this is the lyrical version that is included in the living human curiosity sideshow, the lyrics booklet that aesop released with "fast cars ..."
television. all hail grand pixelated god of fantasy murderscape bent perspective. fuck a soar channel change digit, i sit with a nasty network intravenous plan with a staple diet of my cable pirate. the doctor is in, the doctor is on. born a bastard son of static radiants cloned and welcomed in every home. let a blue screen bruise dream canopy. victim of the cursed nurse technicolor drunk support team. i love all advertisements, though accused by robot newscasters to capture and pollute spoon-fed hazardous fog to joy luck catholic squad. please take me, please calm me, please make me a zombie. please, i want to donate my brain to the monstrous panasonic prophet. now, 21st century plague dispersed to wide-eyed glamour addict patients, telecast patrons. glue me to propaganda banners. well, sure i'll be a marine with a clean sword and blue uniform, it only takes a dollar and a dream. and i abide, great idiot box power supply fuzz vapor. black out in new york? hey honey, get the generator. i'm in a doom generator pacing. ancient electric secret: never sleep in to miss the A.M. oasis. "hi, my name is ..." a wired heart sloppy obligation turned my stilt into my guilt, inhabit shadow box blame frame adjacent station. make reality scramble to suck the life out of a hidden vandal and loving every minute of the gimmick. change the channel. plug it in, turn it on. prop me up against the couch. lights out, i ain't ever gonna have to leave my house. satellite dish kit up on my wishlist, turn me to a tyrant. let my clean spirit dissolve through the appliance. plug it in, turn it on. be my mother when she's gone. great, wipe the spittle off my chinny chin during the breaks. if i gotta go blind, i'ma do it for the love of all television kind and that's fine, that's fine. make me a star. i want to touch gold. hold me suspended in a dream merely inches from the screen. deleted passions sacrificed to one electron monster, crucify my little future to the monitor. damn it feels good. turn on, tune in, zoom in to hug the bug up in your family function, but the children seem to love it. smother me in wild discovery and herd the static flock to where i sleep by the glow of that magic box. speaker. stereo mastered orphan kid of freak seekers, eyes spiraling. tangled in the star spangled wiring. i could surf intoxicated visuals 'til all the kings' horses abort the loyalty to royalty. fuck the fortress. riddle me with glee. hoist the end all teleprompter above my sleeping head. i'll be dead by morning anyway. color my values with mundane humor in thirty minute tickets to feel the magnetic seal, picket censorship. i want commercials 24-7, i want to shop from my bed and make an example for all my overworked underpaid brethren. i bond with a sin stricken correspondence and lurk in circuitry circus with allegiance pledged beyond the glass surface. adamant students within the fine school of possessed graduate catalysts, channel zero addict immaculate. it goes big screen, little screen, any screen will do. just let me hold the controller and i won't have to murder you. plug it in, turn it on. let my little eyes glaze. twenty screens lined up along the borders of the maze. i want to see the five day forecast fourteen days in advance so i can give my two weeks notice every time the sun dance. plug it in, turn it on. silent flicks better than nothing. let a once divine soul feel the functions of the hypnotist. the viciousness ridiculous, piquing a dummy's interest. touch the power button, meet your maker; ain't that something? plug it in, turn it on. say goodbye to sunday afternoon. fix the antenna, sit back, and let disaster bloom. it's a beautiful sight with a most ugly intention, but i taste it every day and bathe inside the consequences. plug it in, turn it on. never once have you talked back to me, your majesty. i love you. i despise you. my everyday is sitcoms, soaps, news, bad dramatization. come along with me, my friend, for the most glorious sensation.
this is the lyrical version that is included in the living human curiosity sideshow, the lyrics booklet that aesop released with "fast cars ..."
television. all hail grand pixelated god of fantasy murderscape bent perspective. fuck a soar channel change digit, i sit with a nasty network intravenous plan with a staple diet of my cable pirate. the doctor is in, the doctor is on. born a bastard son of static radiants cloned and welcomed in every home. let a blue screen bruise dream canopy. victim of the cursed nurse technicolor drunk support team. i love all advertisements, though accused by robot newscasters to capture and pollute spoon-fed hazardous fog to joy luck catholic squad. please take me, please calm me, please make me a zombie. please, i want to donate my brain to the monstrous panasonic prophet. now, 21st century plague dispersed to wide-eyed glamour addict patients, telecast patrons. glue me to propaganda banners. well, sure i'll be a marine with a clean sword and blue uniform, it only takes a dollar and a dream. and i abide, great idiot box power supply fuzz vapor. black out in new york? hey honey, get the generator. i'm in a doom generator pacing. ancient electric secret: never sleep in to miss the A.M. oasis. "hi, my name is ..." a wired heart sloppy obligation turned my stilt into my guilt, inhabit shadow box blame frame adjacent station. make reality scramble to suck the life out of a hidden vandal and loving every minute of the gimmick. change the channel. plug it in, turn it on. prop me up against the couch. lights out, i ain't ever gonna have to leave my house. satellite dish kit up on my wishlist, turn me to a tyrant. let my clean spirit dissolve through the appliance. plug it in, turn it on. be my mother when she's gone. great, wipe the spittle off my chinny chin during the breaks. if i gotta go blind, i'ma do it for the love of all television kind and that's fine, that's fine. make me a star. i want to touch gold. hold me suspended in a dream merely inches from the screen. deleted passions sacrificed to one electron monster, crucify my little future to the monitor. damn it feels good. turn on, tune in, zoom in to hug the bug up in your family function, but the children seem to love it. smother me in wild discovery and herd the static flock to where i sleep by the glow of that magic box. speaker. stereo mastered orphan kid of freak seekers, eyes spiraling. tangled in the star spangled wiring. i could surf intoxicated visuals 'til all the kings' horses abort the loyalty to royalty. fuck the fortress. riddle me with glee. hoist the end all teleprompter above my sleeping head. i'll be dead by morning anyway. color my values with mundane humor in thirty minute tickets to feel the magnetic seal, picket censorship. i want commercials 24-7, i want to shop from my bed and make an example for all my overworked underpaid brethren. i bond with a sin stricken correspondence and lurk in circuitry circus with allegiance pledged beyond the glass surface. adamant students within the fine school of possessed graduate catalysts, channel zero addict immaculate. it goes big screen, little screen, any screen will do. just let me hold the controller and i won't have to murder you. plug it in, turn it on. let my little eyes glaze. twenty screens lined up along the borders of the maze. i want to see the five day forecast fourteen days in advance so i can give my two weeks notice every time the sun dance. plug it in, turn it on. silent flicks better than nothing. let a once divine soul feel the functions of the hypnotist. the viciousness ridiculous, piquing a dummy's interest. touch the power button, meet your maker; ain't that something? plug it in, turn it on. say goodbye to sunday afternoon. fix the antenna, sit back, and let disaster bloom. it's a beautiful sight with a most ugly intention, but i taste it every day and bathe inside the consequences. plug it in, turn it on. never once have you talked back to me, your majesty. i love you. i despise you. my everyday is sitcoms, soaps, news, bad dramatization. come along with me, my friend, for the most glorious sensation.