The Designer’s Drugs: Sweat Boys – EP

Medium: Album

Stimulus: Sweat Boys – EP

Anno: 2011

This toe in the water by a group of synth-minded La Crosse goons is a damn good introduction, full of new wave swing which transforms from silly and speedy to romantic and grandiose.  The three tracks on this disc remind me a lot of the Human League, bearing a sort of electronic manic depression that loses none of its immediacy by being gloomy.

“Sweat Boys” the song begins the disc with a hyper sense of perversion, giving the imagery of two guys getting drunk, pissed off, and oiled up before wrestling in a dark alley.  Following this is “See You Dance,” a bouncing story of dancefloor rebound which starts to veer the album toward apocalyptic longing.  This mood hits its climax in the striking “Cold War Lovesong,” which soars as it despairs.

The work on this EP is excellent, a perfect example of electronic dance music.  I do have a very slight complaint that the songs’ production sometimes leaves vocalist Ben Koch’s singing feeling less forceful and a bit secondary to the music.  Nonetheless, I cannot wait to hear a full album.


Bizarro Masterpiece Theatre: Seth

This is about as tame as it's going to get.

Seth (1995)

What follows is a tale of unearthed treasure.  I’m not certain of all the details of how this gem returned to the world, but I do know that the video was found in the vaults of the Warehouse Nightclub in La Crosse, where it lay dormant for roughly 15 years.  Once rediscovered, the video was quickly uploaded to YouTube by Bizarro enabler Ben Koch, who brought it to my attention.  It promptly blew my brains out with its disturbing genius.

Seth Mitchell, who with his sweet mustache and insatiable eroticism comes off as a gay Burt Reynolds, spends about six minutes leering at the camera, gyrating and writhing around in various states of undress.  There are, in fact, moments where Seth is wearing nothing at all, and while most of the shots are no more explicit than any risqué photo shoot, there is that one scene in the shower where Seth’s balls, beneath his arched back and slutty pose, are clearly in view.

This is the tasteful nude shot.

Musically – and, oh yeah, I almost forgot there was music – Seth sounds like a cross between old timey industrial clanging and perhaps a lo-fi version of the repetitive anthems of Gary Glitter.  Vocally Seth sounds a bit like Q Lazzarus, the wistful yet forceful vocalist behind the tuck-it-back anthem “Goodbye Horses.”  Though I’m not even certain of the song’s title, Seth repeats “Can you feel it?” enough times that I’m assuming this to be the title.  Indeed, the song itself is essentially a hypnotic, droning mantra which serves little beyond providing music to accompany Seth’s striptease.

What’s greatest about this long and overwhelmingly uncomfortable video clip is that it was sent to the Warehouse in hopes of setting up a gig.  Originally, I felt as though I ought to compare this to someone sending self-made softcore pornography to a prospective employer – but then I realized that this is exactly what happened.  Seth Mitchell sent softcore pornography of himself to a venue, looking for a gig.  I applaud that sense of audacity.  I wish that more people – especially in real life – had Seth’s (ahem) balls.

This man is a champ!

Here it is!  (NSFW)

Y Marks the Spot: Robot Like Me

Kevin the Robot. Hate Crime Target.

CJ Slugger came back into town this past week, and my best friend and I immediately returned to our old bastardries. Friday night marked the continuation of our hazardous and awesome friendship. Accompanied by a Leprechaun in a Batman mask, the rat bastard fired bottle rockets at my apartment, cloaked in the dank shadows of the Salvation Army. After inviting them into my home and belittling Bat-Leprechaun until he danced to Rick Astley, we strolled downtown to meet the rest of our gang of jerks. When we arrived on Pearl Street, they were nowhere to be found. Our Casino enabler informed us that the creeps had gone around the corner to take in the sublime Top 40 metal of Happening’s. And they had taken the robot costume with them.

As a self-respecting homoerotic Saved by the Bell punk band, my Beldings decided that a robot was desperately needed to take our live act to a higher (read: watchable) level. And so, my band mates Dner and the Kolonel crafted one out of silver spray painted boxes and arms of aluminum tubing. Kevin the Robot was reborn, straight from the beautiful Saturday mornings of my pre-teenhood. At our last live show, we garbed the Leprechaun in this mechanical masterpiece and made him dance for the kiddies, accompanied by Rick Astley (again), Ace of Base, and “One Night in Bangkok.” It killed. That night ended with me wearing Kevin while riding a bike around Pearl Street, and finding myself in the Library, grinded upon by floozies. The future of robots looked bright. Friday would prove the folly of our childlike optimism.

We entered the metal bar, where two Beldings and a Reverend stood round the robo-gear, drinking heavily. Evidence of machine rampage was distinctly absent. This uncomfortable situation needed to be taken care of. I put on the costume and started circle pitting in front of the dartboards. Unfortunately, this was when anti-robot prejudice began to rear its ugly hydra heads. Owing in part to the strength of his drink, but also due to his deep-seeded rage against the metal ones, the Reverend leveled a firm punch to my titanium jaw. My heightened android powers could have easily deflected the blow, but for a flap of loose cardboard which caught me in the eye. Enraged, I retaliated with a robo-kick to the Reverend’s nether regions that would have made Mecha-Godzilla proud. Afterwards, some hoser wanted me to deck him, and we decided that it was time to leave.

Dner wore Kevin back to the Casino, where we encountered a truly obscene example of robot hate crime. As one gentleman offered him a dollar to dance, a drunken broad ambled over and began to pummel our robot with fists and purse, while her mongo friends cheered her on. Though we switched Dner out with CJ Slugger, who ultimately bested this tramp, the damage was done. Our circuit board scars would never heal, not even at the best efforts of a nice young gentleman who kowtowed and screamed “Domo Arigato, Mister Roboto!” at us.

Robotkind needed to go to a place where it would be fully accepted – so we decided to go to Players. I suited up as Kevin once again and extended my robo-arms to Doctor Octopus length, determined to prove that not everyone in this town despised Daft Punk and the Short Circuit movies. Yet from the moment of our Casino exodus, we were subject to all kinds of wretched intolerance. Outside of Jeff and Jim’s I was offered a dollar to give some dame an android lap dance, a proposition which I regrettably accepted. Following this, one of my arms was viciously ripped to shreds by the jackals of Pearl Street. My own friends helped in my dismemberment! And when the cops saw this heinous act of violence, did they extract justice from my attackers? No! Instead, the law berated me for cluttering up the sidewalk, and told me to be on my way. Thankfully, I found sanctuary within Players’ disco lights and throbbing dance music. Alongside Bat-Leprechaun, this one-armed automaton danced the night away. But even here, a few hateful pricks felt the need to punch an innocent android, though at this point, I was numb to the insensitivity.

Dner donned the costume again, and we made the most glorious strategic error of the night – we went to Bronco’s. The animosity between country music aficionados and robots was well entrenched in our minds, but we were prepared to extend the olive branch. The apes that jealously guarded the dancing sluts on the pool table had other ideas. We left quickly.

Finally, we went to Yesterdays, where robotkind was finally accepted and welcomed, and more importantly, not punched or assaulted. The night was mercifully over, but from that night on I faced an endless wave of scorn from my fellow humans. “Hey, we heard you dressed up like a robot!” they sneered. “We heard that you danced around like an idiot!” It is a cruel brand that I may never escape.

Friday night exposed us to the sinister underbelly of La Crosse, an event that has eclipsed our collective innocence. As such, we have chosen to side with the machines when they inevitably take over the earth and make you monkeys their smelly pets and cyborg-mommies. I offer our Decepticon overlords one critical piece of advice – don’t look like a 50s sci-fi typecast. If you dress up like an iPod, the humans will tickle you like you were the almighty Pillsbury Doughboy. Nobody will see you coming. Initiate ass kicking sequence. Bzzt.


Y Marks the Spot: My Stupidest Maneuver

Artistic Reenactment

The original plan for this week’s column was of a more political bent. Due to the abundance of tin foil helmeted townie psychos I’ve had to slog through in the past year, I was going to explain my own government conspiracy theory. The first half of my theory states that if I was a willing member of a corrupt government, I’d disguise my footsteps by filling the heads of all the twitchy, unwashed ambulance chasers with all the grassy knoll stories they could eat. I’d set up a few fake government watchdog sites, some group like what the 9/11 Truth people have going on, have a crew of fake militia types shore up a crowd, and then I’d send the creeps loose to warn the rest of the nation. I would do all this because, well, nobody takes vagrant psychopaths seriously, and the more they scream about federal schemes, the more the general public is willing to discount ALL conspiracies as the pipe dreams of vagrant psychopaths. After that rampage of disinformation, I’d be free to conspire at will.

But with the exception of the second half, there’s not much more to say. So let’s lighten things up with a story about something that happened to me this week. Like the title says, it may be the most (gloriously) stupid thing I’ve ever been responsible for.

* * *

It was Friday. I had come home from work in the evening and knocked off for a few hours on my couch. It was dark when I came to, the only light coming from the faint green Christmas bulbs in the living room. It took some time for me to scrape myself upright and get ambulatory. A rash of phone calls followed. Very few people were out and about, and the few friends who were doing anything lurked within a collective house, a few blocks away. The location was close enough to not require a car (I almost never drive within mainland La Crosse), yet far enough away that I’d rather bike the distance.

Before I left, however, I required some typical Friday night preparation. By the time I mounted my bike and left the house, I was, to put it diplomatically, in a state.

The ride over went fine. I was coherent, riding in straight lines, and even had my bike light on. I arrived at the dark, ramshackle wooden porch, where the expected crowd hadn’t materialized. Those outside the house loitered atop the dirt and grass, smoking cigarettes and no doubt wishing for more excitement to fall from the sky. After an unknown period of time the home team went inside to sleep, the away team drifted away, and I shambled over to my bicycle as a rainstorm materialized within seconds.

I want to say that what followed next happened because of the darkness and rain, but I would be lying.

So focused was I on getting home through the storm that it didn’t immediately dawn on me that my bike light was on the opposite end of the handlebars. When this was noticed, I thought it had slipped from its attachment, though it didn’t move when I tried to pull it back into position. The hell with it, I thought, and I rotated the light so that it illuminated the road, upside down.

After a while, I realized that not only was my light out of position but my hand brakes were behind my hands, not in front of them. A block from home, the truth slipped into my brain. I had ridden nine blocks in a rainstorm with my handlebars turned backwards.

The usual idiot, when becoming aware of such a folly, would take stock of the situation and fix it in a rational way. Not me. Still in motion and invincible in ignorance of the laws of physics, I wrenched my handlebars to their correct direction.

The wheel wobbled, and I soon hurtled over my bicycle and landed in the soft, wet grass. On the ground, I howled with a joyous and wholly inappropriate laughter.

There were no injuries, and almost no possessions were broken. When I finally called off the mirth and stood up, however, I realized that the front tire of my bike had folded in half. All things considered, the destruction was minimal, a sign of providence which only confirmed my sense of fortune about the whole experience. Lifting the machine by its damaged limb, I wheeled it the final block home, locked it in the garage, and slept like a champion.

* * *

There’s no conventional moral to this act of brilliance beyond the usual condemnations and perhaps an endorsement for protective headgear. But what I took from the adventure, and what was in mind as I recounted the story ad nauseum to all my friends, is that one can find joy and fun in anything, even while staring down the gun barrel of danger. In fact, danger – outside of simple masochism – might well be a crucial ingredient for such happiness.

Which brings me to the second half of my conspiracy theory. If I wanted total control of a population, I’d give the people everything they wanted or dreamed of, every impulse fulfilled at the click of a button. Because what do you get for the man who has everything? Everything to lose.

Jammin’ George: LOCAL HERO.

Jammin' George

The first thing I noticed when I met up with local comedian and surrealist Jammin’ George was that he had a bobble-head of himself sitting on his table. It wasn’t a total likeness; the sculpture reminded me of Harry Caray whereas George, a big man with close-cropped white hair and rectangular black glasses, looks more like Drew Carey. But the fact that Jammin’ George commissioned a bobble-head to be made of him is stunning. It’s one more way by which he crawls into one’s head and wreaks havoc.

My relationship with Jammin’ George is full of such brain-melting incidents. Earlier in the year, my cohort Shuggypop Jackson got a hold of me and delivered an urgent message: he had something he had to show me. His offering was Jammin’ George’s Land of Fun, an hour-long video in which George dances to music, reads poetry, does impersonations, and films his television. It’s one of the most bizarre videos I’ve ever seen, but the strangest thing is that I’ve watched it so many times that I’m no longer fazed.

The Sweet Shop janitor known on his paychecks as George Haug is a joyous man, quick to ham it up and not given to extensive self-examination. The one thing he isn’t is a one trick pony. Land of Fun, which was made circa 2006, is his newest project, but Jammin’ George has been around for decades. In that time, he’s also been a stand-up comedian, written his own newsletter, and released three comedy albums. His current goals are to get some of his videos up on YouTube and perhaps make it to the Twin Cities to do a few shows.

“I’ve been a comedian since the early 80s,” said George. “I started out writing newsletters, these ‘Jam Reviews.’ Then at Popcorn Tavern’s open mics I would get up and do a little schtick, little jokes, and they asked me to do more and more. [I usually perform] once a month, maybe once every other month. I haven’t done it for a while.”

George described his stand-up as such: “I do one-liners, but I also do impressions or lip-sync somebody, like Roger Whittaker’s ‘Wind beneath My Wings.’”

His influences, both in comedy and beyond it, range from the obvious to the surprising. George is a big fan of Chris Farley, John Candy, Dan Aykroyd, John Belushi, and Bill Murray, but he’s also into surreal artists such as Jackson Pollock and Pablo Picasso. In reading his newsletters I picked up an affinity for Tracy Chapman and the Grateful Dead. The fact that he likes the expectation-shattering Andy Kaufman is no surprise.

He LOVES Alice from The Brady Bunch.

George’s newsletter, The Jam Review, captures the full spirit of Jammin’ George. The volumes which George brought to the interview ranged from 1989 to 2001, and were filled with one-liners, poetry, photography, and strange stories. One story described “The Weekend from Hell,” in which George had to deal with his shiftless brother-in-law, who drank heavily and stuck George with the bills. In one edition there’s an autograph from Danica McKellar, who played Winnie Cooper from The Wonder Years. Her picture next to the autograph is in negative, giving the whole exhibit a disturbing quality.

“I had my dad’s secretary type them up, and I took them to the printer. I was taking them to RC Printing, down by WKBT. I had about 12 issues, about 100 or so [copies], and they’d have them at the Co-Op or Deaf Ear. It was kind of fun, but my brother goes: ‘You don’t think people are actually gonna read these?’ They were very odd.”

The Jammin' George Audio Collection

Jammin’ George followed this project up with audio recordings, beginning with a series of tapes and resulting in three comedy albums. In chronological order, they are Giving the Fans What They Want, The Joke’s On You, and Jammin’ George’s Buffet. The old tapes were mostly helmed by Chris Zobin or John Boyle, frequent contributors to Jammin’ George’s misadventures. Boyle also helped produce Fans, whereas Ken Eisler helped create the two latter albums. Though much of what I heard on the audio recordings consisted of one-liners, Jammin’ George attempted to translate his entire act to the albums. “At the end [of Buffet] I sing ‘Cheer Up, Charlie,’ and I’ll sing that song by Barry Manilow, ‘I Write the Songs,’ except it’s ‘I Write the Jokes.’”

A few smaller videos followed, filmed by George’s neighbor John Ross, before the pair created Jammin’ George’s Land of Fun. On the differences between recording an album and a video, Jammin’ George said: “When you’re doing a CD you can read the whole thing; you almost have to wing it in a video, but it’s the most fun.”

Jammin’ George isn’t in this for the money. George has released roughly a hundred copies of each newsletter, album, and video, and most of the time he gives them away for free. With his video, the reason is partly because he’s playing copyrighted music and filming television shows, so there would be an easy infringement case if he tried to turn a buck. But the greater truth is that he would rather someone find his work for free than not find it at all. An example came during my interview as George gave me a t-shirt featuring the Jammin’ George bobble-head, with no thought of repayment.

It’s one more way in which Jammin’ George sets himself apart from typically safe and fantastically average comedians. The current state of comedy doesn’t impress George much. “It’s pretty lame. Most [comedians] always tell the same [jokes],” he explained. The problem, in his estimate, is that it’s too easy to predict what a comedian will be like.

Do people know what to expect from Jammin’ George? After laughing long and hard, he answered: “Maybe, sometimes.”

Oh yeah. He has a bobblehead.

Bizarro Masterpiece Theatre: Jammin’ George’s Land of Fun

Jammin' George

I don’t know what the hell I just saw. I just know that it’s Shuggypop’s fault. He got a hold of me today, saying that he had the perfect movie for me to feature in Bizarro Masterpiece Theatre. Intrigued, I invited him to my house, where he proceeded to show me the most mind-blowing thing I’ve seen since Trailer Town. I can best describe it as a home video variety show for the insane, hosted by a man with the body of Drew Carey and the rockin’ soul of Wesley Willis. And best of all, this guy is local. Jammin’ George found Shuggy and gave him one of the only copies of his Land of Fun, and our lives are forever changed by its majesty. I made a list of all the crazy shit that happens in Jammin’ George’s hour of power. That list is three times as long as this review is going to be.

Jammin’ George’s Land of Fun is roughly divided into a few themes: where George rocks out to music, where George talks to the camera and tells jokes, puppet shows, poetry reading, impersonations, long musical numbers, and bits where George just films whatever’s playing on television. As could be guessed, it’s roughly made and even more roughly edited. There are multiple times where George tells the cameraman to stop filming, the camera occasionally shows the time and date, and those long musical numbers get uncomfortably Kaufmaneque toward the end. But similar to the music of Wesley Willis, you have to take the rough to get the diamonds – and the diamonds are many.

Immediately, Jammin’ George takes no prisoners. He gets things started by wearing a purple beret and whirling around a countryside while “The Sound of Music” plays. The opening sketches are great, but the first one that really knocked me on my ass what when George wears a hot pink shirt and a hot pink feather boa and sashays around to the theme of “The Young and the Restless.” After a series of sketches in which his gray t-shirt gets progressively sweatier, he launches into a puppet show based on the Land of Make-Believe from Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood, where the cats get jobs cleaning King Friday’s bathroom. After a Manilow-inspired musical tribute to Oprah, George begins a few of those lengthy music and television phases, the most surprising two being a performance by Billy Corgan on the Bozo the Clown Show, and George filming a video of himself singing “The Wind Beneath My Wings.” A robot would have died from paradox at that point.

And then, there’s much, much more glorious ridiculousness.

Jammin’ George. LOCAL HERO.

The Land of Fun!

Here are the notes I compiled as I allowed Jammin’ George to destroy my fragile little mind.

* * *

A variety show for the insane.

A cross between Drew Carey, Jim Gaffigan, and Wesley Willis

* * *

*George dancing to the Sound of Music in a purple beret

*Foxworthy Redneck joke.  Bambi is the bible for hunters, and apparently Bambi is the story of the birth of Jesus

*“What would Alice from the Brady Bunch do at a time like this?” and then proceeds to sing.

*George provides rim shots to George Burns doing jokes at a Friar’s Roast while filming a picture of a rubber chicken.  Then, a rim shot to “Get your damn hands off me, you damn dirty ape!”

*A creepy 12 Days of Christmas “Three burritos farting…”

*In a pink blazer and boa, swishing around to the theme from “The Young and the Restless.”

*Rock music playing over a pic of George and his mom (I think)

* * *


*Gray shirt phase one: Interpretive dance to “Memory” from Cats, wearing a Pikachu coonskin cap, wearing a gray t-shirt that gets progressively sweatier as the sketches wear on

*Gray shirt phase two: stop motion to a rock out to the Rolling Stones’ “Beast of Burden.”

*Gray shirt phase three: “Hello, Clarice,” into the phone.  Then asks for milk from Kwik Trip and promises loving.  Then hangs up and stares at the phone for an uncomfortable amount of time.

*Gray shirt phase four: Flailing and dancing his heart out to “She’s a maniac.”  Kicks the air.

*Gray shirt phase five: Reading inspirational Maya Angelou quotes off a card.  Offers his own inspirational quote about being wasted in Ambrosiaville

*Gray shirt phase six: Lady across the hall? Getting a pet rock neutered

*Gray shirt phase seven: Whistling to upbeat tropical guitar rock.

*Gray shirt phase eight: Playing with nun dolls and wearing a flying nun hat, while singing to “How do you solve a problem like Maria?”

* * *

*Daniel Tiger and Henrietta Pussycat sitting on a couch eating Funyuns and drining orange drink, then watching an episode of Mr. Rogers.  George FILMS the actual show as it plays on his TV.  Then he enters the Land of Make-Believe.  King Friday interviews the cats, who get the jobs cleaning the toilets because nobody else applied.  They go to dinner with everyone, and Daniel, a vegetarian, orders pasta and chicken, but gets ham.  King Friday then fires them, and then Daniel shows off his truck to Henrietta.

*“An Opera of Oprah,” George dresses up as Oprah, and then Dr. Phil, who then serenades the camera to the tune of Manilow’s “Mandy.”

* * *


*Films the TV as it plays HR Pufnstuf

*George teaches us to make toast.  He does nothing unusual during this.

*Story Time: George reads his own episode of “Curb your Enthusiasm” to two guys on the couch.  Classical music plays in the background.  Excessive detail.

*Films the TV as Billy Corgan performs at the Bozo the Clown Show and a kid-filled montage plays.

*Films the TV as the opening to the Brady Bunch plays.  George shouts “Alice!” when she shows up at the end.  A slow burn with a big payoff.

*Films the TV as Jammin’ George sings “Wind Beneath My Wings” at a bar.  Lives the lyrics.  This would be the part where a robot’s head blows up from all the surrealism.

*A still photo of George on a couch, overlain by a touching acoustic guitar song titled “Don’t Laugh at Me.”

* * *

*A remake of The Flying Nun

*In a bunny suit, saying “Trix are for bunnies” before he hops around.

*In a curly red wig, pretending to knead dough.  Wasted in Ambrosiaville, again.

* * *


*A long, uncomfortable shot of what I think is George pretending to be on life support in a bed, wearing an oxygen mask.  He tries to pretend he’s in a coma, but occasionally twitches.

*White Balance Hell.  George holds up a doll, doesn’t move at all, and blinks repeatedly into the camera while a Sinatra song plays in its entirety.  The top of his head and the white wall behind him are indistinguishable.  At the end, he grabs a pie and smashes it into his face.

*Wearing a cheesehead top hat, twirling a cane around and kicking to “New York, New York.”  Occasionally his kicks run out of steam.

* * *


*Wearing a blond wig, possibly making fun of a Toyota dealership.

*Holding a bible and singing Alleluia.

*“As David Letterman would say, “’Here Kitty Kitty.’”

*I don’t want pancakes

*His country song, while wearing a cheesehead cowboy hat

*Dr. Phil, get excited about your life!

*Imitating the guy from Sling Blade.  Grunting.

*Reading a poem – “A Filet of Aspirin”  “Slow dancing with Charo/ Give me the simple life.”

*In the car joke.

*Singing about biscuits

*Imitating Lucille ball by crying loudly in a red wig

*In another wig, singing

*Flo from Alice “Kiss my grits!”

*Saturday Night Fever

*Wearing a curly wig and imitating John Legend

* * *


*In a hot pink blazer and shirt, saying that if you crossed Howie Mandel with Nathan Lane, you’d get Annoying Olympics

*Singing about how great life is

*Getting serious: “You will never go down the drain.  You’re bigger than all the soap and all the bubbles.”

*Pretending to vacuum

*Getting a phone call from himself, in a wig

*Imitating Aunt Bee and Andy Griffith

*Save big money at Menards.  “A 15 Inch tape measurer…”

* * *

*Filming the end of John Travolta’s Bubble Boy.  “They don’t make songs like that anymore!”  As Travolta rides away with a girl on horseback, George cheers that Bubble Boy got the girl.

* * *


*Wearing a bunch of wigs and acting like a lady

*Dressed up as an old veteran who thinks George is disturbed.

*Audition for Wheel of Fortune: clapping a lot.

*Being “On TV”: wearing a TV on his head.  Imitates Mr. Brady, has a nun on TV, then sings the Down the Drain song again.

*Sings “Ebony and Ivory” to bring the whites and blacks together.

*Bothers the Curb Your Enthusiasm guys as they walk down the hall

*Two dolls eating dinner

*George in a car, saying that he has a reason to live

*Playing the guy in the sweet shop, as well as the customer

*An appeal for a job

*Jammin’ George’s Land of Fun – sponsored by Jean-Claude Van Damme (Films Bloodsport commercial)

*Wearing a Cubs jersey, reading a poem that begs God to kill him.  Waits for God to kill him for a minute of silence.  Continues the poem, which gets progressively more ridiculous.  Concludes that simple things in life are best.  Then sits there for another minute.

*Walks off to the forest in his purple beret, turns and waves goodbye

*One last thing to say: “Adios!”