Foxtrot Uniform Charlie Kilo was (both beautifully self-aware poetry as well as) a nasty list of naughty words

If someone asked you to write a few paragraphs describing yourself, you mind find it to be a surprisingly difficult task. To be truly self-aware is not an easy thing to do gracefully.


One time a guy at work looked at me, pointed, and said, “Hey, there he is -- always has that cup of coffee.” I wanted to kill that guy, even though he was just describing outloud the state in which he always saw me: consuming my morning cup of coffee. “I’ll never drink coffee again, bitch,” I thought to myself. “You don’t know me.” This man had not sinned; he was just trying to get through the work day like any other person, and he happened to be one of my more astute coworkers. But his observations upset me.


It is, again, difficult to look inward and be truly honest with yourself.


2DED455C340950FCAB8B75C179D12DEC.jpg

I brought you all here today to discuss the lyrics of the Bloodhound Gang song “Foxtrot Uniform Charlie Kilo.” Will we rank the innuendos at the bottom of this blogpost? Sure. Whatever. But I think it’s worth noting (and important to note, damnit) the almost beautifully self-aware pre-chorus written by the band. It doubles as a clear mission statement as well as some of the aughts’ catchiest pop, and just because it’s squeezed between phrases like “cattle prod the oyster ditch” and “pressure wash the quiver bone” doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be appreciated.


The song, of course, uses the NATO phoenetic alaphabet to squeeze the word “fuck” onto pop charts. It is featured on the album “Hefty Fine” which was released in 2005 between “Hooray for Boobies” and “Show Me Your Hits.”


Now, I am not here to justify or glorify juvenile behavior. But I think it’s worth acknowledging how up front the band was, at all times, in telling us exactly what they intended to write pop songs about: fucking. (You likely remember their most famous chorus: “You and me, baby, ain’t nothin’ but mammals -- so let’s do it like they do on the Discovery Channel.”)


F.U.C.K. is both a vehicle to remind listeners what the band has set out to do (remind people that they can, and perhaps should, fuck) and a list of some of the most abhorrent descriptions of intercourse ever recorded.


I would like to set up the pre-chorus lyrics with a suggestion -- pretend the lead singer is on a first date. You could also pretend that he is sitting down with Barbara Walters during a career retrospective interview. She asks the following: What is it that you do?


“If I get you in the loop, er, when I make a point to be straight with you,” he might respond. “Then, in lieu of the innuendo, in the end know my intent.”


“Go on,” Barbara might say.


“Though I Brazilian wax poetic, so pathetically,” he would say. “I don't wanna beat around the bush.”


This is, of course, the aforementioned pre-chorus. If you chose to envision the first date version of this interaction, you could take what he said and chose to leave the restaurant immediately after he managed to squeeze both the word “bush” and phrase “Brazilian wax” into an otherwise eloquent response. He, at least, did not waste any of your time, stating plainly what interests him.


He even admits that his sex poetry is pathetic, working in the Brazilian wax pun to lighten the line. But why lie about it? Why be anything other than honest?


A quick glimpse at the Wikipedia page suggests the song was mostly written between friends via email, attempting to one-up each other with things that sounded gross, but the pre-chorus is entirely removed from this game. It is a disclaimer that’s spoken so quickly that it’s easy to miss. And though I’m not sure the song breaks even in terms of palatability just because that disclaimer is well-worded and catchy, but it acts as the “yang” to the ham-wallet “ying” the song brings to the listener.


I think that’s pretty much what I wanted to say before ranking the innuendos. It’s just really fucking good, and the song is more than a list of crass descriptions. The Bloodhound Gang are not shock-jocks. There is no shock value here. Just a direct mission to, as previously stated, remind people that they could (and probably should) be fucking.


“Put the you-know-what in the you-know-where, pronto,” the band sings as the guitar distortion fades.


OK here’s your damn list:


-cattle prod the oyster ditch with the lap rocket

-retro-fit the pudding hatch (ooh la la) with the boink swatter

-vulcanize the whoopee stick in the ham wallet

-power drill the yippee bog with the dude piston

-marinate the nether rod in the squish mitten 

-batter-dip the cranny axe in the gut locker

-pressure wash the quiver bone in the fish wrinkle

-cannonball the fiddle cove (ooh la la) with the pork steeple