To give you an idea...

Of how fastiduous and ridiculous I am about this Understudy gig, I wanted to print out the music lyrics to the song I'm supposed to disrobe to. It's a cut, see, and like I've been telling folks: as long as I know how much time I have, and at what points I need to take off what-I'll be aces and applesauce. So I'm googling the lyrics and I have a WTF epiphany. Read'em or not, these are lyrics that you'd have been better off hearing the opening riff at a bar (after you 3rd or 4th cocktail) and going "Ahhhhhhhh! C'mon c'mon c'mmm (hic) ON! Isssss thhish shong!"

As a "ps", it was written by Harold Faltermeyer. The genius behind the memorable soundtracks to "Beverly Hills Cop" and "Top Gun". Yeah. Stick with instrumentals and synth's, Harry. These lyrics just ain't poetry. But really, who the fuck am I to judge?

By means of a "PPS". Eddie, the dude I'm understudying (And who after 2 weeks of a run I was hoping would start to sag or get flabby. But Noooooooo. He's still fucking cut. Prick.) told me that the original score for the stripper was just a cheesey vamp. They ki-boshed it in lieu of this lil' ditty.

By means of a "PPPS". If y'all remember the movie, this is the song that's playing in the "unemployment" section when the guys start dancing in line.

By means of a trivial "PPPPS", Prince Charles shot a commercial in England lampooning this very same scene.

HOT STUFF

Sittin' here eatin' my heart out waitin'
Waitin' for some lover to call (This means what now?)
Dialed about a thousand numbers lately
Almost rang the phone off the wall (Time for Internet dating, Donna)
CHORUS:
Lookin' for some hot stuff baby this evenin' (Ever try curry?)
I need some hot stuff baby tonight (Maybe Don Pablo's?)
I want some hot stuff baby this evenin' (okay)
Gotta have some hot stuff (Enough, dammit...we underSTAND!)
Gotta have some lovin' tonight (Ya ever try loving yourself? It's the first road to recovery)

I need hot stuff
I want some hot stuff
I need some hot stuff (Now this is just silly. By this time the listener should be at the store, buying tabasco for this poor woman. Clearly she's capescin deficient)

Lookin' for a lover who needs another
Don't want another night on my own (I may have read this wrong, but does this mean that she wants a 3-some?)
Wanna share my love with a warm blooded lover
Wanna bring a wild man back home (Right. Clearly Donna is tired of sex with reptiles, and has decided that mad hot yeti-sex is the way to go. Beware of mites, Donna. He's been outdoors for a long time)

REPEAT CHORUS

Sittin' here eatin' my heart out, no reason (Wow. This seems so, Aztec, of her)
Won't spend another night on my own (Cooooo-dependency issues.)
I dialed about a hundred numbers baby (A sure path to carpal-tunnel, wait and see)
I'm bound to find somebody home (Well sure. This is about as stupid as finding the weird names in the phone book and calling them. "Hi, is Sam Yang there?"/"No, this is Tim Yang"/"Oops! Looks like I rang the wrong Yang!" Donna Donna Donna. Your childish phone pranks are soooooo 7th grade, and a little bit insensitive. It's time we grew up, don't you think?")
REPEAT CHORUS (fade)