www.vybeauregard.net

Hot Soda Apparatus:
The Floating Fish EP
2007

  1. Don't Talk to Strangers
    • 4’10”
  2. Lame is the New Awesome
    • 4’39”
  3. Pastrami on Rye
    • 4’39”
  4. The Proposal
    • 3’44”
For more information about this release, contact vybeauregard [AT] gmail [DOT] com.

Don't Talk to Strangers

When I was standing in line at the unemployment office a few weeks ago, I began speaking with the man right in font of me. He introduced himself to me as Zach Tamberelli, and told me he had an interesting story to tell. "I am a lucky man," he told me. "One of the luckiest men on earth."

I was skeptical at first, but he elaborated. "You see, I was born on February 29th."

"That's not lucky," I argued.

"Is it not?" he asked rhetorically. "What is luck, other than the execution of an unlikely event; an occurance against all odds?" It seemed to me that he had chosen the wrong word to describe himself, but I nodded and let him get on to the interesting part of his story. "Yes, I am lucky to have only celebrated seven birthdays, but that's only the root of my luckiness. Every month, when I pick up my unemployment cheque here, I head straight off to the racetrack and gamble it all away."

At this point, my mind began to wander. Why would one of the luckiest men on earth be unemployed in the first place? Seems to me that if a guy is truly lucky, He'd land exactly the job he wanted and be pulling down six figures a year; he'd never have to worry about being replaced on a whim. But he continued talking.

"...and Baroness Romanov finished first! I was rich!"

Then I started wondering if it was legal to blow all your unemployment money at a racetrack. Seems like there should be some kind of amendment to that law, so that you can only spend it on food and clothes and rent. Unless he was involved in some sort of money laundering scheme. Maybe he was involved in the Mafia. He does have an Italian name. And I think I saw him in an Olive Garden commercial before. So, again, why is he unemployed? Mafia henchmen aren't unemployed. And if he's doing commercials for Olive Garden on the side, then he should be filthy stinkin' rich.

"...my overall winnings were five thousand dollars. I decided that I was done at the racetrack, so I left there and went off to the casino to see if I could win more cash. But when I was heading out to my car, I was suddenly struck by lightning."

"Lightning?!?" I burst. I couldn't control myself anymore. "How can you possibly call yourself lucky if you got struck by lightning???"

"The odds of getting struck by lightning are very very small. I beat these odds. And this wasn't the first time it happened, either. About three times every two years I am hit by some sort of lightning. Anyway, I got knocked out cold by the bolt, so they called 911 and they shipped me off to St. Agnes' Medical Center. I was fine, though. I've developed a keen immunity to heavy internal damage due to lightning."

At this point, I just completely stopped listening to this idiot. Nothing he said made any sense. Eventually, I believe he did stop talking, but it took a very long time. I would've told him that nobody cared about his life's story, but once he started talking about fishing in the Arabian Sea with just a stick of dynamite, I couldn't get a word in edgewise.

One segment of his epic monologue did slightly point back to his original thesis of luckiness, though. It seems that he spent an entire year in Tunisia flipping a JFK half dollar, and every time it landed, heads was face up. He never went into much detail, though. I don't even think he mentioned how many times he actually let it land, or, for that matter, why he was in Tunisia in the first place. In my experience, Tunisia is not the best place on earth to spend a year flipping a fifty cent piece. Cuz that's where pirates go on vacation when they're not making conquests on the high seas.. Everybody knows that.

Pastrami on Rye

You're a leftover
Pastrami on rye
Succulent and delicious
Yes, the sandwich of my eye...

Pastrami on rye!
Pastrami on rye!
Pastrami on rye!
Pastrami on rye!

You!
Are lookin tasty
You!
Are mouth watering
You!
Make me go crazy
You!
You!
You!
You!

Pastrami on rye!
Pastrami on rye!
Pastrami on rye!
Pastrami on rye!

Look at you,
piled high with mountains of smoked, meaty deliciousness.
How can I say no to your tempting gaze?
I can't.

There, on the plate before me you sit
but for a few precious moments
My tastebuds writhing in ecstacy
I welcome you in one piece at a time
into my moist, cavernous piehole

I work methodically,
grinding you into small, easily digestible bits.
Every mouthfull somehow more delicous than the one before.
How do you do it?

Savoring each bite, you gradually grow smaller, smaller.
Until, alas, you are gone.
And i chase you down with an ice-cold soda

before me now, an empty plate.
you may be gone, my dear friend.
but your memory lives on
within my satisfied belly.

The Proposal

Hi, Internet. It's me.

Listen, I've been thinking a lot lately. We've known each other for a long time. I'll never forget the first time we met. I saw you from afar and I told myself at that very moment you were the one for me.

I've really enjoyed getting to know you, and I love it every time I learn something else about you. Every time I think about you, I can't help but smile. We've made such great memories together.

I remember the hampster dance you showed me. And All Your Base. And the Star Wars Kid. We laughed and laughed until the wee hours of the morning. I remember staying up late and talking about what we wanted to be when we grew up. And over the years, I've watched you achieve those dreams.

You've become quite the entrepeneur. You sell just about everything under the sun, plus some stuff that will never see the light of day. You conduct business 24 hours a day, 365 ¼ days a year and you're making more money now than anyone ever thought possible.

My point is, I love you. Being with you brings out the best in me, and I don't think I could imagine living another second without you. I've never felt this way about anyone but you. When I'm away from you and something happens to me, I can't wait to come back to you and tell you all about it. And even though you're very busy all the time, you always make time for me, and I love that about you.

World Wide Web, would you do me the honor of being my wife?


What? What do you mean other guys? Plural? How many? Billions?! I feel so nauseous. Why didn't you tell me about these billions of other guys? I thought we had something special here. Peanut Butter Jelly Time? O RLY? Bananaphone? Chocolate Rain? This all meant nothing to you?

I thought I loved you. I guess I was wrong. I don't love learning new things about you. The more I learn about you the more broken I feel inside.

No, listen to me. I put up with all kinds of crap from you. Intolerable offenses. Unspeakable violations of our trust. MySpace? Phishing? LOLcats? Goatse? Two girls and a cup? But I forgave you. I thought we had a future together.

Did you show all this to those billions of other guys? And *Girls*?! Well, that's kinda hot.

No, no. I feel so stupid. How could I have let myself fall for you? I finally let my guard down after all these years, and this is what happens. Perfect. No, it's too late. It's over. I never want to see you again as long as I live.

No, don't bother calling. Or emailing. You're dead to me. Email is dead to me. It's too late. Nothing you can say will change my mind.

Really? Al Gore singing "Thank God I'm a Country Boy"? Well, I guess I could stay online a bit longer.