Well, this one is a little bit late, but better late than never. In fairness to me, I spent the last two years in isolation, contemplating whether Pajama Boy was an epic troll of conservatives or an actual sign that feminization of the American Male is essentially complete. Turns out it wasn’t feminization but gentrification that I should have worried about. Hipsters followed my tracks to my theretofore ascetic lair, copying even my diet and manner of dress. Now there’s a two hour farm-to-table wait on Wednesday nights at Locust and Honey, and the juice bar is three-deep at all hours with sandal-clad Beardonistas in camel hair coats and cinched leather belts.
Clearly, I must move on. But as I close out my period of quiet reflection I give you Little Pajama Boy, to be sung to the tune of Little Drummer Boy:
Little Pajama Boy
Come they told me, pa rum pum pum pum
There will be herbal tea, pa rum pum pum pum
You’re fit to sell our ploy, pa rum pum pum pum
You are Pajama Boy, pa rum pum pum pum,
rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum,
Someone must pay for it, pa rum pum pum pum,
When it’s undone.
Little Baby, pa rum pum pum pum
I live with parents too, pa rum pum pum pum
I’ve no day job you know, pa rum pum pum pum
That makes me dress in clothes, pa rum pum pum pum,
rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum,
State will provide for me, pa rum pum pum pum,
Zero-sum.
Sister Julia nods, pa rum pum pum pum
Like me she is complete, pa rum pum pum pum
We need not find our mate, pa rum pum pum pum
We’re married to the State, pa rum pum pum pum,
rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum,
Who will pay for this? pa rum pum pum pum
Others’ income.