Fun With Album Covers: Part Two

WARNING: This post contains adult humor, crude language, drug references and fat jokes.

Okay, it’s clear after the first installment that this s@#t just writes itself. Below, for your reading, viewing, and thankfully not listening pleasure are more classic slabs of ridiculous wax.

FWAC Tasty Treat #3: Woody Woodbury Looks at Love & Life: Fun, Foolosophy and a Frantic Piano for Frisky Adults Only, Woody Woodbury, Stereoddities Records

"Reminds me of the old Sears catalog days..."

Well although the beginning of Woody’s selected record title implies thoughtful, philosophical meditations on our complex time here on this rock we call Earth, the artwork tells a different story.  The only thing Woody is lookin’ at is some fine Granny-pantied ass.  And, stunned to see such a fine specimen through what may symbolize the very keyhole of life, Woody’s attention is obviously growing larger by the moment. Perhaps that’s what the Wood-man means by ‘foolosophy,’ the higher order, enlightened realization that only one thing matters in this Godforsaken life, and that’s fine, fine poontang.

Recorded live in the bastion of booze-soaked sexcapades, Fort Lauderdale, Florida, Woody did prove sensitive in pointing out that this isn’t one for the kiddos—in fact, it’s not even one for adults only.  This album was really only made for frisky adults, the kind who ogle women through keyholes and then tell jokes about it.

Mr. Woodbury is given his proper due on the album’s reverse, where we are treated to several action shots of the man working where he is at his best—behind the microphone—a place from where he can be heard and also where he can most conveniently hide his massive erection.  The photo captions, however, are curious.  First we have “What a dinky

More than you ever wanted to know about old Wood.

mink!” Second is “What’s home without mother! A terrific place to bring girls.” And the third “There goes another kitten to the sandbox.” I gotta say, although I trust Woody before all other pervert comics to keep things above board, this all sounds like a terrible set-up for covert administration of roofies and the unfettered commission of statutory rape.  But hey, we’re here for fun, not for being a bunch of Conservative Connies!

Taking a closer look at the “A Closer Look at Woody Woodbury” section, thankfully, gives us further insight into our randy Woody.  It explains he was fast becoming legendary in…erm…Florida playlands. Bear in mind that’s playlands, not playgrounds, and playlands, well, that could mean the kind of playlands that are for frisky adults only.  We also find out that Woody’s instruments are a piano and an audience, which he ‘manipulates’ with equal adroitness. Oddly missing from this section is mention of Woody’s cock, which seems a natural ‘part’ of any conversation involving Woody, other people, and adroit manipulation. Ah, well, ‘tis true he is a man of mystery as well as hilarity.

And wow! Woody flew jet fighters in Korea! Man, I bet the dinky minks in the basement sandbox love to here him tell tales of his bravery, his service to country, and his penis.  In case you’re interested in something non-lewd, Woody is musically described as possessing “polished insouciance,” but he’d be the first to tell you there’s nothing insouciant about a good polishing.

Woody is also humble (especially when it helps him get into a female’s stretch slacks), offering this self-effacing one-liner: “Once in a decade a truly great comedian comes along…meanwhile I recommend me.” Ah, that’s the “unexpurgated and unrehearsed” Woody we all would have loved had he committed himself more seriously to comedy and backed off the peeping tom-foolery.  Still, “connoisseurs”, it is claimed, have declared this classic slice of wasted wax the greatest boon to parties since the ice cube.

That’s no small fucking feat.  But then again, Woody and small don’t oft share the same space. It’s balls deep or it just ain’t Woody Woodbury.

Finally, the record is hailed as “one of the best of all possible reasons for growing up.”  I can’t even comment on that, other than to say it’s one of the best of all possible lines for the back of a FWAC cover and therefore rings true as a killer reason for frisky teens to become legal tender and full-fledged, Woody-trained foolosophers.

FWAC Tasty Treat #4: Dream a Little Dream, Mama Cass, Dunhill Records, 1968

Now look. Everyone and their uncle know that “Mama” Cass Eliot (of Mamas and Papas fame) was a plus-sized-plus woman and hence became the (humongous) butt of many a fat-related joke.  In fact, despite evidence to the contrary, rumors have persisted for decades that she died while inhaling a ham sandwich. I’m not going to speculate on the fabled porky delight (I’m referring to the sandwich) nor am I going to break the rotund mold and play this bit straight, sans weight jokes.  The first reason is that I too am a Fattie McFattington, so I am therefore justified in poking fun at ‘my peoples’. The second reason is that doing a Mama Cass bit without ham sandwich jokes just might tear a gaping hole in the space-time continuum.

So let’s have a quick look-see at this 1968 slab.  Well all right Mama, here’s the first thing…drop the acid AFTER you put the baby to bed.  It’s, like, a universal first principle. And for God’s sake, if you must dose before the little one sleeps, DO NOT put the helpless babe on your NORTON motorcycle.  I mean, I get the intention—there’s lots of shiny things for baby to gawk at, and I see you’ve even added a little gypsy flair vis-à-vis the colorful

Trippin' balls just lookin' at the cover!

scarves that adorn the bike’s handlebars. Plus she’s just as sweet as a delicious banana split, but…Mama…Mama, stay with me here.  No, there’s no actual banana split, I was just giving baby a compliment. No…Mama. Stop. I do see you’ve laid a biker’s jacket under the little one, preventing I suppose heat burns and providing a slight smidge of butt traction.  Still, I’m thinking this is one rash food impulse away from a total disaster.

Then there’s the small inset picture in the upper left of Mama speeding away, almost as if baby has been carelessly left with some random LSD-muncher who happened to be chilling at the crib.  Is it me, or does she look like she’s trying to make a guilty fast getaway?  I’m pretty sure

Casual ride or guilt-laden grub grab?

that’s a pre-buffet-gorging shit grin I can make out through the ‘cid trails. So look, maybe that’s how you did it in those days.  You go where the trip takes you—that might be mixing babies and motorcycles and burritos. Well I can thankfully verify that nothing in the wiki-literature indicates Cass was a poor parent or actual Norton Commando enthusiast.  So I guess it was all for show.

Well, let’s see what’s happening on the back cover.  The song list looks pretty tame…maybe I can spice it up a little with the help of some hypothetical parenthetical subtitles.  Let’s see, on Side 1 we have: Dream a Little Dream (of hamhocks); California Earthquake (the day I took the Norton out for a bite); The Room Nobody Lives In (because I can’t get through the door); Talkin’ to the Toothbrush (‘cuz I’m still trippin’ and got something ham-like stuck in my teef); Blues for Breakfast (and by blues I mean a three egg omelette, bacon, sausage, a loaf of Wonderbread and some hash browns scattered, smothered, and covered); and You Know Who I Am (the one in the mumu).  Well it does seem she was developing some sort of theme.  Side 2 is no less hefty, being comprised by the following: Rubber Band (or, a Dream I Had About a Magical Weight Loss Stomach Surgery); Jane, the Insane Dog Lady (what you call your weed around your baby); What Was I Thinking Of (Duh. Ham.); Burn Your Hatred (but not the ham); and Sweet Believer (blame it on the sweet tooth).

So I guess it looks pretty good, after all.  There’s just one more thing that’s creeping me out

Mama dreamin', on such a winter's day.

a bit, and that’s what appears in the lower right corner to either be a creepy flasher or none other than Mark David Chapman thinking/dreaming about a monochromatic Mama floating in a mystical field of upturned weed plants. Strange. Mysterious. Fantastic. Hammy.

Blogger’s postscript: although it has never been officially proven, Cass may actually have died from complications of weight loss, having lost some 80 pounds in a span of a few short months before succumbing to a sudden heart attack.  Tragically and ironically it may actually have been a lack of sandwich that stopped short this heavyweight of folk, leaving the world to miss her bright personality and dulcet tones.

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