What you gon’ do with all that junk? All that junk inside that trunk? I’m 'a get, get, get, get, you drunkget you love drunk off my hump.What u gon’ do with all that ass? All that ass inside them jeans?I'm 'a gonna make you scream, make you screammake you scream!'Cuz of my hump, my hump, my hump, my humpMy hump, my hump, my hump, my hump, my lovely lady lumpsCheck it out
What the bleeding hell is that dreck, you ask? It's MUSIC! It's POETRY! It's ARTISTIC CREATIVITY! YEAH!
Okay, it may or may not be poetry, but it is a song, and it is somebody's idea of creativity and art. Frankly, I would have titled it I'll Show You My Tits if You Buy Me Something Pretty
instead of My Humps
, but that's just me. Maybe there's a reason I'm not raking in millions of dollars for naming songs, eh?
I don't usually care what lyrics somebody chooses to write and/or perform. Personally, I think Eminem is astoundingly talented and I'll play the unedited versions of his songs at full volume in full listening distance of the Lemony Brood.
But My Humps?
Not so much.
Now, if Fergie doesn't mind shaking her booty while signing my lovely lady lumps
who am I to say anything? Go right on and objectify yourself, sweetie. They aren't my
(as an aside, it's good thing we're not talking about my lumps because, hello, goat-old
lumps are scary, dude)
Fergie will have to forgive me, however, for changing the station on the XM radio whenever I hear her start going on about her lovely lady lumps. Lemony Child, in all her four-year-old glory is starting to sing along, and to be perfectly honest, I find this a bit more disturbing than the time Lemony Teen was a four-year-old in the back of the car singing along as Boys II Men
harmonized about making love to you, like you want me to.
Hearing your four-year-old sing And I'll hold you tight, baby all through the night?
Not too scary.
Hearing your four-year-old sing Mix your milk with my cocoa puff, milky, milky RIIIIIGHT?