2006-04-19 - 2:17 p.m.

The first album is almost finished. I haven't yet managed to play an instrument to any level of competence, but when you do that, you're well on your way to Selling Out To The Man. The Man isn't someone you want to blow up balloons with. He's a danger to your artistic freedom. Fuck playing instruments. Where we're going, we don't need no instruments. My mind is the instrument, motherfucker. Inflatable Beefcake exist on an another plane entirely. It's beyond your Communist hell-hole of compromise and courtesy. Go eat a dick, fag! We're in a forbidden dimension of purity and punk rock. We're so punk we refuse to write songs. Chew on that, assholes.

1) Cloaked at the Christmas Market
2) Lazy Man's Burden
3) Curse of the Barbed Wire Bat
4) Echolocation
5) Provincial Whimsy
6) Drunk at Deep Sea World
7) Rage, Rage
8) Never Leaving
9) Pool Cue with a Bladder Infection
10) Special Guests
11)Sedona Calls Out Sometimes

12) Fancy Boy
13) Breaking Kayfabe
14) Green Fleece Man

Sample lyrics:

"Don't rub me with your snake oil,
I want to stay dry,
Your conspiracies won't seduce me just yet, but I can see myself sinking,
It's a battle I can win."

"I can always find you,
In the processions of my dreams,
Cloaked at the christmas market,
Huddled, drinking mead.
Your rosey cheeks filled with mead.
I picture you at Christmas,
Christmas time brings greed."

"With stealth I evade your detection,
It looks like a pool cue with a bladder infection."

"Gleaming like pennies on a dead man's eyes, performing a ritual that you despise, I'll try and look interested during the service."

"Provincial whimsy, sex for the Pimmsy, stop applauding and it'll go away, the theatre can be your sanctuary, or it can get too hot in there."

"Break Kayfabe and I'll break your neck, you pencil necked geek, you've got dues to pay, going to get yourself stretched if you don't obey, it's tradition, you want working on, you'll learn the hard way".
(This is a punk rock song about an old wrestler giving a stern talk to some young pretender. I've thought several times about doing a wrestling concept album.)

"Fancy boy I watch you prance and comb your hair, Oh fancy boy you're almost too much to bear, You're so well-groomed and hip it makes a prince of womanly gossip and pride, by the mannual of style you must abide, they can never forge your stride, You can makeover the attacks, you'll mince well, oh fancy boy, in those fabulous slacks".

"Yeah, yeah, baby, I love you". (just mucking about)

Inflatable Beefcake are known to lapse into bookish pretension, but the psychedelic extravaganza of infectious melodies and ambiguous middle eights see us through to worthless cult status. You, dear listener, get to suckle at the teat of filthy outrospection. It's a bumpy ride, and I've cut your seatbelt, but mythical entities will rescue you from an afternoon of sucktitude.

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