By Lilja Quinn | April 26, 2019
Voodoo (this fine institution’s sketch comedy show, for you freshmen and lovable ignoramuses) is going to be spectacular this year, and you should come see it. Sketches have already been submitted in abundance, meaning that every sketch you see will have been hand-picked as the best of many. Moreover, the writers, producers and cast (groups with a history of overlap) are persons of the utmost talent. However, I do not want to sound like a kiss-ass, so, moving on, the props budget has historically not been exhausted, meaning, again, that there is an abundance of resources for greatness to be achieved. Moreover, if you weren’t aware, being a freshman or lovable ignoramus, Voodoo is a Greenhills institution, a yearly tradition in which everyone unwinds by watching generally decent impressions of persons-about-town and sketches which employ more profanity and delightfully crude humor than is usually allowed.
Still not convinced? As I’m a Voodoo writer (engaging in some shameless self-promotion, by the way,) if I’m funny, at the very least, some parts of the show should be funny, and given that as far as Voodoo goes I’m a bit of a lovable ignoramus myself, it’s likely that the rest will be better. But am I funny? In another act of shameless self-promotion, dear reader, I will try to show you.
Why did the chicken cross the road?
To get away from the brutal American meat-processing industry, you heartless turd.
Do you ever read through People or something, and there are all these articles like, “Inside Prince Walter von Düsseldorf’s Steamy Wedding to Countess Anna Grisham the Third!” or “The Duchess of Chateau-Endomètre Looks Breathtaking in Her Chanel Tweeds” No, really, this stuff makes up half of their website. And so you click on it, expecting your breath to be taken, or at least some nice pictures of two young lovebirds, and then you realize that the aristocratic European bloodline is still getting over the whole Hapsburg-jaw thing and about half a dozen other I-screwed-my-cousin-for-political-purposes things, and then you go back and read about J-Lo’s engagement.
Having two ears and a heart, I enjoy some good ABBA, and so, probably, do you. And far be it from me to diss ABBA for the above reason, but have you ever actually paid attention to the lyrics? I don’t mean have you googled them, because Genius Lyrics has to make everything seem kind of logical, but have you ever played ABBA (and I mean the Mamma Mia movie soundtrack) and listened to the lyrics? Take for example, that timeless classic, Voulez-Vous. The song is indisputably about a party where everyone’s trying to get some or, well, I don’t know, something odd. But why do they intermittently sing, “Masters of the Sea-eee?” Is this a part of a turbulent seafaring epic featuring forbidden nautical romance? If so, why is it the subject of a pop ballad?
Not to mention, “This girl needs Christmas so I’ll offer her a drink.” What, you’re trying to justify converting some poor girl with eggnog or a similarly Christmas-y beverage? “I know you’re Jewish, but are matzo balls really better than this here festive drink?”
Then, of course, there’s another time-honored classic, Lay All Your Love on Me (Sense a theme?) There are no seafaring hijinks or holiday beverages here, but I grow concerned about the singer’s emotional intelligence––she keeps singing, “Don’t gooooooo waayyysting yoouur emooooooootion!” which is great and all, but that’s not how emotion works. Emotion is not birdseed or vinegar. It’s not like you have a finite quantity to be doled out carefully with a tablespoon or similar instrument of measurement. Also, what a weird complaint. Not, “Stooooooop cheating on me with your ex-giiiiiiiiiirlfriend!” NO. Don’t go wasting your emotion! Stop caring so much! Why? Why is she so pissed off that he’s wasting his emotion? What’s he wasting it on?
That, though, may not be the worst part of the song. The lyrics sound like me trying to write rhyming poetry, and that, my friends, is saying something. Example: I wasn't jealous before we met/ Now every woman I see is a potential threat/ And I'm possessive, it isn't nice/ You've heard me saying that smoking was my only vice. Good Lord. “Quick, Bjorn, how can we make being possessive part of the song without losing the rhyme scheme?” “Well, øhhr, being possessive is bad, obviously, so it isn’t nice. And, üh, it’s also a vice. Like smoking. So make it about that.”
A simple black background, the necessary people in a row. A slow pan from left to right. A nurse smiles into the camera. A man lifts up a happy child. A soldier in uniform salutes. A doctor in a hazmat suit holds up a syringe. The words, ‘Not all heroes wear capes’ appear on screen in bold type for a beat. Edna Mode walks on from the right and reads them out loud, then stares angrily into the camera.