"Weird" Al Yankovic: Al's Brain, The OC Fair, and Magic Mushrooms

Journey with me into the mind of a retard. . .

The Orange County Fair has seen it fit to showcase the retardation of Weird Al Yankovic this year, with an exhibit called Al's Brain: a 3D experience into the intricate workings of the human brain. Its a sort of "The Magic School Bus" adventure, with Weird Al leading you the whole way. The exhibit can be found by simply listening: you know you're close when you hear the screams of young children, the stifled sobbing of grown adults, and the roaring laughter of complete and utter retards. Outside of the exhibit sits Al's likeness, a sand sculpture of his head nearly a story tall, with a question mark and exclamation point poking up out of the top of it with timed machinery. In front of it, another sand sculpture of a brain, with a similar machine timed light bulb, that would peek out occasionally from its top. Yet the sculpture looks half-finished, as if the man who was sculpting it suddenly realized how much time he had already wasted on this douche, and just gave up. Around the perimeter you will find people clutching the rails installed to keep them out, all amazed by the wonder and beauty that is a 25 foot tall Weird Al head. Look for the silly girl with a pink parasol, leaning up against the protective railing, trying to appear attractive in front of a monument to a career excelled by retardation, the locals walking up slowly and spitting as they talk in their OC jargon, and the occasional child running up saying "look mommy, look, its Lil John."

It was then that we decided to take the magic mushrooms. An eighth for each of us, enough to send us out to the farthest depths of human depravity and imagination. . . Looking back on it now, it was probably a bad idea.

With churning stomachs not use to the foreign substance, we made fun of the roped off area for people to wait in line. It was a 10 yard maze that could hold maybe 30 people, and we assumed it would never fill, that we'd never gaze upon the poor unfortunate souls who would actually wait it out in the heat to see a show headlined by "Weird" Al Yankovic. Yet after many beers, upon returning we found the line to be full: families nestled together baking under the hot sun, fathers clutching children tired from walking, mothers tending to toddlers in strollers, the occasional burly dude with tattoos and extensive chin pubes, young couples clutching each other, and even old people all waxy skinned and sagging from too many years of gravity.

"Oh it won't be much longer honey, not much longer. . ."

The most epically retarded sand sculpture ever. Photo courtesy of The Pat.

Pat finished his beer and we went to the front of the line with our IR Press Passes: Infinitely Retarded is well respected, at least as far as Orange County. You're first let into a waiting lobby, full of little mind tricks up on the wall, and quotes from literature regarding the human brain. Its so retarded you begin to think everyone is there just to get away from the heat and enjoy the wonders of air conditioning for awhile. Then they show a little video, dubbed and filmed like one of those old-school hygiene videos they use to show school kids back in the day. Cue some laughter from about a third of the room, dirty looks from yours truly, and parents trying to calm down impatient and hardly entertained children. This video lasts for maybe a few minutes, and after its done the house lights come back on and they lead you into the theater, where the real show is.

And just in time, the shrooms were kicking in.

We took our seats and I look around with giant pupils, the place is actually quite full, and everyone I looked upon looked like a savage snarling beast with bloodied teeth, and there we were sitting quite peacefully, completely surrounded. A young boy who's parents kept asking him if he could see sat right next to me. I felt sorry for the boy, for I knew once the movie started that the retardation would be so bad I would be forced to start talking shit, and this poor kid was gonna have to hear every hateful word, punctuated by curse words he's probably only heard from friends and mommy and daddy when they get angry with one another. The lights die down, the movie starts up, and there he is, Weird Al Yankovic, but you're not just watching him on the screen, its far worse than that, he's in 3D; he's actually standing there out in front of you. Its almost like he's in the room with you, and to keep from throwing punches out at the air I often take off my 3D glasses for brief moments at a time. The showing is a 10 minute piece of epic fail, with Yankovic at the reigns, steering you around the human brain as he spouts off the most elementary of biological terms. His lesson is sprinkled with jokes, and after a few I actually hear some people laughing in small groups about the theater erupting with actual heart-felt, belly-aching laughter. I couldn't fucking believe it. The walls started to cave in, I couldn't tell if it was the shrooms or if the walls really were taking structural damage, like we were in an aluminum can that began to crush from the pressure produced from too much retardation.

It was then I came to the realization that retards can easily assimilate into society and walk around looking quite normal, their only defects being those which are unseen, in their heads.

The outside of Al's Brain, photo courtesy of The Pat.

Then came the song, a sort of idiot tune sung about the brain and how it works. I can't remember the words exactly, just the melody which still rings about in the bitter depths of my head, and I fear the tune may never leave. The singing was mandatory, it is Weird Al's whole gimmick, yet somehow I wasn't expecting it. It came out of nowhere, a funky tune, and all of a sudden I was reminded of the insect beetle sound of a dentist's drill. The movie ended, the lights came up and we left, shuffled out into the harsh air of the OC Fair. The faint smell of pig shit is almost a welcome addition, as its far better than the stench that emanates from Yankovic's every pore, with a smell so powerful it comes right off the screen. Upon leaving you come across Al's store, a small little box with one smiling attendant, standing amongst Weird Al merchandise, and as you walk by you notice people there are actually buying some of his shit. We chose not to explore the store any further. Its not that he's not catchy, he, like Steve Miller can come up with lyrics that seem to attach themselves inside your brain. Songs stuck in your head are always annoying after awhile, but when its a Weird Al song, you almost have to tie up your hands to keep from lobotomizing yourself.

Yankovic just has a way of hanging around.

All throughout the fair, no matter how much beer we drank, we couldn't forget Al's brain. Even during the pig races, where the winner gets the luxury of racing another day and not ending up on someone's dinner plate, Al's music hung around with a haunting tune that would just stick with you. It was much like being addicted to heroin, and always having that monkey on your back, following you where ever you go. Even during the RV Demolition Derby, the sounds of crushed steel were distant compared to the melodies we had heard nearly 4 hours prior. We even went and looked at all the games set up to con people into thinking they may actually win something, but even then, there was Weird Al Yankovic, standing at every concession stand. By that time the carnies were beginning to look even stranger, and all around us there were signs that we weren't in any old fair anymore, but rather a zoo, full of wild lion's feeding on giant corn dogs, hyenas downing fried Twinkies; the world was devolving around us. Pat was conned into playing a dart game, 2 darts for 5 dollars.

"You're guaranteed to win!" The carnie said. In our collective minds she resembled a hippopotamus.We all spied a sign next to the game, ALL KIDS 12 AND UNDER ARE GUARANTEED A PRIZE.

"What does she think I'm twelve?" Pat asked us.

"Leave her alone dude, she's a hippopotamus. Hippos shouldn't be out in the hot sun like this, maybe she's suffering from delirum, resulting from all the heat, you know. . ."

"Maybe you're right." It looked like had seriously considered it.

So Pat played. He stood on what seemed like shaky ground, he wavered as if the wind was blowing so hard it may knock him down. The first throw. . . A miss, damn near hit the hippo. The second throw. . . A second miss, this one soaring through the air and stabbing the hippo right in the thigh, producing a painful cry from said hippo.

"Holy shit dude you tagged her!" I laughed. "That's a mighty fine hippo, I think she'd look great mounted up on your wall."

"Just. . . get. . . the hell outta here!" She said in between groans.

"What about my prize?" Pat asked.

"YEAH! What about his prize?" I said.

She gave up a small stuffed pig, yet it was the ugliest one, and most likely to fall apart. Hell its black buttoned eye was already coming off. We ventured of in a random direction, and all the day through, there was Pat, becoming more drunk, singing Weird Al tunes without any shame.

"I'm fat, I'm fat, you know it..." Kelsey and I shook our heads.

"While your on seconds I'm on 48ths. . . " He would sing each lyric like an R&B singer in the middle of a love song: full of devotion and passion. Again with this lyric, we may have heard it nearly 15 times.

Pat staggered.

"I'm fat, I'm fat, you know it... Yeah I use to watch Yankovic all the time, my sisters would be like 'aw, this again?'" Kelsey hides her face in the cup of her strawberry margarita. ". . . I love the guy." Pat confessed.

I believe it was then that she started walking nearly 10 feet in front of us, far too embarrassed to be associated with such complete and utter retards. We had been reduced to her mongoloid children, staggering around behind her trying to keep up, as she kept a brisk pace and weaved her way through the OC Fair crowd. The day was coming to a close, the orange sun was sinking into the horizon as the Fair still kicked around with outdoor grills all smokey with the smell of burning flesh, with cheap rides that brought cheap thrills, and with carnie games that produced over-sized stuff animals and wonky toys that would break on the ride home. The lights on some of the rides looked like golden coins, rising and falling in the sky as they brought people small rushes of adrenaline on some of the best carnie rides the carnival had to offer, including a pendulum that would swing you back and forth, a self-titled "Crazy Coaster," and giant swings with spun about a center at great speeds, the chairs gaining more and more height as the speed increased. We left through an exhibit that was suppose to be a farm, there was hay on the ground and cows and goats and other live stock in cages. We passed the cow and he looks like a Rorshak Test, his spots moving and forming different shapes right there on his body. Soon after, we left.

One day of retardation was enough - Yankovic has been doing it for 30 years, has sold more than 12 million albums and has done more than 1,000 live shows to throngs of retarded "Yankovites." The album sales are staggering, and I can only assume that many albums are bought as joke gifts for co-workers, or by young kids who buy them only because of the Explicit Lyrics labels all over them. . . Listening to Yankovic can be pleasurable the first time around, but by the 10th listen the song loses all its charm, sounding more like a douche-bag ballad and less like a humorous twist on a pop hit. You'd have to be a total douche to want to turn Led Zeppelin's Black Dog into a polka tune, and Yankovic has tried for many years, but is always turned down by Jimmy Page, who seems to know a bad musical idea when he hears one. Other artists have followed suit, mostly rappers who have spent so much time building their image that they feel a rap song about Amish people or couch potatoes would be damaging to their rep. Prince has refused every year, Paul McCartney has turned down a parody of Live and Let Die, entitled Chicken Pot Pie, stating that he's a vegetarian and wouldn't want to condone eating meat. All of Atlantic Records has told Weird Al to fuck off as well, a reception Yankovic is still upset about.

His career has been one of extensive retardation, but is a successful one. He wins grammy's every year, but people forget that he wins them in a category that is so sparse and uncompetitive, he's nearly the only one up for whatever he gets nominated for (I dunno.) He's kinda like Alvin and The Chimpmunks, perhaps they should get together and create the most retarded and annoying album ever created in the history of man kind. . . One can only guess why he hasn't killed himself off. Looking in the mirror everyday, at that same ugly mug, with the same wiry grin, framed by long curly tassels of retardation, Yankovic must have those feelings of self-loathing. . . "What have I become?" He may ask himself. Or maybe not, anyone who willing plays the accordion obviously doesn't have much respect for them self in the first place.

Funny lyrics are easy to do anyway, even IR can do it. For instance, in the mid 90's IR got some radio airplay by a local DJ for a similar, "parody" type song:

LAST T-BONE by IR
Parody of Last Resort by Papa Roach

Cut my steak into pieces,
This is my last t-bone,
Mashed potatoes,
Are lumpy,
Don't give a fuck if I don't get my gravy

This is my last t-bone.

Cut my steak into pieces,
I've eaten my last t-bone,
My mashed potatoes,
Are lumpy,
Don't give a fuck if I don't get my gravy.
Do you care if I get my gravy?
Would it be wrong?
Would it be right?
If I ate with my hands tonight,
Chances are that I might,
Buffet out of sight,
And I'm craving chocolate delights.

(Cut short due to retardation.)

Infinitely Retarded names "Weird" Al Yankovic to be sadly retarded.

sad retardation: Retardation which strikes a sad chord in non-retards, and therefore produces no personal lulz. Said retardation can also be considered pathetic retardation, its victims are said to be "sadly retarded."

Co-Written by Patrick Barnes