Friday, April 10, 2009

#110 BPM: Dancing to Britney's Indian Remix

Sunday, April 5, 2009

#17.5: Shooters (the Remix)

Last year Subhash and I were in the throes of SILDC and g-chatting about what else we could do to impress Indian girls online. Indian girls like Li'l Wayne, we surmised. Indian girls like Robin Thicke, too. Oh shit, we said to ourselves, you know what Indian girls rrrreally like? Shooters.

Since we're Indian, our originality stopped there and we fell back on the crutch all "creative" Indians use to support their wilting sense of humor - the song parody. We g-mailed the lyrics back and forth and even storyboarded a video we were going to shoot in Subhash's Chi-town condo (with a lakeview for about 3 more months until Bill Rancic builds another behemoth monstrosity further/farther East on Ohio street).

Unfortunately, we never got our hands on either an instrumental track or an Indian souljer that can sound like Robin Thicke. I let the lyrics lie under my bed for 10 months until I stumbled across them yesterday while looking for the last four years of my life. We decided to just post'em up so that the world can have but a vague sense of the magic and wonder it was denied when SILDC FLIMS PRESENTS "Shooters" ft. Smeezy and Bhupen Thicke folded in pre-production. Without further aloo.

"Shooters" ft. Smeezy and Bhupen Thicke (a.k.a. Thicky Rice)

Yea, yea, yea
Smeezy baby y'all, Get that Evite, should i say Pre-vite?
Lemon Drops, what you know about it
I brought my macaca along for the ride
He parched, he came here to talk to gujubabes and get wasted

[Bhupen Thicke]
I heard some shouts out down by the door
Then even louder, " We got shooters!" (shooters, shooters)

[For video: shot through door peep hole with fish eye of group of indian dudes holding up shot glasses and handles screaming]

It's Friday night and we're about to go out
But first we pre-party to liquor up good
Jumped right over counter / Pointed glass at Pinky, tell her
Here's your shooter (shooter, shooter)

Our hands are up, Our hands are up
We're dancing with our hands way up
We've got shooters

I think they want me to remember
But no, I can't do it [2x]

So many doubt 'cause I'm short and stout /
But when I open up my fridge only mixers come out
Pop! Ima pour it straight / make you drink a liquor lake
Ima play Top Chef and whip you up a rum souffle
I'm just trying to be the great / Tryna get a gujubabe
Take your girl out for a date / Though she Hindu feed her steak
She got a whole lot to say but I don't listen
Call me gastronomic Smeezy, bitch, get in the kitchen

[Bhupen Thicke + Smeezy]
With all these Richas and, all these Nishas
There ain't no loners around
They thinkin about shooters that-taste like that
Soco-Lime & lemons that - that Gujus get
Shoot shoot shoot shoot shooters

My hands are up
We're dancing with our hands way up
We're dancing with our hands way up
Oh, shooters

[Smeezy + Bhupen Thicke]
But I'm not
I just cry mama, I think they, hey
Me think they want me to remember (Shooter)

And to the Blogosphere, I'm tired o' being patient
Stop bein' self-loathing racists, region haters
Spectators, dictators, behind door dick takers
It's outrageous, you don't know how pointless your hate is
I want to give you a mirror to embrace it
But this is Indian face this
If we too complicated then y'all can't route your basic linksys

[Bhupen Thicke]
Lardhki asks for a Michelob Light
Look her up and down with my nearsighted eyes
I said, "If you gon get a beer, then you gon have to get outta here"
'Cause here's your shooterrrrrrrr!

Our hands are up, our hands are up
We dancing with our hands way up
Oh, Shooter [2x]

Me won't remember, me so pretender

Striped Shirt soakin' wet
I been bhangring y'all
I reload, every couple songs, need a shooter, I'm comin' for it
Better know me, Smeezy Baby just call me lord
Hard, take pain like Lassi Bombs, raw
Way past Agra, for, I'm some shit you never saw
I take you to the bar baby take shooters it's the law
And they say, you're Jain, and holy, you don't even eat cow
And, my reply was simply Amaretto Sour!

Mama, I think they, hey, me think they want me to remember
(Shooter, my hands up, my hands up, they want me to remember) [2x]

No, me won't remember, no, no
I promise no remember
I got my Priya
And I need some shooters