The Infinite Branching of Different Tangents . . . Thread

DJ Blog Rule Number One: Thou Shalt Not Drift From The Subject.

Keeping forever mindful of our duty to observe this rule, the subject of this Forum Topic stems from the psychiatric exercise: Stream-of-Conscious.

“Stream of conscious” is the larger version of the psychiatric parlor game where-by a single word is thrown out in a group therapy session. This word stimulates another word in someone else, who then calls out their word. This bounces around the room revealing to themselves and others how our minds work. You know how it goes: “Dairy” begat’s “Farm” which begat’s “Hand” which begat’s “Finger” which begat’s “Ring” which begat’s “Job" . . . etc. and so on forever.

This thread is all about playing: Stream of Consciousness. All you have to do to play is answer the last “reply.” Okay? Begin! (I’ll kick it off) Hmmm, reminds me of "The Crypt-Kicker Five" which reminds me of . . .

I was working in the lab late one night
When my eyes beheld an eerie sight
For my monster from his slab began to rise
And suddenly to my surprise

He did the mash
He did the monster mash
The monster mash
It was a graveyard smash
He did the mash
It caught on in a flash
He did the mash
He did the monster mash

From my laboratory in the castle east
To the master bedroom where the vampires feast
The ghouls all came from their humble abodes
To get a jolt from my electrodes

(repeat refrain)

The zombies were having fun
The party had just begun
The guests included Wolf Man
Dracula and his son

(repeat refrain)

The scene was rockin', all were digging the sounds
Igor on chains, backed by his baying hounds
The coffin-bangers were about to arrive
With their vocal group, "The Crypt-Kicker Five"

(repeat refrain)

Out from his coffin, Drac's voice did ring
Seems he was troubled by just one thing
He opened the lid and shook his fist
And said, "Whatever happened to my Transylvania twist?"

(repeat refrain)

Now everything's cool, Drac's a part of the band
And my monster mash is the hit of the land
For you, the living, this mash was meant too
When you get to my door, tell them Boris sent you . . .