I like to think that I am both hip and with it. I know all about you youngsters with your raccoon coats and Eton crops. I've seen your flickers, even the gun operas. I can certainly assure you I ain't no schnookle. You'll never find me krumping out in some nodbox. I know the slang, and you can too!
After Dewdroppers, Waldos, and Slackers, you'll feel posolutely spiffy, free of all that high hat applesauce all the Babbits are hipped on. It's no payola here, just the straight skinny from a regular thrill.
Dan Burley's Jive will leave you struttin' down the main trill, so cop a squat and tune in your mikes for some heavy lard. The question is, "To dig or not to dig," and if you can't dig, you blow. Just take a powder and go.
And before you douse the Edisons, pad your skull with Straight from the Fridge, Dad. It won't take a shamus to dig this lick. It's the gonest little book in the world, and you'd have to be a schmo from Kokomo if it doesn't leave you steppin' on the gas.
What can I say after that? So long, Pal. Be pure.
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