Catchy Dumb Tunes for Catching Dumb People

by soxsux

Sox and computers Will be put to shame You would Laugh But you did the same Master fisher, mastubator Save that picture for later Master fisher, mastubator Save that picture for later *knock knock* Who is it?''s semen You lock the door And think that you are safe But you can't hide Your penis...chafe Master fisher, mastubator Save that picture for later Master fisher, mastubator Save that picture for later *knock knock* IT"S BLOOD?!?! Well it's really simple... You just grab a picture of a dude or a chick And then you begin to touch ya dick Girls do it too But nothing rhymes with dildo,,, Master fisher, mastubator Save that picture for later Master fisher, mastubator Save that picture for later *knock knock* Ah ah ahhhhh I'm finished ...get it?!
NOT a Fart 00:09
It came out like no other My shorts are surely smothered SHIT
Well your lips are like sugar...if I wanted to make out with sugar But I don't So I guess they're not And I had another compliment It was a really good one It was really fuckin good but I forgot This is the worst love song EVER but you should still totally have with me... This is the worst love song EVER And can we hold it on the sex for just a second I really have to pee Oh And your eyes are like crystal clear pools oh blue Except they're brown... So like crystal clear pools of dirt And I don't know what to say I really fuckin don't Except I like the two things in yo shirt BOOBS This is the worst love song EVER but you should still totally have with me... This is the worst love song EVER And hopefully the sex is free? Come on now Woah Girl your on fire and your hair is nice I swear to god my penis is better than your vibrating device REAL TALK probably not... REALER TALK definitely not This is the worst love song EVER but you should still totally have with me... This is the worst love song EVER The worst love song everrrrrrr and the last chord is a G
Chapter 3 There was music from my neighbor’s house through the summer nights. In his blue gardens men and girls came and went like moths among the whisperings and the cham- pagne and the stars. At high tide in the afternoon I watched his guests diving from the tower of his raft or taking the sun on the hot sand of his beach while his two motor-boats slit the waters of the Sound, drawing aquaplanes over cat- aracts of foam. On week-ends his Rolls-Royce became an omnibus, bearing parties to and from the city, between nine in the morning and long past midnight, while his sta- tion wagon scampered like a brisk yellow bug to meet all trains. And on Mondays eight servants including an extra gardener toiled all day with mops and scrubbing-brushes and hammers and garden-shears, repairing the ravages of the night before. Every Friday five crates of oranges and lemons arrived from a fruiterer in New York—every Monday these same oranges and lemons left his back door in a pyramid of pulp- less halves. There was a machine in the kitchen which could extract the juice of two hundred oranges in half an hour, if a little button was pressed two hundred times by a butler’s thumb. At least once a fortnight a corps of caterers came down with several hundred feet of canvas and enough colored 44 The Great Gatsby lights to make a Christmas tree of Gatsby’s enormous garden. On buffet tables, garnished with glistening hors- d’oeuvre, spiced baked hams crowded against salads of harlequin designs and pastry pigs and turkeys bewitched to a dark gold. In the main hall a bar with a real brass rail was set up, and stocked with gins and liquors and with cordials so long forgotten that most of his female guests were too young to know one from another. By seven o’clock the orchestra has arrived—no thin five- piece affair but a whole pitful of oboes and trombones and saxophones and viols and cornets and piccolos and low and high drums. The last swimmers have come in from the beach now and are dressing upstairs; the cars from New York are parked five deep in the drive, and already the halls and sa- lons and verandas are gaudy with primary colors and hair shorn in strange new ways and shawls beyond the dreams of Castile. The bar is in full swing and floating rounds of cocktails permeate the garden outside until the air is alive with chatter and laughter and casual innuendo and intro- ductions forgotten on the spot and enthusiastic meetings between women who never knew each other’s names. The lights grow brighter as the earth lurches away from the sun and now the orchestra is playing yellow cocktail music and the opera of voices pitches a key higher. Laughter is easier, minute by minute, spilled with prodigality, tipped out at a cheerful word. The groups change more swift- ly, swell with new arrivals, dissolve and form in the same breath—already there are wanderers, confident girls who weave here and there among the stouter and more stable, Free eBooks at Planet 45 become for a sharp, joyous moment the center of a group and then excited with triumph glide on through the sea- change of faces and voices and color under the constantly changing light. Suddenly one of these gypsies in trembling opal, seizes a cocktail out of the air, dumps it down for courage and mov- ing her hands like Frisco dances out alone on the canvas platform. A momentary hush; the orchestra leader varies his rhythm obligingly for her and there is a burst of chatter as the erroneous news goes around that she is Gilda Gray’s understudy from the ‘Follies.’ The party has begun. I believe that on the first night I went to Gatsby’s house I was one of the few guests who had actually been invit- ed. People were not invited—they went there. They got into automobiles which bore them out to Long Island and some- how they ended up at Gatsby’s door. Once there they were introduced by somebody who knew Gatsby and after that they conducted themselves according to the rules of be- havior associated with amusement parks. Sometimes they came and went without having met Gatsby at all, came for the party with a simplicity of heart that was its own ticket of admission. I had been actually invited. A chauffeur in a uniform of robin’s egg blue crossed my lawn early that Saturday morn- ing with a surprisingly formal note from his employer—the honor would be entirely Gatsby’s, it said, if I would attend his ‘little party’ that night. He had seen me several times and had intended to call on me long before but a peculiar combination of circumstances had prevented it—signed Jay 46 The Great Gatsby Gatsby in a majestic hand. Dressed up in white flannels I went over to his lawn a little after seven and wandered around rather ill-at-ease among swirls and eddies of people I didn’t know—though here and there was a face I had noticed on the commut- ing train. I was immediately struck by the number of young Englishmen dotted about; all well dressed, all looking a lit- tle hungry and all talking in low earnest voices to solid and prosperous Americans. I was sure that they were selling something: bonds or insurance or automobiles. They were, at least, agonizingly aware of the easy money in the vicin- ity and convinced that it was theirs for a few words in the right key. As soon as I arrived I made an attempt to find my host but the two or three people of whom I asked his where- abouts stared at me in such an amazed way and denied so vehemently any knowledge of his movements that I slunk off in the direction of the cocktail table—the only place in the garden where a single man could linger without looking purposeless and alone. I was on my way to get roaring drunk from sheer em- barrassment when Jordan Baker came out of the house and stood at the head of the marble steps, leaning a little back- ward and looking with contemptuous interest down into the garden. Welcome or not, I found it necessary to attach myself to someone before I should begin to address cordial remarks to the passers-by. ‘Hello!’ I roared, advancing toward her. My voice seemed Free eBooks at Planet 47 unnaturally loud across the garden. ‘I thought you might be here,’ she responded absently as I came up. ‘I remembered you lived next door to——‘ She held my hand impersonally, as a promise that she’d take care of me in a minute, and gave ear to two girls in twin yellow dresses who stopped at the foot of the steps. ‘Hello!’ they cried together. ‘Sorry you didn’t win.’ That was for the golf tournament. She had lost in the fi- nals the week before. ‘You don’t know who we are,’ said one of the girls in yel- low, ‘but we met you here about a month ago.’ ‘You’ve dyed your hair since then,’ remarked Jordan, and I started but the girls had moved casually on and her re- mark was addressed to the premature moon, produced like the supper, no doubt, out of a caterer’s basket. With Jordan’s slender golden arm resting in mine we descended the steps and sauntered about the garden. A tray of cocktails floated at us through the twilight and we sat down at a table with the two girls in yellow and three men, each one introduced to us as Mr. Mumble. ‘Do you come to these parties often?’ inquired Jordan of the girl beside her. ‘The last one was the one I met you at,’ answered the girl, in an alert, confident voice. She turned to her companion: ‘Wasn’t it for you, Lucille?’ It was for Lucille, too. ‘I like to come,’ Lucille said. ‘I never care what I do, so I always have a good time. When I was here last I tore my gown on a chair, and he asked me my name and address— 48 The Great Gatsby inside of a week I got a package from Croirier’s with a new evening gown in it.’ ‘Did you keep it?’ asked Jordan. ‘Sure I did. I was going to wear it tonight, but it was too big in the bust and had to be altered. It was gas blue with lavender beads. Two hundred and sixty-five dollars.’ ‘There’s something funny about a fellow that’ll do a thing like that,’ said the other girl eagerly. ‘He doesn’t want any trouble with ANYbody.’ ‘Who doesn’t?’ I inquired. ‘Gatsby. Somebody told me——‘ The two girls and Jordan leaned together confidentially. ‘Somebody told me they thought he killed a man once.’ A thrill passed over all of us. The three Mr. Mumbles bent forward and listened eagerly. ‘I don’t think it’s so much THAT,’ argued Lucille skepti- cally; ‘it’s more that he was a German spy during the war.’ One of the men nodded in confirmation. ‘I heard that from a man who knew all about him, grew up with him in Germany,’ he assured us positively. ‘Oh, no,’ said the first girl, ‘it couldn’t be that, because he was in the American army during the war.’ As our credulity switched back to her she leaned forward with enthusiasm. ‘You look at him sometimes when he thinks nobody’s look- ing at him. I’ll bet he killed a man.’ She narrowed her eyes and shivered. Lucille shivered. We all turned and looked around for Gatsby. It was testimo- ny to the romantic speculation he inspired that there were whispers about him from those who found little that it was Free eBooks at Planet 49 necessary to whisper about in this world. The first supper—there would be another one after mid- night—was now being served, and Jordan invited me to join her own party who were spread around a table on the other side of the garden. There were three married couples and Jordan’s escort, a persistent undergraduate given to violent innuendo and obviously under the impression that sooner or later Jordan was going to yield him up her person to a greater or lesser degree. Instead of rambling this party had preserved a dignified homogeneity, and assumed to itself the function of representing the staid nobility of the country- side—East Egg condescending to West Egg, and carefully on guard against its spectroscopic gayety. ‘Let’s get out,’ whispered Jordan, after a somehow waste- ful and inappropriate half hour. ‘This is much too polite for me.’ We got up, and she explained that we were going to find the host—I had never met him, she said, and it was making me uneasy. The undergraduate nodded in a cynical, melan- choly way. The bar, where we glanced first, was crowded but Gatsby was not there. She couldn’t find him from the top of the steps, and he wasn’t on the veranda. On a chance we tried an important-looking door, and walked into a high Goth- ic library, panelled with carved English oak, and probably transported complete from some ruin overseas. A stout, middle-aged man with enormous owl-eyed spec- tacles was sitting somewhat drunk on the edge of a great table, staring with unsteady concentration at the shelves of 50 The Great Gatsby books. As we entered he wheeled excitedly around and ex- amined Jordan from head to foot. ‘What do you think?’ he demanded impetuously. ‘About what?’ He waved his hand toward the book-shelves. ‘About that. As a matter of fact you needn’t bother to as- certain. I ascertained. They’re real.’ ‘The books?’ He nodded. ‘Absolutely real—have pages and everything. I thought they’d be a nice durable cardboard. Matter of fact, they’re absolutely real. Pages and—Here! Lemme show you.’ Taking our skepticism for granted, he rushed to the bookcases and returned with Volume One of the ‘Stoddard Lectures.’ ‘See!’ he cried triumphantly. ‘It’s a bona fide piece of printed matter. It fooled me. This fella’s a regular Belasco. It’s a triumph. What thoroughness! What realism! Knew when to stop too—didn’t cut the pages. But what do you want? What do you expect?’ He snatched the book from me and replaced it hastily on its shelf muttering that if one brick was removed the whole library was liable to collapse. ‘Who brought you?’ he demanded. ‘Or did you just come? I was brought. Most people were brought.’ Jordan looked at him alertly, cheerfully without answer- ing. ‘I was brought by a woman named Roosevelt,’ he con- tinued. ‘Mrs. Claud Roosevelt. Do you know her? I met her Free eBooks at Planet 51 somewhere last night. I’ve been drunk for about a week now, and I thought it might sober me up to sit in a library.’ ‘Has it?’ ‘A little bit, I think. I can’t tell yet. I’ve only been here an hour. Did I tell you about the books? They’re real. They’re— —‘ ‘You told us.’ We shook hands with him gravely and went back out- doors. There was dancing now on the canvas in the garden, old men pushing young girls backward in eternal grace- less circles, superior couples holding each other tortuously, fashionably and keeping in the corners—and a great num- ber of single girls dancing individualistically or relieving the orchestra for a moment of the burden of the banjo or the traps. By midnight the hilarity had increased. A celebrated tenor had sung in Italian and a notorious contralto had sung in jazz and between the numbers people were doing ‘stunts’ all over the garden, while happy vacuous bursts of laughter rose toward the summer sky. A pair of stage ‘twins’—who turned out to be the girls in yellow—did a baby act in cos- tume and champagne was served in glasses bigger than finger bowls. The moon had risen higher, and floating in the Sound was a triangle of silver scales, trembling a little to the stiff, tinny drip of the banjoes on the lawn. I was still with Jordan Baker. We were sitting at a table with a man of about my age and a rowdy little girl who gave way upon the slightest provocation to uncontrollable laugh- ter. I was enjoying myself now. I had taken two finger bowls 52 The Great Gatsby of champagne and the scene had changed before my eyes into something significant, elemental and profound. At a lull in the entertainment the man looked at me and smiled. ‘Your face is familiar,’ he said, politely. ‘Weren’t you in the Third Division during the war?’ ‘Why, yes. I was in the Ninth Machine-Gun Battalion.’ ‘I was in the Seventh Infantry until June nineteen-eigh- teen. I knew I’d seen you somewhere before.’ We talked for a moment about some wet, grey little vil- lages in France. Evidently he lived in this vicinity for he told me that he had just bought a hydroplane and was going to try it out in the morning. ‘Want to go with me, old sport? Just near the shore along the Sound.’ ‘What time?’ ‘Any time that suits you best.’ It was on the tip of my tongue to ask his name when Jor- dan looked around and smiled. ‘Having a gay time now?’ she inquired. ‘Much better.’ I turned again to my new acquaintance. ‘This is an unusual party for me. I haven’t even seen the host. I live over there——’ I waved my hand at the invisible hedge in the distance, ‘and this man Gatsby sent over his chauffeur with an invitation.’ For a moment he looked at me as if he failed to under- stand. ‘I’m Gatsby,’ he said suddenly. ‘What!’ I exclaimed. ‘Oh, I beg your pardon.’ Free eBooks at Planet 53 ‘I thought you knew, old sport. I’m afraid I’m not a very good host.’ He smiled understandingly—much more than under- standingly. It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced—or seemed to face—the whole ex- ternal world for an instant, and then concentrated on YOU with an irresistible prejudice in your favor. It understood you just so far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself and assured you that it had precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to convey. Precisely at that point it van- ished—and I was looking at an elegant young rough-neck, a year or two over thirty, whose elaborate formality of speech just missed being absurd. Some time before he introduced himself I’d got a strong impression that he was picking his words with care. Almost at the
Kill Sharks 01:33
DON"T KILL SHARKS DON"T KILL SHARKS IF YOU KILL SHARKS FUCKIN DON"T DON"T KILL SHARKS DON"T KILL SHARKS YOU BETTER NOT KILL SHARKS Well here is the situation - not beyond human fixation! Humans are really afraid of sharks...thanks JAWS franchise, but really sharks only kill 5 people a year FIVE While we kill 100 million shark per year go us... Going back to that 5 people a year - vending machines kill 29 people a year...soooo if you see a vending machine in the water yeah go ahead fuckin kill it who cares...its an inanimate object and shit...but if you see a shark in the water WHAT SHOULD YOU DO?? WHAT SHOULD YOU DO?? ...not kill it... DON"T KILL SHARKS DON"T KILL SHARKS IF YOU KILL SHARKS FUCKIN DON"T DON"T KILL SHARKS DON"T KILL SHARKS YOU BETTER NOT KILL SHARKS Don't kill a hammerhead Don't kill a great white Don't kill a goblin shark Don't kill a sandshark Don't kill a mudshark Don't kill a giant squid I know their not sharks but they're also animals that deserve not to die in an aquatic environment DON"T KILL SHARKS DON"T KILL SHARKS IF YOU KILL SHARKS FUCKIN DON"T DON"T KILL SHARKS DON"T KILL SHARKS YOU BETTER NOT KILL SHARKS Save a shark kill yoself
Jealousy 00:23
Well I'm not ambidextrous So if you are go fuck yaself With both hands Because ya can!
LSD 02:19
I love you You love me Lets go take song LSD It's been an hour Maybe more HOLY FUCK You're a dinosaur Can't feel my fingers Can't feel my face I wanna win that bicycle race La da dee La da doo Mushrooms are pretty fun too Well LSD is the way for me It brings about a jubalee LSD take me for a ride ...make me feel less dead inside... I smell colors I see shapes IS THAT THING ALIVE No...its just the drapes Stick out my tongue Put on another Lucy is my real mother I think I'm about to peak My knees are buckled My heart is weak and and and WHATS GOING ON DJKDHKLD NJKCNHKJ WHY IS THERE A BUCKET KJDJKL DKJL IS THIS A DRUG THAT MAKES YOU PUKE NJDHIL NKLNJLC OH MY GOD EVERYTHING IS CAKE HKJHLOF KLHJKLF IT HAS EYES AND AND ....what? A tic tac.... Not Lyc.... di... no... just a tic tac ...wintergreen huh... tictac not mentos... yeah wintergreen... ... huh... ... ... ... Tic tacs are the way for me They bring about a jubalee Oh tic tacs take me for a ride Make my mouth feel fresh inside
In a perfect world People would fuck trees (overpopulation a big problem guys...) In a perfect world Everyone would say please (that's actually true...) A perfect world Would be full of peace In a perfect world Billy Bob could marry his niece (ye haw) A perfect world Would be full of four leaf clovers In a perfect world This song would be over ... ... ... But the world's not perfect No it's not The world's not perfect But it's what we got The world's not perfect but it keeps on spinning The world's not perfect so keep on grinning SORRY VEGETARIANS But in a perfect world all bacon would be free In a perfect world bologna wouldn't be spelled with a fuckin G But the world's n ot perfect that why there's Terrorist and weird skin lumps Why there's global climate change and Donald FUCKING Trump Why there's toothpaste without caps' And dogs without owners And one day in church I Got a boner I can't be the obly person whose done that... Really?? Jesus HA But whatever it doesn't matter Cause like I've been sayin The world's not perfect So Fuck You :)
Cows Say Moo 00:56
Cows Say Moo I'd skip a beat But it'd turn sour Cold and wet for half an hour Falling through cracks in the foundation Sifting through shit like its precipitation Because you find a god and call him yours Practice rigidly But stay indoors Go to school to get a degree Be who you were programmed to be You find a wife And fuck her hard Buy a house with a big yard Have two kids Maybe more Instill values Through their chores Fight with her And make her cry She's too young To wish to die Grow old To fall asleep The body rots The soul you keep Life is funny And so are you Sheep will follow But cows say moo


After 4 years of sitting on these songs of sharks, hallucinogens, fecal matter, love, "self love", and cows it's finally out! All masterpieces of unintelligent dumbassery, but hopefully humerus!

Most of these songs were conceived in a lightning storm atop mount Dorr Hall by myself and 3 sentient eagles made completely of stressed copper and green jello. No lie. Tell your friends and if you don't have any shoot me an email let's hang out

all songs heavily featured and preformed at 193 coffeehouse, space afrika, and squat house so shout out to those guys!


released February 3, 2017

Cover Art - Sharpie and Comics (please don't sue me peanuts!)

All songs written and performed by sox

Recording and mastering done by wallrussia

Special thanks to boredom and being lonely, without you guys this wouldn't have been possible!


all rights reserved



soxsux Providence, Rhode Island

my blood is cheese

half comedy half folk punk all stupid... I've also gotten "offbeat grunge" before, so whatever that means
no affiliation with the red sox...

^they cut a lot out

^they didn't!

booking? (hahaha) anyway just email

Also, I'm facebookable
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