Funhouse

Ah, good evening my good friend. Good evening and welcome to the Stooges’ Funhouse. We are so glad you could come. Oh, do not be alarmed, dear one, if things should seem a trifle unusual … or, as the natives say, “oh-mind” … at first. You’ll doubtless get used to it. Perhaps, you may even begin to … like the things you see.

Why do you look so pale, my friend? Why, that’s only tenor saxophonist Steve Mackay vigorously fucking drummer Scott Asheton, dog-style. Steve is a new member of the band, you know, but like Iggy and the rest of the boys were saying, he really fits in, n’estce pas? How smart he looks in his new black leather jacket. And that swastika on Scott’s lapel. How killer … how terribly, terribly killer.

And that man over there? The one being slowly whipped with the long, curly tendrils of that young lass’ hair? Why, that’s none other than Don Galucci, who produced the Stooges’ latest album. He was the producer of the song “Louie, Louie” by the Kingsmen, you know. Here. I have the original words to it written on this piece of paper. Perhaps you would like to read them.

Oh, thank you, Mr. Galucci. Please do put on the new Stooges record. It would be so nice for our guest to hear.

Mercy! “Down On the Street,” what a super killer jam! That is why I love the Stooges so, you know, and why I have stayed here at the Funhouse with the boys for so very long. They are so exquisitely horrible and down and out that they are the ultimate psychedelic rock band in 1970. Don’t you agree?

Don’t laugh. You musn’t laugh. The new record is much more sophisticated than their first. And you cannot deny that they are the best Detroit area rock band. Why, Iggy was just telling me that when he plays with other Detroit and Michigan area bands, that he feels, not like. King of the Mountain, but King of the Slag Heap! Can you imagine that? King of the Slag Heap! How super ohmind, no?

Do you think you might like to . . . see Iggy? Well, all right. But you must take care not to disturb him. When Pop is really “Jonesed,” there’s really no telling what could happen. His scars do take so long to heal, you know, and he is so slight, sometimes I can’t help worry about him, but can you blame me?

He should be behind that door, in that room. Perhaps, if we’re lucky, he might be spreading peanut butter upon his phallus. Why, sometimes, he’ll lock himself in there for days screaming, “I feel all right!” at the top of his lungs until he passes out. And then, it is said, before he can arise again, a 14-year-old girl must perform oral intercourse upon his comatose body. Oh! He has heard us! Do be quick, my friend, before he can get it together to react! Heavens! What a close shave, eh, mon ami?

Ah, no, you mustn’t be leaving so soon. There is yet so much you have not yet seen, so many things strange, killer, and oh-mind. Well, if you must, then I suppose you must. Sometime soon you will pay us a return visit, all right, dear one? Thank you for stopping by ever so much.

You, Out there. What are you doing? Do you long to have your mind blown open so wide that it will take weeks for you to pick up the little, bitty pieces? Do you yearn for the oh-mind? Do you ache to feel all right?

Then by all means, you simply must come visit us at the Stooges’ Funhouse. I know the boys would look forward to seeing you. In fact … they’d be … simply delighted.