Sun City Girls - The Harley of Horror lyrics

This is your Uncle Jim speakin', fellas. Welcome to the ride upon the Harley of Horror. Step into my chamber, where instantly your insignificant fish-smuggling life ends and the horror begins. Y'know, I've always felt sorry for the monster. And I've always been interested in the old horror pictures. Tonight, we could watch an hour and ten minute long film, or a movie that lasts an hour and fifteen minutes, guys. We can get into some of the cla**ics. Karloff. Does it ring a bell? A cla**ic. Frankenstein. Y'know I've always loved the Frankenstein pictures. Karloff, Lon Chaney....there's something about the walk. The arm movements. And the mournful dreamlike call [eeeaaaggghh!] as he walked on down the hall. But if Karloff isn't your bag of bones, baby, we could move on towards the more contemporary things, like the Hammer pictures with Peter Cushing and Christopher Lee. Y'know that Christopher Lee is a true gentleman, that's what I hear through the circles of private parties and discreet situational captive cul-de-sacs. Oh we could drift back on into time, and see the original of the originals: Nosferatu. Or move back up into Lugosi. Dracula. White Zombie. I've got 'em all on film. I've always got at least a few cases of videotapes in the back room that are at the ready. And steady as it may seem for me, tell me now, are you nervous? Well then have a cigarette, fellas. Smoke! I always keep ten, twelve cartons around in the back in case of a blizzard. Perhaps you'd like to see a film called The Fog. It's a story about the supernatural starring John Houseman. Or maybe you'd rather see The Demon starring Cameron Mitchell. And on the lighter side of the cryptic world, we could see Land of the Pharaohs starring Joan Collins. It's the story of a conniving woman. You know, ever since I saw Pumpkinhead a couple years ago, I've always wanted to grab the wife and the dog and take the car up into the hills of Appalachia, West Virginia? And go around and gather the folklore of the mountains' hill-people. Take a drive around the old steeples. Round the bend and the curves of the mystic roads and drive upward until we heard all the dingling and the cranking of those wet mountain toads, fellas. Then we'd know we'd be coming into the territory. We'd be getting into the lightswitch. When it turns on, your mind turns to dust, guys. You know I do believe in reincarnation, because when I die I'm comin' back. My mother always told me, "No strangers in the house, Jim. No strangers in the house." But your Uncle Jim, he's no pushover in the world of wraparound eyebrows and safety gla**es. Between you and me, I know who k**ed Kennedy. It was Ladybird Johnson, fellas. Ladybird Johnson. She had the nerve to do it. You love a mystery? Who k**ed Colonel Mustard? Was it the icepick? A cylindrical dagger? Or a scraggly old flautist with a strep gout and a thyroid goiter-blob bellowing in from Richard Basehart's depth finder? I've always felt sorry for the monster. So when the mood strikes lightly, don't expect me to feel sorry for you when on some deep, dark, dank moment of a black hair-raising fear collector implanted in your yellow bellies since wombtown, you'll become hunted and haunted in your own house. Home alone, where the demon bison roam, and the fear and the ragged-cloaked fray away from the confidence level that dwells in the inner chamber of your mind. Because your Uncle Jim is always savagely waiting beyond that counter, across, under the chair, between the couch and the lamp, where the corncob pipes are roastin' and you can't see the smoke as it blows into your face. Is that Prince Albert in a can? Or is it just Prince Albert in your mind? The sweet scented fumes of your darkest fear