Hi, everyone, I'm Shawn, and I've got a cautionary tale for you. One day, oh, this page shouldn't be read by anyone under 18. It's not dirty; that's just a rule I have.
One day, I was busy strutting my ameba to my favorite tunes when I was overcome by entrepeneurial epiphany. I could record all these songs on an album, title it Ameba Strutting Rock and make millions!
I quickly packaged my product, making sure that it contained all my favorites, like Longhand Joe's sadomasochistic intepretation of Rawhide and the socially relevant Reggae hit, Long After the Riot Scene Die, You're Still Alive, and sought to get it produced. Sadly, everywhere I went, I got the same answer, "We just don't think that there's really a market out there for this type of music."
"Oh? And just what do people listen to while ameba strutting? Non-ameba strutting rock? I doubt it," I thought to myself. I was very frustrated that my dreams could be thrown out and flushed away so easily like waste matter pulled from the hairs that surround the 'business end of a large intestine', as my daddy would say. I knew I had to do something to convince the music world that this album was worth distributing, but what? Then it came to me. If I made my own commercial, they could see what type of audience I was appealing to, and they wouldn't have to wrry about advertising costs. Perhaps with these two new factors on my side, they just might realize how hasty their judgement had been.
Thus, I set about making my commercial. The storyline behind the commercial was as follows:
A guy is sitting alone strutting his ameba to my album when another guy who overhears the music walks up to him and asks,
"Hey, man, is that Ameba Strutting Rock ? "
The first guy is so intently strutting that he doesn't hear this guy, so he responds, "What?"
The second guy repeats, "I said, 'Is that Ameba Strutting Rock ? '"
The first guy answers, "Yeah, man!"
The second guy requests, "Well, turn it up, man!"
At this point, the first guy complies, and they both start strutting ameba to the tunes, reaching a sort of spiritual harmony and unity that most existentialists believe to be unattainable.
Then the commercial fades and gives the number to call to order the album.
Well, I submitted this commercial and album to K-tel, and they again rejected it. Then they desecrated the very foundation upon which my ethics are constructed. They returned the tape along with the rejection letter, but they claimed that the videotape had been destroyed in a terrible fire. Three weeks later, I turn on the tube and see this commercial for Freedom Rcok, and this thing is a complete rip-off of my commercial! Needless to say, I have forsaken all rock-related values that I once held and now spend my days translating The Iliad into Esperanto and Pidgin English. Chop-chop, Achilles! For more on sadism, you can check out the webpages somewhere in time and space, or go to your local library.