Pat gave us the pleasure this week to play in her sunday writing prompt sandbox with freakin’ funky and funny names of real bands:

Squirrel Nut Zippers; GoGo Penguin; Abstract Evil Barbie; Bimbo Toolshed; Pineapples from the Dawn of Time, Devil with Cheese, Stop Calling Me Frank; Loudmouth Kittens; Kissyfoot


Squirrelly nutline zippers cry ”Go Go Penguins,” to abstract evil Barbie from her bimbo 2000 toolshed with the ruse of her favourite sport.

To the devil with cheese, Francine, I’ll just have those delish pineapples from the dawn of time.

“Stop calling me Frank,“ screams Loudmouth Kittens. “Kiss[m]yfoot,” the reply.


At the chi-chi art gallery, cool cats, in their tight squirrel-nut-zipper jeans, biker jackets and slicked back man-buns, dissect the latest episode of Reign of Frogs. Frothy groups of their loud-mouthed kittens gossip and down retro beverages with names like pineapples from the dawn of time.

The-artist-never-known-as-Kissyfoot night; gigantic images of past performance art pieces projected onto all surfaces; architectural and human. Rigid, angular backdrop to moving, swaying, sweating repurposed art.

Her recent installation, Devil Dogs with Cheese Sandwiches, created from blocks of Jalapeño-flavoured Velveeta Cheese, drew mixed reviews from arties and foodies.

After seeing the piece, GoGo Penguin, on her au currant blog “Stop Calling Me Frank” stated “it was the worst tragedy and perversity to ever befall cheese food.”

The neo-surreal-realist artist needed redemption; Abstract Evil Barbie, Bimbo Toolshed would be it. Performance art at its apex. Tonight was it’s “unveiling.”

Chained to a “train” of ride-on mowers, paticipatrons visit a series of backyard tableaus, each stop becoming more macabre and distributing. Space-shifting Evil Barbie and her dysmorphing bimbo toolsheds. Serial killer, Ken at her side.

GoGo Penguin will be a damn sight more gung-ho this time,” the-artist-never-known-as-Kissyfoot, crackled. “Or, maybe just hung . . .”  In bimbo toolshed #13, Ms. Penguin painfully awaited the inaugural tour.


As I was playing around the writing prompt band names, Genesis’ The Battle of Epping Forest kept creeping up on me. The bands names reminded me of the song’s gangster names and games. 

The Battle of Epping Forest


(Taken from a news story concerning two rival gangs fighting
Over East-End Protection rights)

Along the Forest Road, there’s hundreds of cars – luxury cars.
Each has got its load of convertible bars, cutlery cars – superscars!
For today is the day when they sort it out, sort it out,
’cause they disagree on a gangland boundary.
Yes, they disagree on a gangland boundary.

There’s Willy Wright and his boys –
One helluva noise, that’s Billy’s boys!
With fully-fashioned mugs, that’s Little John’s thugs,
The Barking Slugs – supersmugs!
For today is the day when they sort it out, sort it out,
These Christian soldiers fight to protect the poor.
East end heroes got to score in…

The Battle of Epping Forest,
It’s the Battle of Epping Forest,
Right outside your door.
You ain’t seen nothing like it.
No, you ain’t seen nothing like it,
Not since the Civil War.

Coming over the hill are the boys of Bill,
And Johnny’s lads stand very still.
With the thumpire’s shout, they all start to clout
– there’s no guns in this gentleman’s bout.
Georgie moves in on the outside left
With a chain flying round his head;
And Harold Demure, from Art Literature,
Nips up the nearest tree.
(Here come the cavalry!)

Admidst the battle roar,
Accountants keep the score: 10-4.
They’ve never been alone, after getting a radiophone.
The bluebells are ringing for Sweetmeal Sam, real ham,
Handing out bread and jam just like any picnic.

It’s 5-4 on William Wright; he made his pile on Derby night.
When Billy was a kid, walking the streets,
The other kids hid – so they did!
Now, after working hard in security trade, he’s got it made.
The shops that need aid are those that haven’t paid.

“I do my double-show quick!” said Mick the Prick, fresh out the nick.
“I sell cheap holiday. The minute they leave,
Then a visit I pay – and does it pay!”
And his friend, Liquid Len by name,
Of Wine, Women and Wandsworth fame,
Said “I’m breaking the legs of the bastard that got me framed!”

They called me the Reverend when I entered the Church unstained;
My employers have changed but the name has remained.
It all began when I went on a tour,
Hoping to find some furniture.
I followed a sign – it said “Beautiful Chest”.
It led to a lady who showed me her best.
She was taken by surprise when I quickly closed my eyes.
So she rang the bell, and quick as hell
Bob the Nob came out on his job
To see what the trouble was.
“Louise, is the Reverend hard to please?”
“You’re telling me!”
“Perhaps, sir, if it’s not too late.
We could interest you in our Staffordshire plate?”
“Oh no, not me, I’m a man of repute.”
But the Devil caught hold of my soul and a voice called out “Shoot!”

To save my steeple, I visited people;
For this I’d gone when I met Little John.
His name came, I understood,
When the judge said “You’re a robbing hood.”
He told me of his strange foundation,
Conceived on sight of the Woodstock nation;
He’d had to hide his reputation.
When poor, ’twas salvation from door to door.
But now, with a pin-up guru every week,
It’s Love, Peace & Truth Incorporated for all who seek.

He employed me as a karmacanic, with overall charms.
His hands were then fit to receive, receive alms.
That’s why we’re in

The Battle of Epping Forest,
It’s the Battle of Epping Forest,
Right outside your door.
We guard your souls for peanuts,
And we guard your shops and houses
For just a little more.

In with a left hook is the Bethnal Green Butcher,
But he’s countered on the right by Mick’s chain-gang fight,
And Liquid Len, with his smashed bottle men,
Is lobbing Bob the Nob across the gob.
With his kissar in a mess, Bob seems under stress,
But Jones the Jug hits Len right in the mug;
And Harold Demure, who’s still not quite sure,
Fires acorns from out of his sling.
(Here come the cavalry!)

Up, up above the crowd,
Inside their Silver Cloud, done proud,
The bold and brazen brass, seen darkly through the glass.
The butler’s got jam on his Rolls; Roy doles out the lot,
With tea from a silver pot just like any picnic.

Along the Forest Road, it’s the end of the day
And the Clouds roll away.
Each has got its load – they’ll come out for the count
At the break-in of day.
When the limos return for their final review, it’s all through’
– all they can see is the morning goo.
“There’s no-one left alive – must be draw.”
So the Blackcap Barons toss a coin to settle the score.