited to be a guest on the “Weird Al” Yankovic tour. In a startling set-back, the tour ended in just a few short days. In his astonishing story, Stu tells us what happened.) “Weird Al” Yankovic rocked the world of rock and roll recently. It came as a surprise to everyone. After a tremendously successful beginning, with five sold-out shows in Los Angeles, the “Weird Al” Yankovic tour set out for other West Coast dates. It was the opportunity of a lifetime to be invited to come along. I was definitely looking forward to the task of traveling on the tour as rock journalist in residence. The comfortable custom coach was rolling along Highway 10 and everyone on board was relaxing. The band (guitarist Jim West, bassist Steve Jay, and drummer Bermuda Schwartz) were all having fun with the amenities on board, and I was going over my tape-recorded notes from the last night’s concert. Then the weird one himself came walking through, smiling as he passed, acting like everything was peachy. He walked up front and sat down next to the driver. He told the driver to pull over, then told everyone on the bus to get off. Everyone was fired! He proclaimed that he would finish the tour alone, that he didn’t need anyone else to help him. He said he didn’t even need the bus! He grabbed his luggage, then took off, walking down the highway on his way to the next show. I followed him and got these incredible photographs.

He just told the driver to pull over, and that was the end of that.

Al walked 35 miles to his next show, then laughed maniacally when he saw his name misspelled on the marquee.

Where is “Weird Al”Yankovic? No one seems to know.

The joke-meister of accordion rock hasn’t been seen or heard from for quite some time. He has literally dropped out of sight. “I don’t think there has been any foul play,” says his manager and confidant Barry Cohen. “A lot of things have happened to Al recently, big things. Under my supervision he became a tremendous success quite quickly. I don’t think he was ready for the big-time.” Maybe Weird Al is just another rock and roll casualty, and has hit rock bottom.

He was in a state of confusion because he had finally hit the big time. “There’s a lot of stress in success. Don’t think it’s all caviar and gravy.” “He got himself involved with a couple of weird groups, you know, holistic people and macrobiotic cults and so forth. I think the only reason he went to those retreats was because he missed his childhood days at summer camp.”

Johnny and Ronny Ronzoni of the Ronzoni record company are very interested in the whereabouts of Weird Al. He still owes the label fifteen more albums.

Weird Al’s manager Barry Cohen thinks Al has been brainwashed by some cult, and wants him back and deprogrammed right away.

THE NATIONAL PEEPER

Al longed for the peaceful days of his childhood, growing up in Lynwood California and playing with his dog China.

Weird Al’s twin brother? This rare photograph is the only existing proof of Weird Al Yankovic’s twin brother. Could Al have gone off in search of his long lost twin brother? Was Weird Al really Weird Al? Or was it his twin brother putting one over on us? Was the whole thing just a hoax?

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he supersonic Concorde touched down at Charles de Gaulle Aeroport. Al fled to Paris to escape the effects of his success. He was as surprised as anyone that he was there. Al was looking for something, but wasn’t quite sure what it was. He was delighted to mingle with the street performers of Paris, and was so taken with the artistry of the mimes, musicians, fire-eaters, and magicians that he strapped on his accordion, placed his beret in front of him, and joined the wonderful cast. He liked to take a spot in front of the little Cafe Surgeles, performing for whatever francs the passersby would drop into his beret. On one Sunday afternoon, a stranger stopped to listen to Al. He stood there for quite some time. After a while, Al felt self-conscious, so he began to pack his things. The handsome Frenchman introduced himself as Jean Jackette and apologized for making Al uncomfortable. He complimented Al on his music and told him he received a deep personal feeling of sadness from his playing. As they sat at a tiny table in the quaint Cafe Surgeles, Al noticed a group of young French girls looking his way, pointing, giggling, and whispering to each other. Al was all too familiar with what was about to happen. The girls got up from their table and walked his way, but then did something unexpected. They ignored Al and rushed over to Jean Jackette, begging him for an autograph. As it turned out, Jean Jackette was a very popular French singer whose

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(From top to bottom): 1 .The friendly people of Calva, France, opened their homes and their hearts to welcome Al. Al spent most of his time living with French singer Jean Jackette and his family in their chateau in the Alps. 2. The Jean Jackette family: Marcel, Christine, Jean, Paulette, Simone, Al, Marie, Yves, and Edithe. In front, dog Dominique. Posed during a Bastille Day picnic in Calva, France.

1.

3. A sad farewell was made more cheerful when Al presented Jean Jackette with a microwave oven to remember him by.

3.

2.

records had sold all over Europe but who wasn’t known in the United States. Jean Jackette’s songs were sad songs. Al told Jean his story, and they spend the afternoon spipping coffee and talking about sadness. Jean explained it all to Al: Life is sad, Love is sad, And if you really think about it, Happiness is sad too. So Jean invited Al to the town of his irth, the little, village of Calva, hidden the Alps. They took a cab to the

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The one and only album Weird Al and Jean Jackette did together during Al’s sojourn in France proved to be Jean Jackette’s introduction to the U.S. marketplace. The song titles include “I Am Happy to Be Sad,” “Theme from the Movie Melancholy House,” “To Smile on the Outside and Cry on the Inside,” and “The Big Smile on My Face Is Merely to Catch the Tears Falling from My Eyes.” Although currently out of print, this record album was Jean’s biggest seller. AI donated all of his royalties to the Calva Fund, an organization dedicated to research for new uses of cheese and cheese food products.

train, the train to a waiting cart, the cart to a couple of bicycles, rode their bikes to a stone path and hiked up the path that wound through the Alps, and finally ended up at Calva. The little village was Al’s Shangri La. The people of Calva embraced him with their friendship. Here he was free to be himself, not the famous “Weird Al” Yankovic, rock and roll legend. No Al addicts on his back, no more nosey reporters waiting to print all the worst before it even happened. In the peaceful village of Calva, with his new friends, Al had time to heal. And eat a lot of cheese.

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After what could be called nothing but a meteoric rise to fame, “Weird Al Yankovic” mysteriously dropped out of sight. What happened to him is now reported in this exclusive inter view. We at Squeezebox Magazine are ver y pleased that “Weird Al” has chosen Squeezebox for his first interview in quite a while.

SB: Why do they call you “Weird Al”? AL: I dunno. I guess people are just basically cool. SB: What’s the weirdest thing ou’ve ever done on the road? AL: Well, sometimes, we really get crazy. . . I remember one time we made our beds and folded the towels before the maid got to our rooms. It must have really freaked her out. SB: Where do you get the ideas to write such funny songs? AL: I dunno. SB: You’ve done record albums, . . . television, videos, world tours . . . any movies in your future? AL: Well, I thought I’d go see

GHOSTBUSTERS again next week. SB: Al, you’ve made the accordion the number one rock and roll instrument in the world today, redefined the state of popular music, given millions of people a reason to live. How do you feel about that? AL: Okay. SB: If you could be any animal in the world, what would you be? AL: A kangaroo. SB: How do you feel about. . . AL: Wait, wait, not a kangaroo, an ocelot. Yeah, that’s it an ocelot. SB: You’re probably the world’s foremost rock and roll accordion player. How did you manage to pick up the instrument? AL: By the straps. SB: Let me ask you a personal question. . . LR: Excuse me, but there’s a phone call for you. SB: Would you excuse me for a moment? AL: Sure. LR: Hi. AL: Hello. LR: I think you’re great.

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AL: Thank you. LR: I think you’re cute. AL: Thank you. LR: I think you have a hot bod. AL: Why, uh, thank you. LR: Do you think I have a hot bod? AL: Uh . . . LR: Here take a better look. My body is hot for you. SB: Sorry I was gone so long. That will be all Miss Ryan. LR: Bye. AL: Bye. SB: Well that’s about all the questions I wanted to ask. But before I go I gotta tell you about a great idea for a song. AL: Oh no. SB: It’s real funny. What you do is you do a parody of THRILLER and call it DRILLER. About a dentist. Get it? You could even get Vincent Price to do it. AL: Uh, I really have to go now. SB: Okay. Thanks again for the interview. Oh, one last thing. AL: What? SB: Could you lend me five dollars? AL: No.

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Another One Rides the Bus (Sung to the tune of Queen’s “Another One Bites the Dust”) Writers: J. Deacon/Al Yankovic

Ridin’ In a bus down the boulevard And the place was pretty packed Couldn’t find a seat, so I had to stand With the perverts in the back It was smellln’ like a locker room There was junk all over the floor We’re already packed in like sardines But we’re stoppin’ to pick up more . . . look out! Another one rides the bus another one rides the bus And another comes on and another comes on Another one rides the bus Hey! He’s gonna sit by you Another one rides the bus There’s a suitcase pokin’ me in the ribs There’s an elbow in my ear There’s a smelly old bum

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standin’ next to me He hasn’t showered in a year Well, I think I’m missin’ a contact lens I think my wallet’s gone And I think this bus is stoppin’ again To let a couple more freaks get on . . . look out! (Repeat Chorus) Another one rides the bus Another one rides the bus—ow! Another one rides the bus— hey! hey! Another one rides the bus— hey-y-y-y-y! The window doesn’t open and the fan is broke And my face Is turnin’ blue I haven’t been in a crowd like this Since I went to see The Who Well, I shoulda got off a couple miles ago But I couldn’t get to the door There isn’t any room for me to breathe Now we’re gonna pick up more, yeah! (Repeat Chorus) © 1984 Beechwood Music. Used by

permission.

Ricky (Sung to the tune of Toni Basil’s “Mickey”) Writers: N. Chinn/M. Chapman/Al Yankovic/H. Adamson/E. Daniel

Hey Lucy! I’m home! Oh, Ricky, you’re so fine, you’re so fine you blow my mind Hey, Ricky! Hey, Ricky! Oh, Lucy, you’re so fine, you’re so fine you blow my mind Hey, Lucy! Hey, Lucy! Oh, Ricky, you’re so fine, you play your bongos all the time Hey, Ricky! Hey, Ricky! Oh, Lucy, you’re so fine, how I love to hear you whine Hey, Lucy! Hey, Ricky! You always play your conga drums, you think you got the right You wake up little Ricky in the middle of the night Stop shakin’ your maracas now and just turn out the light. Ricky! I’m sick of Fred and Ethel always comin’ over here ‘Cause Fred eats all our pretzel sticks and then he spills his beer Why don’t you serve your casserole and make them disappear, Lucy?

Oh, Ricky. what’s a girl like me supposed to do? You really drive me wild when you sing your Ba-ba-lu Oh, Lucy, you’re so dizzy, don’t you have a clue? Well, here’s to you, Lucy I love you too, Lucy, too, Lucy . . . let’s Ba-ba-lu, Lucy Hey, Ricky! You’re always playln’ at the club. you never let me go I’m beggin’ and I’m pleadin’ but you always tell me no Oh please, honey, please, let me be in your show. Ricky! Waaa . . . You always burn the roast and you drop the dishes too You iron my new shirt and you burn a hole right through You’re such a crazy redhead I just don’t know what to do, Lucy! Oh, Ricky. what a pity, don’t you understand That every day’s a rerun and the laughter ’s always canned Oh, Lucy, I’m the Latin leader of the band So here’s to you, Lucy Let’s Ba-ba-lu, Lucy, do, Lucy . . . everybody rumba! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha © 1983 Chinnichap Pub. Co./Holy Moley Music/Ear Booker Music/Desilu Music Pub. Used by permission.

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Happy birthday! Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday! Happy birthday to you! Well, there’s a punk in the alley and he’s lookin’ for a fight There’s an Arab on the corner buyin’ everything in sight There’s a mother in the ghetto with another mouth to feed Seems that everywhere you look today there’s misery and greed I guess you know the earth is gonna crash into the sun But that’s no reason why we shouldn’t have a little fun So if you think it’s scary, if it’s more than you can take Just blow out the candles, and have a piece of cake! Happy birthday! Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday! Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday! Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday! Happy birthday to you! And a pinch to grow an inch! © 1983 Holy Moley Music/Ear Booker

Music. Used by permission

Buckingham Blues Writer: A l Ya n k o v i c

Happy Birthday! Writer: Al Yankovic

Happy birthday! Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday! Happy birthday to you! Well, It’s time to celebrate your birthday, it happens every year We’ll eat a lot of broccoli and drink a lot of beer You should be good and happy that there’s somethin’ you can eat A million people every day are starvin’ in the street Your daddy’s in the gutter with the wretched and the poor Your mama’s in the kitchen with a can of Cycle Four There’s garbage in the water, there’s poison in the sky I guess it won’t be long before

Gonna tell you a story about Chuck and Diane we’re all gonna die! Couple British kids from the Happy birthday! Happy palace at Buckingham Chuckie wants to grow up and birthday to you! be a polo star Happy birthday! Happy And ride his little horsies all birthday to you! around the backyard Well, what’s the matter, little Oh yeah . . . you know they friend, you think this party is really paid their dues the pits? I said hey, lawdy mama . . . they Enjoy it while you can . . . we’ll got them Buckingham blues soon be blown to bits! Now Chuckie goes hunting and The monkeys in the Pentagon leaves Diane alone are gonna cook our goose Their finger’s on the button, all So she fixes her hair and she talks on the princess phone they need is an excuse Chuckle’s still tryin’ to figure It doesn’t take a military out what his job’s supposed to genius to see We’ll all be crispy critters after be And Diane’s the fashion leader World War III of the aristocracy There’s nowhere you can run I say hey, Lady Di . . . tell me to, nowhere you can hide When they drop the big one. we where’d you get them shoes? Oh, well, hey nonny nonny . . . all get fried looks like you got them Come on, boys and girls, sing Buckingham blues along, okay?

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Aw, bein’ heir to the throne, well, it must be awful hard Gotta pose for pictures out on the front yard And Lady Di, well, she must have it pretty rough Gotta hang around the house all day makin’ babies and stuff Another game of croquet, then they’re off on a Caribbean cruise Well, hey bob-a-re-bop . . . they really got them Buckingham blues They don’t serve no Twinkies with their afternoon tea Never had a dinner made by Chef Boy-ar-Dee Bein’ in the spotlight is a hard life to choose Diane drops half a pound, it’s on the six o’clock news Oh yeah . . . those kids have really paid their dues Aw, what a royal pain it is when you got them Buckingham blues © 1983 Holy Moley Music/Ear Booker Music. Used by permission.

The Check’s In the Mail Writer: Al Yanko vic

Well, hey, how ya doin’ Have a seat, have a drink Boy, it’s good to see ya, what can I say? Wo, sorry, gotta run, we’ll get together again Say, what was your name anyway? Well, we’re workin’ on the problem We’ll get back to you soon (yeah) But don’t try to call me I’ll be in a meeting every afternoon For a year, maybe longer, keep in touch Thanks for droppin’ by and have a nice day The check’s in the mail (hey!) you’re beautiful Don’t ever change (You know what I mean) My girl will call your girl We’ll talk, we’ll do lunch Leave a message on my machine So baby, won’t you sign on the dotted line

I’m gonna make your dreams come true The check’s in the mail Would I lie to you? Well, hey, wait a minute Whattsa matter, hold on You want me to fork over the loot? You say you hate my guts You wanna take me to court And you got yourself a lawyer with a three-piece suit? Well, I’m proud to say you’re not The only critic of mine (yeah) So if you wanna sue me I’m afraid you’re gonna have to wait in line Take a number, thanks for calling Who loves ya baby, don’t forget to read the fine print (Repeat Chorus) The check’s In the mall, (hey!) you’re beautiful Don’t ever change (you know what I mean) Why don’t you leave a message with my girl I’ll have lunch with your machine So baby, won’t you sign on the dotted line I’m gonna make your dreams come true The check’s in the mail Would I lie to you? © 1983 Holy Moley Music/Ear Booker

Music. Used by permission.

I’ll Be Mellow When I’m Dead Writer: Al Yanko vic

I don’t care about your karma I don’t care about what’s hip No space cadet’s gonna tell me what to do I won’t swim in your Jacuzzi You can’t make me settle down I’d rather kick and jump and bite and scratch And scream until I’m blue I may as well be hyper As long as I’m still around Cause I’ll have lots of time to be laid back When I’m six feet under ground I’ll be mellow when I’m dead I’ll be mellow when I’m dead I’ll be mellow when I’m dead I’ll be mellow when I’m dead

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I’ll be mellow when I’m dead I’ll be mellow when I’m dead When are you cosmic cowboys Gonna get it through your head I’ll be mellow when I’m dead I’ll be mellow when I’m dead I’ll be mellow when I’m dead I can’t stand the smell of incense I don’t really like to jog No Joni Mitchell eight-tracks in my car I hate anything organic Even health food makes me sick You won’t catch me sipping Perrier Down in some sushi bar I tell you, now’s the time to go for All the gusto you can grab You’ll have plenty of time to be low-key When you’re laid out on the slab (Repeat Chorus) I don’t want no part of that vegetarian scene I won’t buy me a pair of designer jeans No redwood hot tub to my name I got all that I want, and if it’s all the same to you I don’t need a course in selfawareness To find out who I am And I’d rather have a Big Mac or Jumbo Jack Than all the bean sprouts in Japan! So don’t ask me what I’m into I don’t need to prove I’m cool I’ll break your arm if you ask me what’s my sign I won’t tell you where my head’s at I don’t need to see no shrink Psychosis may be in this year But I’m really not that kind And I’m in no hurry to be casual In fact I think I’ll wait Until I’m pushing up the daisies (Like, wow, man, can you relate?) I’ll be mellow when I’m dead I’ll be mellow when I’m dead I’ll be mellow when I’m dead . . . © 1983 Holy Moley Music/Ear Booker Music. Used by permission.

I Love Rocky Road (Sung to the tune of Joan Jett and the Blackhearts’ “I Love Rock and Roll”) Writers: A. Merrill/J. Hooker/ Al Yankovic

I hear those ice cream bells and I start to drool Keep a couple quarts in my locker at school Yeah. but chocolate’s gettin’ old Vanilla just leaves me cold There’s just one flavor good enough for me, yeah, me Don’t gimme no crummy taste spoon, I know what I need, baby I love rocky road So won’t you go and buy half-agallon, baby I love rocky road So have another triple scoop with me They tell me Ice cream junkies are all the same All the soda jerkers know my name When their supply is gone

Then I’ll be movin’ on But I’ll be back on Monday afternoon, you’ll see Another truckload’s comin’ in for me, all for me, I’m singin’ I love rocky road So won’t you go and buy half-agallon, baby I love rocky road So have another triple scoop with me When I’m all alone I just grab myself a cone And If I get fat and lose my teeth, that’s fine with me Just lock me in the freezer and throw away the key. singin’ I love rocky road So won’t you go and buy half-agallon, baby I love rocky road So have another triple scoop with me

© 1984 Finchley Music Corp. Used by permission.

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Gotta Boogie Writers: Al Yankovic and Joe Ear l ey

Gotta boogie . . . gotta boogie . . . Gotta boogie . . . gotta boogie . . . I gotta boogie! (Gotta boogie) Gotta boogie! (Gotta boogie) I gotta boogie! (Gotta boogie) Gotta boogie on my finger and I can’t shake it off! Well, I went out to a party just the other night I was jammin’ to the music, I was feelin’ all right I was burnin’ up the floor like a disco maniac When my woman said “Baby, why’s your hand behind your back?” Gotta boogie! (Gotta boogie) I said boogle! (Gotta boogie) I gotta boogie! (Gotta boogie) Gotta boogie on my finger and I can’t shake it off I can’t pick it off! (Oh, no) I can’t flick it off! (Oh, no) I sure ain’t gonna lick it off! (Oh, no) So I guess I’m gonna have to learn to live with it I gotta boogie! (Gotta boogie, uh huh, he gotta boogie) Gotta boogie! (Gotta boogie, uh huh, he gotta boogie) Gotta boogie! (Gotta boogie, uh huh, he gotta boogie) Gotta boogie on my finger and I can’t shake it off! Boogie! Gotta boogie . . . Boogie! Hey, you wanna boogie? No, man, I don’t want no boogie! Wanna Boogie? Get that boogie out of my face!

Do any of you wanna boogie? No!!! Gotta boogie on my finger Gotta boogie on my finger Gotta boogie on my finger and I can’t shake it off! © 1984 Screen Gems—EMI Music/Holy

Moley Music/Ear Booker Music. Used by permission.

Mr. Frump in the Iron Lung Writer: Al Yankovic

I visit Mr. Frump in the hospital I see him ‘most every day And when I see Mr. Frump in his iron lung This is what I hear him say (Iron Lung Solo) You know, Mr. Frump is my very best friend He’s never a chump or a tease He never tells me lies and best of all He never disagrees I bring him candy and flowers every afternoon Sit down by his side and say “Hi” And then I ask him his opinion of the world situation And I wait for Mr. Frump’s reply And Mr. Frump would say (Iron Lung Solo) Well, unfortunately, soon it came to be Mr. Frump’s dying day So now I bring to you the very last thing That Mr. Frump had to say (Iron Lung Solo) Amen © 1983 Holy Moley Music/Ear Booker

Music. Used by permission.

My Bologna (Sung to the tune of the Knack’s “My Sharona”) Writers: D. Fieger/B. Averre/ Al Yankovic

Oooh, my little hungry one, hungry one Open up a package of my bologna Oooh, I think the toast is done, the toast is done Top it with a little of my bologna

Never gonna stop, eat it up Such a tasty snack I always eat too much and throw up But I’ll soon be back for My my my yi yi wooo! M-M-M-My bologna Spreadin’ on the mustard now, a-show me how Spread it on a little of this bologna Hopin’ that we don’t run out, don’t run out If we do I’m sure that I’ll miss

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bologna (Repeat Chorus) Goin’ to the market now, market now I’m the city’s biggest bologna buyer Walkin’ down the shopping aisles, shopping aisles Fillin’ up my basket with Oscar Mayer (Repeat Chorus) © 1984 Eighties Music/Smallhill

Music. Used by permission.

Stop Draggin’ My Car Around (Sung to the tune of Steule Nicks’ “Stop Draggin’ My Heart Around”) Writers: T. Petty/M. Campbell/ Al Yankovic

Had to park my car for just five minutes I had to go inside to use the phone When I came back again my car was gone, well I didn’t know It was a loading zone What a bummer, I was so brought down I had to chase that tow truck all over town, yellin’ Stop draggin’ my . . . Stop draggin’ my . . . Stop draggin’ my car around! Took my baby to the local disco I was jumpin’ like a maniac But the owner came and pulled me off the floor, then he He took me to his little office in the back He said, “I really like your snaggletooth necklace Your pants are groovy and your hair’s okay But, man. that car of yours is so uncool Like wow, I’m sorry, but we towed it away!” Stop draggin’ my . . . Stop draggin’ my . . . Stop draggin’ my car around! Now I’m at home, I’m watchin’ “Gilligan’s Island”

Guess it’s time to trade my old car in For twenty dollars and my ‘64 Plymouth Maybe I could get a secondhand Schwinn Look out the window, there’s a tow truck in my driveway I grabbed the driver and asked him why He said, “I’m sorry, kid, you’re late with the payments It’s time to kiss your little car goodbye” Stop draggin’ my . . . Stop draggin’ my . . . Stop draggin’ my car around! © 1984 Gone Gator Music/Wild Gator Music. Used by permission.

Such a Groovy Guy

Writer: Al Yankovic

I got my alligator boots, I wear my pants skin tight I wear my dark sunglasses in the middle of the night And when I look in the mirror, oh, It’s such an awesome sight It makes me want to kneel down and pray I’m so adorable and charming, I’m sure that you can see And everybody’s always tryin’ to hang around with me They tell me I’m the greatest, and It’s hard to disagree ‘Cause I’m so perfect in every way And I’m so cute, I can hardly stand it And I’m so handsome, honey, I could just die

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I know you’ll never be as wonderful as me, but at least you can try . . . ‘Cause I’m such a groovy guy Yeah, I’m such a groovy guy I’m such a groovy guy Yeah, I’m such a groovy guy Baby, are you in the mood for a little romance? Well, for starters I could pour some chocolate pudding down your pants And then attach electrodes to your brain and watch you dance Well, golly, wouldn’t that be fun? Oh, and then I might decide to tie you up with dental floss I’ll make you wear a harness and I’ll show you who’s the boss Of course. If you refuse, well honey, it’s your loss I mean, I don’t do this with just anyone So baby, how can you say it’s all over? So how can you tell me goodbye? So now you tell me that you’re leavin’ me for good, and all I wanna know Is, why? I mean, after all, I’m really such a groovy guy Yeah, I’m such a groovy guy I’m such a groovy guy Yeah, I’m such a groovy guy I mean you could do worse © 1983 Holy Moley Music/Ear Booker Music. Used by permission.

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Eat It (Sung to the tune of Michael Jackson’s “Beat It”) Writers: M. Jackson/Al Yankovic

How come you’re always such a fussy young man? Don’t want no Captain Crunch, don’t want no Raisin Bran Well, don’t you know that other kids are starving in Japan? So eat It . . . just eat it Don’t wanna argue, I don’t wanna debate Don’t wanna hear about what kind of food you hate You won’t get no dessert ‘til you clean off your plate So eat it . . . don’t you tell me you’re full Just eat it . . . eat it . . . Get yourself an egg and beat it Have some more chicken, have some more pie It doesn’t matter if it’s boiled or fried Just eat it . . . just eat it . . . Just eat it . . . just eat it . . . Your table manners are a cryin’ shame You’re playin’ with your food, this ain’t some kind of game Now If you starve to death, you’ll just have yourself to blame So eat it . . . just eat it . . . You better listen, better do what you’re told You haven’t even touched your

tuna casserole You better chow down, or it’s gonna get cold So eat it . . . I don’t care if you’re full Just eat it . . . eat it . . . Open up your mouth and feed it Have some more yogurt, have some more spam It doesn’t matter if it’s fresh or canned Just eat it . . . eat it . . . Don’t you make me repeat it Have a banana, have a whole bunch It doesn’t matter what you had for lunch Just eat it, eat it, eat it, eat it . . . Eat it, eat it, eat it, eat it . . . Eat it . . . eat it . . . If it’s gettin’ cold, reheat it Have a big dinner, have a light snack If you don’t like it, you can’t send it back Just eat it . . . eat it . . . Get yourself an egg and beat it Have some more chicken, have some more pie It doesn’t matter if it’s boiled or fried Just eat it . . . eat it . . . © 1984 Mijac Music/WarnerTammerlane Music. Used by permission.

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Midnight Star Writer: Al Yankovic

I was waiting in the express lane with my twelve items or less At the checkout counter at the local grocery store I was only passin’ by, but a paper caught my eye And I learned a few things I never knew before It said, “Your pet may be an extraterrestial” It said, “The ghost of Elvis is living in my den You can learn to cope with stress And you can beat the IRS And the incredible frog boy is on the loose again!” Oh, Midnight Star It’s in the weekly Midnight

Star Aliens from outer space are sleeping in my car Midnight Star, I wanna know, I wanna know Eat jelly doughnuts and lose twenty pounds a day Hear the story of the man born without a head And top psychics all agree that the telephone company Will have a brand new service that lets you talk to the dead Oh, Midnight Star You can believe it if you read it in the weekly Midnight Star They’re keeping Hitlers brain alive inside a jar Midnight Star, I wanna know. I wanna know Tell me, tell me, tell me how to make my bust line grow

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Midnight Star, I wanna know . . . Oh, Midnight Star Well, don’t you know that I read it, I read it in the weekly Midnight Star The UFOs have landed and we’ll tell you where they are Midnight Star, I wanna know, I wanna know, Midnight Star Well, you can read all about it in the weekly Midnight Star You can use your ESP to learn to play guitar I wanna know, I wanna know I wanna know, I wanna know I wanna know, I wanna know I wanna know, I wanna know Inquiring minds like mine wanna know . . . © 1984 Holy Moley Music/Ear Booker Music. Used by permission.

The Brady Bunch Sung to the tune of Men Without Hats’ “Safety Dance” Writers: Ivan/Al Yankovic/ S. Schwartz/F. DeVol

You can watch Mister Rogers You can watch Three’s Company And you can turn on Fame Or the Newlywed Game Or the Addams Family Say, you can watch Barney Miller And you can watch your MTV And you can watch Till your eyes fall out of your head That’ll be okay with me And you can watch (TV) You can watch Johnny Carson You can watch Phil Donahue And you can use TV Guide to help you decide With a capsulized review Say, you can watch 60 Minutes Even Captain Kangaroo But there’s only one set, so whatever you watch Well, you know I gotta watch it Too A-say, give it up. give it up Television’s taking its toll That’s enough, that’s enough Gimme the remote control I’ve been nice . . . I’ve been good Please don’t do this to me Turn it off, turn it off I don’t wanna have to see . . . the Brady Bunch Not the Brady Bunch Well, the Brady Bunch Yeah, the Brady Bunch It’s the story of a lovely lady Who was bringing up three very lovely girls All of them had hair of gold, like their mother The youngest one in curls It’s the story of a man named Brady Who was busy with three boys of his own They were four men living all together A-yeah, but they were all alone Till then one day, a-one day When the lady met this fellow And they knew, and they knew It was much more than a Hunch That the group, a-this group

Must somehow form a family That’s the way, that’s the way That’s the way they all became the Brady Bunch Well, the Brady Bunch Yeah, the Brady Bunch Well, It’s the Brady Bunch Oh, it’s the Brady Bu-unch . . . © 1984 MCA-Unicity Music/Addax Music/Off Backstreet Music. Used by permission.

Buy Me a Condo Writer: Al Yankovic

Gonna buy me a condo Gonna buy me a Culsinart Get de wall-to-wall carpeting Get de wallet full o’ credit cards I gonna buy me a condo Never have to mow de lawn Gonna get me de T-shirt Wid de alligator on Wo-o-o, used to live in Jamaica But I don’t live dere no more Had to change me lifestyle Do tings I never done before So now I’m just a lonely Rastaman Living in dis American town

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Gonna sell me Bob Marley records Gonna get me some Jackson Browne (Repeat Chorus) Wo, gonna cut off me dreadlocks T’row away all me ganja I’ll have a Tupperware party Maybe join me a health spa I’ll get a bowl of plastic fruit And a microwave oven, too Then I’ll have de neighbors Over For a weenie barbecue (Repeat Chorus) Ain’t gonna work in de field no more Gonna be Amway distributor Ain’t gonna work in de field no more, no, no Gonna be Amway distributor Jah, jah, jah Life Is so very hard I need a jah, jah. Jah Jacuzzi in my backyard (Repeat Chorus) © 1984 Holy Moley Music/Ear Booker Music. Used by permission.

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I Lost on Jeopardy (Sung to the tune of Greg Kihn’s “Jeopardy”) Writers: G. Kihn/S. Wright/Al Yankovic

Ohhh... I was there to match my intellect on national TV Against a plumber and an architect, both with a Ph.D. I was tense, I was nervous I guess it just wasn’t my night Art Fleming gave the answers, oh, but I couldn’t get the questions right-ite-ite I lost on Jeopardy, baby, oooh I lost on Jeopardy, baby, oooh Well I knew I was in trouble now, my hope of winning sank ‘Cause I got the Daily Double now, and then my mind went blank I took Potpourri for one hundred, and then my head started to spin Well, I’m givin’ up, Don Pardo, just tell me now what I didn’t win, yeah, yeah I lost on Jeopardy, baby, oooh I lost on Jeopardy, baby, oooh

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That’s right Al— you lost! And let me tell you what you didn’t win: A twenty-volume set of the Encyclopedia International, a case of Turtle Wax, and a year’s supply of Rice-A-Roni, the San Francisco treat. But that’s not all! You also made yourself look like a jerk in front of millions of people, and you brought shame and disgrace on your family name for generations to come. You don’t get to come back tomorrow. You don’t even get a lousy copy of our home game. You’re a complete loser! Don’t know what I was thinkin’ of, I guess I just wasn’t too bright Well, I sure hope I do better next weekend on The Price Is Right-ite-ite I lost on Jeopardy, baby, oooh I lost on Jeopardy, baby, oooh I lost on Jeopardy, baby . . . © 1984 Rye Boy Music/Well Received Music. All Rights Reserved. Used by permission.

Mr. Popeil Writer: A l Yank ovic

I need a Vegematic! I need a Pocket Fisherman! I need a handy appliance That’ll scramble an egg while it’s still inside its shell! Operators are standing by . . . How does that make you feel? Help me . . . Mr. Popeil! I wanna shine some pennies! I wanna mend some leather! I wanna Krazy-Glue my head to the bottom of a big steel girder! Please, no CODs . . . Don’t miss out on this deal Aw, help me . . . Mr. Popeil! Help me . . . Mr. Popeil! Mr. Popeil! Mr. Popeil! Ohhhhhhh It slices, it dices . . . Look at that tomato! You could even cut a tin can with it But you wouldn’t want to! Mr. Popeil, I’m in trouble Need your assistance on the double Oh no! How am I gonna make My old vinyl car top look like new? Mr. Popeil! Tell me, what am I supposed to do? Mr. Popeil! Mr. Popeil! Now how much would you pay? But wait, there’s more! It’s not sold in any store! Now how much would you pay? Don’t answer yet Just look what else you get! Now how much would you pay? If you order today You get a Ginsu knife and a Smokeless Ashtray! Now how much would you pay? Now how much would you pay? Mr. Popeil, Mr. Popeil Mr. Popeil, Mr. Popeil Mr. Popeil, Mr. Popeil Mr. Popeil, Mr. Popeil Make me buy a Garden Weasel! Make me buy a Bamboo

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Steamer! Make me take advantage Of this amazing TV offer! Call our toll-free number We’ll make you such a deal Aw, help me! Mr. Popeil . . . I want it! Mr. Popell . . . Well, I need it! Mr. Popeil . . . I got to got to got to have it! Mr. Popeil! Mr. Popeil! Hey! © 1984 Holy Moley Music/Ear Booker Music. Used by permission.

That Boy Could Dance

He got his own dance studio He got a teeny bopper fan club Yeah, he got his own TV show Now he owns half of Montana They all call him Diamond Jim And you know I’d do anything if I could be just like him ‘Cause that boy could dance © 1984 Holy Moley Music/Ear Booker Music. Used by permission.

Theme from Rocky XIII (Sung to the tune of Survivor’s “Eye of the Tiger”) Writers: F. Sullivan/J. Peterik/ Al Yankovic

Fat and weak, what a disgrace Guess the champ got too lazy We all used to call him Jimmy Ain’t gonna fly now, he’s just the Geek He was a dumb-lookin’ scrawny takin’ up space Sold his gloves, threw his eggs little four-eyed freak down the drain He never used to hang around But he’s no bum, he works with the guys down the street He’d just sit in the comer He bought the neighborhood attracting the flies deli He wasn’t much to look at Back on his feet, now he’s He never was very bright choppin’ up meat But at least there was one Come Inside, maybe you’ll hear thing that he could do all right him say . . . That boy could dance Try the rye or the kaiser, That boy could dance, yeah they’re on special tonight He was kind of a jerk, he was If you want, you can have an kind of a bore appetizer But the women would scream You might like our salami and when he walked in the door the liver’s all right ‘Cause one thing I can tell you And they’d really go well with for sure the rye or the kaiser That boy could dance Picking teams, he would always Never eats while on the job He heard it’s good to stay be last hungry He couldn’t run very far, he But he makes a pretty mean couldn’t think very fast shish kabob If he was on your side, you’d Have a taste, they were made always lose fresh today That guy had a problem even tying his shoes Try the rye or the kaiser or the He never passed his driver’s wheat or the white test Maybe I can suggest an He was always afraid of cars appetizer And he had a complexion that Stay away from the tuna, it resembled the surface of Mars smells funny tonight But you just can’t go wrong But that boy could dance with the rye or the kaiser That boy could dance, yeah Well, his hair was a mess, and So today, his deli comes first his clothes didn’t fit Still he dreams of his past days He’d smell pretty bad and he’d of glory drool just a bit Goes In the back and beats up But you gotta admit . . . on the liverwurst Boy, that boy could dance All the while, you can still hear him say . . . Now that boy is much older

Writer: A l Yankovic

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It’s the rye or the kaiser, it’s the thrill of one bite Let me please be your catering advisor If you want substitutions, I won’t put up a fight You can have your roast beef on the rye . . . or the kaiser The rye or the kaiser . . . The rye or the kaiser . . . The rye or the kaiser . . . © 1984 Rude Music/Warner Bros. Music Corp./Easy Action Music/Holy Moley Music/Ear Booker Music. Used by permission.

Nature Trail to Hell Writer: A l Yankovic

Coming this Christmas to a theatre near you The most horrifying film to hit the screen There’s a homicidal maniac who finds a Cub Scout troop And he hacks up two or three in every scene Please don’t reveal the secret ending to your friends Don’t spoil the big surprise You won’t believe your eyes When you see . . . Nature Trail to Hell Nature Trail to Hell Nature Trail to Hell In 3-D Nature Trail to Hell Nature Trail to Hell Nature Trail to Hell In 3-D See severed heads that almost fall right in your lap See that bloody hatchet coming right at you No, you’ll never see hideous effects like these again ‘Til we bring you “Nature Trail to Hell— Part 2" So bring the kids along, it’s good clean family fun What have you got to lose If you like the six o’clock news Then you’ll love . . . Nature Trail to Hell Nature Trail to Hell Nature Trail to Hell In 3-D Nature Trail to Hell Nature Trail to Hell Nature Trail to Hell In 3-D © 1984 Holy Moley Music/Ear Booker Music. Used by permission.

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Is my size up there? And we’ll sell em all factory(Sung to the tune of Police’s “King of direct to you Pain”) Is my size up there? Writers: Sting/Al Yankovic Well, I never made it past the There’s a sale on our gabardine second grade suits today It took all of my life for me to They’re all thirty percent off learn this trade from yesterday But my friends are all thinking There’s Fortrel polyester, That I’ve got it made leather, wool and tweed ‘Cause I’m known the world Just a VISA or MASTERCARD over as the King of Suede is all you need There’s a two-for-one sale on We’ve got every color, we’ve got our three-piece suits every shade Check out our suede pajamas We’re located next door to And our suede-covered boots Willy’s Fun Arcade You can try on our suede We’ve got every fabric that was underwear if you choose ever made Do what you want But I’m known in this city as but don’t step on my blue the King of Suede suede shoes King of Suede We got portly and regular and extra-long Don’t miss out on our giant Is my size up there? liquidation sale We got tailors to fix it if it Is my size up there? comes out wrong Look for our color catalog in Is my size up there? next week’s mail We got all kinds of sweatshirts Is my size up there? You can take your pick There’s a sale on our doubleIs my size up there? knit slacks today With the collars ripped off It’s the same old sale as Like in that Flashdance flick Yesterday Is my size up there? Thirty years in the same Our prices are low, my staff is location I have stayed underpaid There I am right next door to You can buy off the rack or Willy’s Fun Arcade have it custom made I got tough competition but I’m And it’s all guaranteed to never not afraid shrink or fade ‘Cause It’s my destiny to be the ‘Cause of my reputation King of Suede As the King of Suede King of Suede If you need a tuxedo for your King of Suede junior prom King of Suede Is my size up there? I’ll always be King of We can get you the best one Suede . . . That’s made in Taiwan Is my size up there? © 1984 Magnetic Publishing/Reggatta We got jackets with patches on Music/Illegal Songs, inc. Used by the elbows, too permission.

King of Suede

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Cable TV

Writer: A l Yankovic

I used to think my life was so empty I used to think life was passing me by Well, I was just about ready To curl up and die But then one day I got a visit From the cable company Well, they hooked me up and plugged me right in And now I got cable TV And now I get to watch the stock report in Korean Midget wrestling on channel three It costs me fifty bucks a month just to see ‘em Yeah. but that’s all right with me

I got cable TV Cable TV Oh, eighty-three channels of ecstasy I love my cable TV, yeah I love my cable TV I got the Siamese Faith Healer’s Network The news and weather from Peru I got Celebrity Hockey The Racquetball Channel, too Bugs Bunny direct from Atlanta Mr. Wizard is on at five I got a satellite dish on the trunk of my car So I can watch MTV while I drive I’m talkin’ ‘bout real quality programs The kind you just can’t get for

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free Now I never wanna leave my apartment ‘Cause there’s just so much for me to see On my cable TV Cable TV Well. if you need to find me, you know where I’ll be Watchin’ my cable TV, yeah Watchin’ my cable TV ‘Cause I love my cable TV, yeah I love my cable TV My friends are getting kinda worried They think I’m turning into some kinda freak Oh, but they’re just jealous cause I’ve seen Porky’s Twenty-seven times this week

On my cable TV Cable TV Yeah, the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me I love my cable TV, yeah I love my cable TV Well,. I gotta have cable TV, yeah I need my cable TV © 1985 Holy Moley Music/Ear Booker Music. Used by permission.

Girls Just Want to Have Lunch (Sung to the tune of Cyndi Lauper’s “Girls Just Want to Have Fun”) Writers: Robert Hazard/Al Yankovic

Some girls like to buy new shoes And others like driving trucks and wearing tattoos

There’s only one thing that they all like a bunch Oh, girls, they want to have lunch Oh, girls just want to have lunch I know how to keep a woman satisfied When I whip out my Diner’s Card their eyes get so wide They’re always in the mood for something to munch Oh, girls, they want to have lunch Oh, girls just want to have . . . That’s all they really want Some lunch Don’t ask ‘em to dinner or breakfast or brunch Cause girls, they want to have lunch

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Oh, girls just want to have lunch She eats like she’s got a hole in her neck And I’m the one that always gets stuck with the check Can’t figure out how come they don’t weigh a ton Oh, girls, they want to have lunch Oh, girls just want to have . . . That’s all they really want Is some lunch Don’t know for certain, but I’ve got a hunch Those girls, they want to have lunch Oh, girls just want to have lunch © 1985 Heroic Music. Used by Permission

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This Is the Life

Yeah, every day I make the front page news Writer: Al Yankovic No time to pay my dues I eat filet mignon seven times a I got a million pairs of shoes day This is the life! My bathtub’s filled with Perrier I got a solid gold Cadillac What can I say? I make a fortune while I sleep This is the life! You can tell I’m a living legend I buy a dozen cars when I’m in Not some ordinary creep the mood No way. I’m the boss . . . the I hire somebody to chew my Big Cheese food Yeah, I got this town on its I’m an upwardly mobile dude knobby little knees This is the life! I can do just what I please They say that money corrupts This is the life! you That’s right. I’m the king . . . But I can’t really tell Number One I got the whole world at my feet I buy monogrammed Kleenex And I think it’s pretty swell by the ton I got women lined up outside I pay the bills, I call the shots my door I grease the palms, I buy the They’ve been waitin’ there yachts since the week before One thing I can guarantee Who could ask for more? The best things in life, they This is the life! sure ain’t free You’re dead for a real long time It’s such a thrill just to be me This is the life! You just can’t prevent it This is the life! So if money can’t buy Happiness © 1984 Ear Booker Music/Holy Moley Music. Used by Permission. I guess I’ll have to rent it

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Like a Surgeon

(Sung to the tune of Madonna’s “Like a Virgin”) Writers: Billy Steinberg/Tom Kelly/ Al Yankovic

I finally made it through med school Somehow I made it through I’m just an intern, I still make A mistake or two I was last . . . in my class Barely passed . . . at the institute Now I’m tryin’ to avoid Yeah, I’m tryin’ to avoid A malpractice suit Hey, like a surgeon Cuttin’ for the very first time Like a surgeon Organ transplants are my line Better give me all your gauze, nurse This patient’s fading fast Complications have set in Don’t know how long he’ll last Let me see . . . that I.V. Here we go . . . time to operate

I’ll pull his insides out Pull his insides out And see what he ate Like a surgeon, hey! Cuttin’ for the very first time Like a surgeon Here’s a waiver for you to sign Wo-ho . . . wo-ho . . . wo-o . . . It’s a fact . . . I’m a quack The disgrace . . . of the A.M.A. ‘Cause my patients die Yeah, my patients die Before they can pay Like a surgeon, hey! Cuttin’ for the very first time Like a surgeon Got your kidneys on my mind Ooh hoo, like a surgeon When I reach inside With my scalpel And my forceps And retractors Oh ho . . . oh ho . . . ooh, baby Yeah . . . I can hear your heart beat For the very last time © 1985 Billy Steinberg Music/Denise Barry Music. Used by Permission

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Slime Creatures from Outer Space Writer: A l Yankovic

Things just haven’t been the same Since the flying saucers came Now the aliens are on the loose Well, we tried to hold ‘em back Tried to ward off their attack But our atom bombs were just no use They were ugly, they were mean Biggest heads I’d ever seen They made everybody scream and shout First they leveled Tokyo Then New York was next to go Boy, I really wish they’d cut it out! They wasted everybody on my block There goes the neighborhood They’ll zap you with their death-ray eyes And blow you up real good Run for your lives! Slime Creatures from Outer Space Slime Creatures from Outer Space They’re not very nice to the human race Slime Creatures from Outer Space There’s more coming every day And they just won’t go away Now they’re reproducing in the sewers They got slimy lizard skin And an evil-looking grin And they sure could use some Manicures They got hands all covered with fungus They got eyes like some kinda bug I sure hope they don’t come in here I just shampooed the rug Run for your lives! Slime Creatures from Outer Space Slime Creatures from Outer Space They’re really makin’ a mess of this place Slime Creatures Slime Creatures They’ll rip your head offjust for fun They’ll paralyze your mind

They’re wearing out their welcome I don’t think I like their kind They’ll suck your brain out through a straw You just can’t trust those guys So hide the children, lock the doors And always watch the skies Look out! Here come the . . . Slime Creatures from Outer Space Slime Creatures from Outer Space They’re an intergalactic disgrace Slime Creatures from Outer Space Slime Creatures from Outer Space I wish they’d just get outta my face Slime Creatures from Outer Space Slime Creatures from Outer Space They’re making a big, fat mess of this place Slime Creatures Slime Creatures Where did they come from? What do they want from us? Who do they think they are? Why don’t they leave me alone? They’re really getting on my nerves © 1985 Ear Booker Music/Holy Moley Music. Used by Permission.

Yoda (Sung to the tune of the Kink’s “Lola”) Writers: Ray Davies/Al Yankovic

I met him in a swamp down in Dagoba Where it bubbles all the time like a giant carbonated soda S-O-D-A, soda I saw the little runt sitting there on a log I asked him his name and in a raspy voice he said, “Yoda” Y-O-D-A, Yoda, Yo Yo Yo Yo Yoda Well, I’ve been around but I ain’t ever seen A guy who looks like a muppet but he’s wrinkled and green Oh my Yoda, Yo Yo Yo Yo Yoda Well, I’m not dumb but I can’t Understand How he can lift me in the air

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just by raising his hand Oh my Yoda, Yo Yo Yo Yo Yoda, Yoda, Yo Yo Yo Yo Yoda Well, I left home just a week before And I’ve never ever been a Jedi before But Obi Wan. he set me straight, of course He said, “Go to Yoda and he’ll show you the Force!” Well, I’m not the kind that would argue with Ben So It looks like I’m gonna start all over again With my Yoda, Yo Yo Yo Yo Yoda. Yo Yo Yo Yo Yoda Yoda, Yo Yo Yo Yo Yoda. Yo Yo Yo Yo Yoda So I used the Force I picked up a box I lifted some rocks While I stood on my head Well, I won’t forget what Yoda said He said. “Luke, stay away from the darker side And if you start to go astray, let the Force be your guide” Oh my Yoda, Yo Yo Yo Yo Yoda “I know Darth Vader’s really got you annoyed But remember if you kill him then you’ll be unemployed” Oh my Yoda, Yo Yo Yo Yo Yoda Well, I heard my friends really got in a mess So I’m gonna have to leave Yoda, I guess But I know that I’ll be coming back some day I’ll be playing this part till I’m old and gray The long-term contract I had to sign Says I’ll be making these movies ‘til the end of time With my Yoda, Yo Yo Yo Yo Yoda. Yo Yo Yo Yo Yoda © 1985 Dav Ray Music/Chappell

Music. Used by Permission

I Want a New Duck (Sung to the tune of Huey Lewis and the News’ “I Want a New Drug”) Writers: Huey Lewis/C. Hayes/ Al Yankovic

I want a new duck One that won’t try to bite One that won’t chew a hole in my socks

One that won’t quack all night I want a new duck One with big webbed feet One that knows how to wash my car And keep his room real neat One that won’t raid the ice box One that’ll stay in shape One that’s never gonna try To migrate or escape . . . Or I’ll tie him up with duck Tape I want a new duck A mallard, I think One that won’t make a mess of my house Or build a nest in the

bathroom sink I want a new duck One that won’t steal my beer One that won’t stick his bill in my mail One that knows “the duck stops here” One that won’t drive me crazy Waddling all around One who’ll teach me how to swim And help me not to drown . . . And show me how to get down How to get down, baby Get it? I want a new duck Not a swan or a goose

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Just a drake I can dress real cute Think I’m gonna name him Bruce I want a new duck Not a quail or an owl One that won’t molt too much One that won’t smell too foul One that won’t beg for Breadcrumbs Hangin’ around all day He better mind his manners Better do just what I say . . . Or he’s gonna be duck pâté Duck pâté, yeah yeah © 1985 Holex Music. Used by permission.

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One More Minute Writer: Al Yankovic

Well, I heard that you’re leavin’ Gonna leave me far behind ‘Cause you found a brand new lover You decided that I’m not your kind

So I pulled your name out of my Rolodex And I tore all your pictures in two And I burned down the malt shop where we used to go Just because it reminds me of you

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That’s right, you ain’t gonna see me cryin’ I’m glad that you found somebody new Cause I’d rather spend eternity eating shards of broken glass Than spend one more minute with you I guess I might seem kinda bitter You got me feelin’ down in the dumps ‘Cause I’m stranded all alone in the Gas Station of Love And I have to use the selfservice pumps Oh, so honey, let me help you with that suitcase You ain’t gonna break my heart in two ‘Cause I’d rather get a hundred thousand paper cuts on my face Than spend one more minute with you I’d rather rip out my intestines with a fork Than watch you going out with other men I’d rather slam my fingers in a door Again and again and again and again and again Aw, can’t you see what I’m tryin’ to say, darlin’ I’d rather have my blood sucked out by leeches Shove an ice pick under a toenail or two I’d rather clean all the bathrooms in Grand Central Station with my tongue Then spend one more minute with you Yes, I’d rather jump naked on a huge pile of thumbtacks Or stick my nostrils together with Krazy Glue I’d rather dive into a swimming pool filled with double-edged razor blades Than spend one more minute with you I’d rather rip my heart right out of my rib cage with my bare hands and then throw it on the floor and stomp on it till I die . . . Than spend one more minute with you © 1985 Ear Booker Music/Holy Moley Music. Used by permission.

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Dare to Be Stupid

It’s time to make a mountain out of a molehill Writer: Al Yank ovic So can I have a volunteer? Put down that chain saw and There’s no more time for crying listen to me over spilled milk It’s time for us to join in the Now it’s time for crying in your fight beer It’s time to let your babies grow Settle down, raise a family, join up to be cowboys the P.T.A. It’s time to let the bedbugs bite Buy some sensible shoes and a You better put all your eggs in Chevrolet one basket Then party till you’re broke You better count your chickens and they drag you away before they hatch It’s okay You better sell some wine You can dare to be stupid before its time It’s like spitting on a fish You better find yourself an itch It’s like barking up a tree to scratch It’s like I said, you gotta buy You better squeeze all the one if you wanna get one free Charmin you can Dare to be stupid When Mr. Whipple’s not Yes . . . why don’t you dare to around be stupid Stick your head in the It’s so easy, so easy to do microwave and get yourself a We’re all waiting for you tan Burn your candle at both ends Look a gift horse in the mouth Talk with your mouth full Mashed potatoes can be your Bite the hand that feeds you Friends Bite off more than you can chew You can be a coffee achiever What can you do? You can sit around the house Dare to be stupid and watch “Leave It to Beaver” Take some wooden nickels The future’s up to you Look for Mr. Goodbar So what you gonna do? Get your mojo working now Dare to be stupid I’ll show you how Dare to be stupid You can dare to be stupid What did I say? You can turn the other cheek Tell me, what did I say? You can just give up the ship It’s all right You can eat a bunch of sushi, We can be stupid all night then forget to leave a tip Come on, join the crowd Dare to be stupid Shout it out loud Come on and dare to be stupid I can’t hear you It’s so easy to do Okay, I can hear you now We’re all waiting for you © 1985 Ear Booker Music/Holy Moley Music. Used by permission. Let’s go!

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Hello, I just wan moment to ted to take a buying The say thanks for Authorized Al. As you rea d i n the book, I do busin and always ess my own way, in return. give something free gift, So here’s your Al songboo the complete k. That’s the kind of gu I am. y Sincerely

$ 7.95

FPT

THE AUTHORIZED AL is the incredible and almost-true “life story” of “Weird Al” Yankovic, starting from the time he was just a small fetus and continuing through his somewhat formative years, his high school and college days, and his present bout with super-stardom. Based on THE COMPLEAT AL, the best-selling home video and Showtime special, this concocted chronicle of the life and times of Weird Al is filled with many never-before-seen photos of Al, plenty of your favorite often-seen photos of Al, and a whole bunch of stupid photos of Al, too. It includes all sorts of bogus newspaper clippings, magazine articles, honored awards, documents and memoirs. As a special bonus, you’ll get THE COMPLEAT AL SONGBOOK, containing the lyrics to all of Al’s songs. THE AUTHORIZED AL is a behind the scenes look at the volatile and superfluous life of a true rock and roll legend and accordion player. It reveals for the first time the whole story, containing all the facts about Weird Al’s mysterious disappearance during his painful introspective period, when the world thought he had dropped out of sight forever. THE AUTHORIZED AL documents the ups and the downs, the triumphs and the tragedies, the agony and the ecstasy of being Al. This is probably the most important book ever written in the history of mankind.

ISBN 0-8092-5133-7