Archive Post: _Goodbye Bikini Island_ "Lyrics"

Some people ask me what some of our samples are "saying", so I like to write all of them out for everybody. I know for those who aren't scratch nerds that it can be a little tricky to follow the words sometimes.

Anyway, here they are:

Archive Post: A Belated Hosey Newsletter

Greetings Jr. Inner-Space Cadets!

I've been incommunicado for a long minute. Here's what's popping:

Archive Post: Hosey Newsletter (#01)

Howdy Cowboys and Cowgirls,
 

V II Declassified -- Item 6: Crescent Run II

"[Don't mind him,]" Trilby tilts his head towards Kevin, "[he has a speech impediment. He's shy about it.]" The idling car full of Hitler Youth share a chuckle about this. The driver sweeps his arm in the air, signaling Kevin and Trilby to get in the backseat. The three teenagers had just passed through the town of Colditz when they spotted the two of them walking along the roadside. Kevin and Trilby are ID'd as German soldiers by their field grey infantry coats; the boys stopped to offer them a lift to wherever they're going.

V II Declassified -- Item 5: How To Build a Better Mouse Trap

Kevin is half-drunk and falling through the sea. The ferocious currents of the Gulf Stream propel him like a heavy artillery shell headed for reinforced concrete. The currents are layered, each one flowing in its own direction, and as Kevin sinks through them he feels like a baby being rocked to sleep during a bombing run. Looking up, he sees the moon wavering at the water's surface, briefly obscured by the violence of the surf. The stars won't keep still long enough for him to spot any constellations, but he's pretty sure he wouldn't be able to figure out where he was anyway. Tiring of this scene, he lifts an arm to push against the water to flip himself over and finds himself spiraling through the sea currents like a perfectly launched football. He slows to a stop facing the ocean floor and spies an airplane flying parallel with him about three hundred feet below. The propellers slice through the water unperturbed, stirring up thousand of small bubbles that engulf Kevin, tickling their way into every loose seam of his fatigues. He considers for a moment that this is what it feels like to be vanilla ice cream dropped in a fresh glass of Barqs' root beer. He's in danger of drifting to sleep dreaming about cold root beer floats, made with Barqs'. Always and only Barqs'. But, there are more important things to deal with right now, like why is there a U.S. aircraft swimming hundreds of feet under the sea? Kevin knows it's not just Allied, but specifically a U.S. plane. Not only that, he knows what model it is. He's pretty sure he has flown aboard one like it before. Oh shit! he thinks, then aloud, "I'm on the plane!" The words squeeze through his larynx and burst out of his mouth as bubbles almost three feet in diameter that descend forward beneath him for a brief moment before exploding into titanic ripples, obscuring all sensation.