TOO MANY DICKS ON THE BLOG FLOOR
…and why this is the greatest song ever written or performed.
Disclaimer: Proceed with caution. Much non-sense making obscurities lie ahead.
…Too many men, too many boys
Too many misters not enough sisters
Too much time on too many hands
Not enough ladies, too many mans
Too many dicks on the dance floor…
(…see below for full brillance)
This may seem like an utterly… like seriously ridiculous post that has no place on paper, the interweb, in thought, or nay – even in the world. However, this ludicrous song has truly, truly brought me out of some rather depthy funks – it deserves to be glorified way more than it has been.
I honestly believe Too Many Dicks On The Dance Floor should be prescribed as an anti-depressant.
So You Are Pregnant started out as an exercise in leeching the demons from my mind and then morphed into some psychotic parallel reality of Preacher’s version of hell. Where the inhabitants re-live a moment in time that lead to their demise down the dark side path.
Writing this thing was tricky enough. Editing and re-editing was a monumental and literal head fck. It’s hard enough to live a few shitty moments and carry them around in your memories, but actively dissecting them over and over and over and over and over ……………………………………………. and over again can send one up the loco tree.
Cue the loco-iest of them all – Flight of the Conchords.
Over the years and particularly whilst writing my head fckery book I would melt into a drippy, droopy sludge like consistency that took on the form of a really emotionally unstable jelly-fish. Floppy, mopey, very un-copey.
The first time I saw Jemaine and Bret doing Frodo Don’t Wear The Ring (community service – watch both links) skit I fell in love. Kiwi humour is the coolest. Dry. Unbothered. Non-showy. Fcking funny. The band became my fave, the show a new obsession and even back then I used it to combat depression sessions.
Too Many Dicks on the Dance Floor was my saviour. I shit you not. WHENEVER I felt myself in a space I knew was unhealthy, I’d YouTube that bad boy and be filled with the healing vibes that only a song about dancing penises can bring.
There was only one time it didn’t work. When I miscarried. Not even FTC could combat the messed up hormones running rampant within me at that point. But, once the recovery took flight, I used the TMDOTDF technique that had served so well and found a few equally, if not greater – deranged vids.
Of course – What We Do in the Shadows
and many randoms followed.
All hail Laura Clery.
Yes. She is one warped little kumquat. Oh, but the brilliance.
Seriously, I dunno if any of it’s wrong, right and/or just mental… but this stuff is hypnotic. I could not stop watching these and the tears were finally happy ones.
Next up came the batshit crazy cat/ferrit things singing some Moldovan pop song.
Why? Dunno. Some bonker with way too much time on their hands creating fcked up “art” for people with even more time on their hands. I thank them all.
But none of them, nothing will ever equal the pure delightful mastery of Too Many Dicks on the Dance Floor:
I replayed this thing so frequently, my kids began to notice.
So one day when my son was having a melt down, I thought – fck it – and I showed him. He was crying – joyful tears of what the holy hell Mum?
Yes. Yes I did.
“Should you be showing them that,” my husband questioned as a disco doodle thrusted too and fro. My son giggled hysterically.
“Probably not, but all the experts say you should be sharing your interests with your kids, why not this?”
“Dicks on the dance floor may be a stretch.”
“I’m viewing it as a love of humour. I have a vested interest in Flight of the Conchords I wish to share with my children. My Dad shared his comedy favourites with me. The Goodies, Benny Hill, Absolutely Fabulous, Faulty Towers, The Two Ronnies… “
“This explains so much.”
“… Blackadder, Kenny Everett, that weird Max Hedroom thing, Monty Python, Comedy Company, Fast Forward, Let the Blood Run Free, Doug Anthony All-Stars…“
“What’s your point?”
“I’m just passing the shit parenting torch.”
“Do you need to show them the video?”
“You think the song on its own is less damaging?”
“At least they won’t see the disco shlongs.”
“But that’s the best bit!”
“I’m questioning your parenting.”
“Get in line buddy.”
Technically – I should be commended for switching on their humour gene and opening up the creative flood gates. Plus I’ve found many practical and therapeutic ways you can use the song to suit, rather than heading for the bottle. Example…
Too many kids on the dance floor
Too many kids
Too many kids on the dance floor
Not so easy to fix
Too many kids on the dance floor
Kick out the kids
Too many kids on the dance floorwa
Goin to the pantry
Wanna get some choccy
Tryin on the quiety but there’s grabby guts and chompy
There’s greedy out of no where-y
He’s come up from the armchairy
The only sweets i’ll see tonight will be clogging up the dunny
My darling, vengeful spawn caught on quick.
Too many Mum’s on the dance floor… (lame)
Too many farts on the dance floor… (Dad & pug)
Too many shops on the dance floor… (suck it up)
Too many turds on the dance floor… (dog)
Too many Santa’s on the dance floor… (tricky)
Too many peas on the dance floor… (just eat them!!!)
Too many pancakes on the dance floor… (me, whining at the speed they’re eaten)
Too many fishy bums on the dance floor (My daughter came up with this one – when the pug is overdue an arse gland squeeze) … too many fishy bums
They even use it when they’re having melt downs as a coping tool for wayward-emotions.
“Too many chores on the dance floor! Too many chores…” my son screams between tears because he not only has to bring the bins up from the curb, but take out the rubbish AS WELL! Oh the humanity!
Too many bins on the dance floor!
Too many lectures on the dance floor! Too many lectures…
Too many embarrassing Mum’s on the dance floor…
There are too many to list.
Try it out. Basically slot any word in the song to suit. So versatile and guaranteed to make you smile no matter what the situation. I really love it after 3 minutes of online scrolling and feeling utterly inadequate as a mother because I don’t write sweet notes on my kids banana skins, or cut cloud shaped sandwiches they’ll throw in the bin uneaten, or remember their friends names, sometimes their names, or that we actually took them with to the shops with us…
“Too many abandoned kids on the Kmart floor!” they may or may not have yelled as they caught up, slightly panting.
“Too many whiners on the dance floor… too many whiners…” we responded and proceeded to whip out the dance moves at the Kmart entrance we may or may not have accidentally walked out of… without them. They were mortified. Much eye ball rollage. Mission accomplished.
They have no clue how rad their parents actually are. Bugger craft and play dates. This is where the real parenting is at… though probably shouldn’t be.
Regardless… THANK YOU Flight of the Conchords. I would be a most sad, dull puddle of a parent if it hadn’t been for your creations.