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"Hot blooded?" "Check it and see."
"Hot blooded?" "Check it and see."

Birds, Bees, and Rock 'n' Roll

If there's one thing in the world that doesn't make sense, it's how most offspring cringe at the discussion of mom and dad making sweet, sweet love. For most of us, revulsion ensues when the parental units lock the bedroom door to "turn in early." And menopause, high blood pressure, elephant balls, and vaginal dryness have nothing to do with the ick factor. It's simply the fear that the genitalia that popped you out keeps on kicking. It makes you feel more like a hairball salvaged from the bathroom pipes than the little angel, stork-delivered from heaven, that you know you really are.

Think again. Your parents were slap-happy fuckers too.

Furthermore, it is your patriotic duty as an American to have hot sex the way your soil-tilling forebears did, to populate the land from sea to shining sea. Real Americans -- not the corporate-generated brand of Americans© -- love sex. And that has everything to do with Foreigner, the classic rock band that, despite its recent break with lead singer Lou Gramm, is going long and strong into its 27th year. Foreigner is middle America's Marvin Gaye.

In fogie-fucking fact, odds are you were conceived to Foreigner. After all, these all-American (but mostly British) rockers' tunes fairly drip with hormones. Gen-Y, without further ado, here's the making of you in traumatizing detail:

"Feels Like the First Time" blasts from the eight-track on a bedside table littered with empty Coors Light cans.

Your virgin mom trembles with anticipation as your been-around-the-block dad sticks his hand up her plaid miniskirt.

As the chorus refrains "I would climb any mountain," pops ascends the mighty curves of your sweet young mommy.

Your diggity daddy does one better with the next line: Sail across a stormy sea. Hot damn! His vessel spelunks the dark trench's bottom and tickles that elusive sea sponge deep inside your almost-mama. And that's when the floodgates break.

Stuck and grinding, like a satyr going into convulsions -- rrrgh! mmff! -- your mom's sweat-soaked thighs radiate enough heat to melt the tape deck, even as it insists "Cold as ice, you know that you are."

"Not yet!" she moans as "Hot Blooded" shakes the rickety ceiling fan. She flips that "Dirty White Boy," a.k.a. your dad-to-be, like a little bitch. His eyes twinkle like a supernova ripe to explode as he screams, "Let me come!"

"All right, all right!" she pants, and strangles his nethers.

"Sweet Jesus!" he bellows as his body shakes.

And in that primal, sweaty, ferocious burst, a beautiful baby is made: you. -- Courtney Hambright

Foreigner rekindles the flame at 7:30 p.m. Tuesday, August 2, at Mizner Park Amphitheater, Federal Highway at NE Mizner Boulevard, Boca Raton. Tickets cost $35 to $45. Call 561-966-3309.

Sonic Surgery

Sheez, what a week -- three colonoscopies, two appendectomies, and a 90-year-old woman with a weird, smelly growth on her neck. And to top it all off, one of my patients threatened to pay me with a bullet in the butt because I kept him waiting so long for his checkup. He was a menacing-looking young dude, what with his low-hung Dickies and gold-plated teeth. But was I afraid? Not really. He's just another bored, somewhat maladjusted kid whose outlet is hip-hop.

Unlike the would-be cultural janitors on the Hollywood City Commission -- who want all those scary club people to go away (see the July 21 Beatcomber for the real dirt) -- I understand that kids need recreation the way Lindsay Lohan needs a meatball sandwich. But in my profession, we don't deal with hot tempers by passing convoluted ordinances (and Hollywood's DJ buster reads like the Elephant Man's MRI). Rather, we pass the buck -- to the most qualified quacks, er, psychologists. And because being a hip-hop star is more dangerous than working at an abortion clinic (one thing I'll never do again), the MMHA (Musical Mental Health Association) established a special event to quell those famously hot, hip-hop tempers -- the Anger Management Tour.

Headlined by two of the most famous feuders in hip-hop -- Eminem and 50 Cent -- the Anger Management Tour might be the only cure for embattled MCs. Think about it: It's been a while since you read about Eminem's pistol-whipping a fan or picking a fight with a sock puppet. He's been working hard to suppress his rage, and touring with a support group of his peers has done the trick better than any court ruling.

Speaking of which, it wasn't a doctor but a judge who ordered 50 Cent to sign up for anger management counseling, the result of a brawl the rapper got into after a fan pelted him with a bottle of water. The real question for 50 is whether he and his on-again, off-again rival, the Game, can keep the white flag flying. Though, for myself, there's an even bigger issue: whether that thug-erriffic patient of mine has a ticket to the concert. I'm not real hot on his idea for a payment plan. This rockin' doctor takes cash in hand, not cap in ass, thank you very much.

Findings: Beware: These dawgs bark and bite. Diagnosis: Rap rabies. Treatment: Crack open a can of Crunk!!! Juice Tuesday as the Anger Management Tour 3 rolls into Sound Advice Amphitheatre (check Night & Day for details). -- Doc Le Roc

Dropping Bombs

Recently, while stranded at a bus station in Newark, New Jersey (long story), Outtakes found a scrap of paper stuck to the sidewalk by what seemed to be a small nugget of high-grade marijuana. Peeled from the concrete, it read, "Meth -- We gotta get outta here! I'm at a wrap party for Seed of Chuckie, and I'm afraid for our careers. -- Red"

It got Outtakes thinking. Method Man got his breakthrough as a standout MC on Wu-Tang's 1994 ensemble classic, Enter the Wu Tang (36 Chambers) and has put out a slew of killer solo material. Newark's own Redman has had similar success, from '92's Whut? Thee Album to his latest project, the Gilla House Presents series, he's a chronic rhymesayer and producer of large-scale, skull-rattling beats. The two have been worshiping the weed and working together since the mid-'90s, culminating with 1999's full-length collabo, Blackout!. There's no question about their superstar status on the mic and behind the mixer. But this scribbled note hints that they're finally waking up to a fact everyone else has known for years: These guys are terrible on-screen.

Dizzy with thoughts of another film featuring the Red/Meth combo, Outtakes keeled over, smacked its head on pavement, and blacked out. A weird unconscious reverie followed (cue flashback waves)... There's Redman and Method Man, looming overhead in grotesque, 16-foot, silver-screened glory. Trapped and helpless in a dark, cavernous movie theater, thousands of hip-hop heads are subjected to a Red/Meth movie marathon. Straight outta '98, Belly bursts onto the screen like every other flick from the appropriately named Hype Williams, a heavy-handed coming-of-age story that proves "Method" doesn't apply to the rapper's acting style. Cut to 2001's stonerrific How High, a modern-day Cheech and Chong meets Legally Blonde. The shaky plot -- which takes the perpetually blazed pair to Harvard -- isn't stable enough to roll a blunt on. Fearing the worst, and getting it, this fictitious crowd bears witness to the last straw, last year's Seed of Chucky. Redman plays himself, but there's no way he's saving the Child's Play franchise, even accompanied by Jennifer Tilly's ample assets. Suddenly, the dream theater's roof pulls back and a deep funk-party beat comes down like aural manna from heaven (cue more flashback waves)... And then, Outtakes woke up, still clutching a crumpled piece of paper. But this one had a glossy sheen. It was a flier: Red and Meth are back together, on stage instead of on screen. Relieved and rejuvenated, Outtakes was on the next Greyhound to Florida. Redman and Method Man perform at 9 p.m. Friday, July 29, at Revolution, 200 W. Broward Blvd., Fort Lauderdale. Tickets cost $35 in advance, $39.50 the day of the show. Call 954-727-0950.

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