Well, I was all set to help some ladies I know start a band called The Sexecutioners. I came to the idea a little late (I come to most events a little late. I get to places in tyme, not on tyme), so I missed the meeting regarding wardrobe (a librarian theme) and album title (Sexecutionary Style). I didn't mind them getting started without me because details aren't really my bag, you know? I'm more of a song title man.

Things seemed to be on the track to greatness: we had top-notch personnel, a sexy gimmick, and freshly-inked contracts going into the first rehearsal. I was excited, and then shocked by the fiasco that awaited me at the rehearsal space. Friends, I had been duped. The mere presence of a microphone transformed the Sexecutioners from the Life of the party into mumbling, wilting, floor-staring wallflowers. These girls were no Sexecutioners! They were real-life spinster librarians! And the problems didn't stop with the ladies, no! The backing band had all kinds of issues, too. The guitar player was clearly intoxicated and the drummer was a little too handsome for his own good. That guy should be in New York modeling underwear.

I hate to lay it on the line like this, but I can't in good conscience let these girls play songs with the titles I suggested. They couldn’t handle my ode to Jemina Pearl, "Talkin' Statutory Rape Blues." They would murder "A Fish Called Rwanda," and I don't even want to imagine how badly they'd butcher "Hungover Like A Horse." But fear not, cause the Snuggler and I are gonna play all three of those future hits in this Jew-rock band we started called The Orthodicks.