Proof that I should've been shot years ago

I've long had delusions of adequacy about my abilities as a songwriter/performer. The first song I can remember writing was at about age 13, a ditty called Friday Night's Weekend. It started out with the charming couplet:

2:35, ain't no jive
We scream on the bus, it's typical of us.

The song's refrain was:

It's a Fri, it's a Fri
It's a Friday night's a-weekend.

Luckily, there is no recorded version of this abomination. However, there is actual auditory proof of some of my later ugly, ugly songs, courtesy of my brother Tardist and his love of multi-track recording by any means necessary. We spent many years recording with two cassette decks, bouncing and adding tracks until we had muddy monsterpieces.

Eventually, I decided to record my songs under the name Singing Mammogram. When Tardist finally graduated to a real four-track recorder, he was kind enough to offer to help me record a set of my songs. The resulting four-song cassette was titled No One Will Be Seen With Me, and featured the unforgettably retarded tracks Mommy Makes Me Do My Hair This Way, King Jezebel, Losin' My Lipstick (in case the title is too subtle for you - yes, it's absolutely about sucky-sucky), and a tribute to Lizzy Borden called That Stuff on the Floor. The cassettes flew off the shelves, but that's only because my calico kept knocking them down.

Here's the cover I painted for the cassette, and then lovingly reproduced on the copy machine at work after hours:



And, for your dining, dancing, and vomiting pleasure, I present to you some of the worst singing you will ever hear, in the form of the snappy paean to an alleged axe murderess, That Stuff on the Floor. (Note: By clicking on the "play" button, you take full responsibility for any blood that happens to squirt from your ears while listening)