WAIT'LL YOU SEE WHAT SHE DOES FOR A PAN FLUTE

You might think that the hot girls go for guitar players or singers, or whatever instrument Gene Simmons plays. But real musicians know where the quality poontang is. And that’s the bouzoukee. Just the sound of the lustful Greek stringed instrument brings out the inner tigress in every Mary Tyler Moore lookalike, and better yet, causes them inexplicably to strip down to a sheer nightgown and start twirling around like Stevie Nicks in heat. Don’t ask why, there’ve been studies and they’ve all amounted to nothing. All you need to know is this - no matter how cool you think you look playing that Gibson Flying V, the girls are still gonna run right past your ass to get to the bouzoukee player. And if he’s playing in “hi-fi,” Jesus, just forget it. Might as well be a drummer.

ANYTHING ABOVE THE NECK IS UNIMPORTANT

As a kid, I always hated having to go to visit my mom’s brothers and sisters. You’d see them once every two years, and then they’d always grab you by the ears and say something like “Last time I saw you, you were only THIS big” or something stupid like that, and then they’d slap you about the neck and face with a shank of raw beef. Except my Uncle Tanous. I couldn’t wait to go see Uncle Tanous, partly because he lived above a strip club, and partly because he always got my older cousins to dress up like harem girls and dance around the dining room when Mom and Dad were playing gin rummy in the basement. “If you ever tell your parents what we do in here, I’ll slice your throat from ear to ear,” he’d whisper to me right before we all climbed back in the El Camino for the long ride home, but by then I didn’t care. I was in love.

DOUBLE YOUR PREASURE...

They say America is the land of opportunity, but if you’re a beautiful pair of Siamese twin hotties conjoined at the head, fuck that – the only place you’re gonna find modeling work is Japan, my four-legged friend. At least there, they can exploit your freakish spindly interchangeable arms and treat you like the sexed-up Swinging Sixties Kali you really are. Jesus, how can any man resist this – it’s an instant threesome, forgodsake! Great cover, deducted a few points because it looks like Walt Disney cropped it.

I HAD A NIGHTMARE LIKE THIS ONCE...

“Alright people, we’re doing the cover shoot for the new Million Sellers of the 50’s album, so let’s get that model on the set!”
“But sir, she’s still in wardrobe…”
“I don’t care if she’s half naked, get her out here NOW!!”

WE'VE COME A LONG WAY IN 50 YEARS, HAVEN'T WE?

Well hello dare Massuh Banjo! You get the distinction of being the very FIRST bad record cover here on the Island of Misfit Vinyl. Because you suck on so many levels. The hair, the shirt - they're all wrong. And lawdy be, that ain't even a good blackface! I sees “Camptown Races” made the cut, and it wouldn’t surprise me if “Ol’ Man River” and “Pick a Bale of Cotton” are also on here, nor would it surprise me if these albums were originally sold somewhere outside of Knoxville by a guy named Cletus from the back of a giant Ford F150 with a gun rack and horn that plays “Dixie.” No doubt about it, “Hey, Mr. Banjo” is bad on so many levels it transcends bad. And if you’re not sure why, don’t even axe.

WELCOME TO THE ISLAND OF MISFIT VINYL!

Bad album covers, you know you've seen 'em. Just ask any member of Black Sabbath, or that albino German guy who calls himself Heino. Some make it to cutout bins, others last long enough to get their pictures in bad album cover books like Vixens of Vinyl or on other webpages devoted to the subject (and there are quite a few). But sooner or later, they all have to die. And this is where they come. The Island of Misfit Vinyl. A Graphic Design Graveyard. Creativity Crypt. So grab your garlic and crucifix and come on in. I never said they were friendly...