Zappadan 2012’s official Yellow Shark Floating Wreath;  not endorsed by Frank Zappa.

Hi boys and girls, today is the beginning of Zappadan 2012, an informal esoteric festival celebrating the importance of small electrical appliances, icing anointment utensils, cream cheese, roto plukers, and the discography of Frank Zappa in our short but intense lives here on this tiny little world currently hustling through the weasel dust of time and space.

Many of you have realized, at last, that imaginary guitar notes, and imaginary vocals, exist only in the imagination of the imaginer… and ultimately, who gives a fuck, anyway…

Excuse me.  We do.  So.  We go back to our ugly little rooms, and quietly dream about the last, guitar solo, and know it’s time to cue up some Watermelon In Easter Hay.

As you can see, music can get you pretty fucked up;  take a tip from Joe;  do like he did;  hug your imaginary guitar, and get a good job;  Joe did, and he’s a “happy guy,” now. . . on the day shift, at the utility muffin research kitchen; where he arrogantly twists the canvas snoot of a fully-charged icing anointment utensil, and every time a. . .  well.  You know the rest.

So sit back with a tall WP&LJ, and get the holiday off right by searching “Zappadan” in our archives;  you’ll be glad you did.

Let the anointing begin.  :—{>

Watermelon and soft porn? Well the music is impeccable.


Weighing in at a mere 13.3 ounces, Zappa’s thin and crispy toaster poot pie is what every hungry freak wants for Zappadan dinner.

NOTE:  Zappadan is a special time of year, a time of grateful reflection on and enjoyment of everything Zappanese.  It’s a time to become more familiar with the many mysteries which surround the music and folklore of Frank Zappa, and it is in that spirit that we take a closer look at one of the more bizarre ingredients in Frank’s pantry:  Zappa’s Toaster Poot. —Ed.


You can poot it, you can shoot it till your wife gets back
— Frank Zappa, Ms Pinky

Although I am not an Appliantologist, I’m also not shy about admitting I am a hardcore appliance fetishist.  Near the top of my long list of favorite appliances is the toaster.  And I don’t mean one of those pathetic fucking things a bank might unpucker long enough to give you if you were crazy enough to deposit your entire life savings in their dirty little vault.

No.  I mean a real toaster, with giant slots, just like the one at the Zappadan Diner;  slots so big they will accommodate anything from a puffy bagel to a couple full-grown raccoons;  and if you can get your hands on one, even a fully-loaded Rotopluker.

Those are professional raccoons, children;  do not try this back in Centerville.

But in the last analysis, a bitchin’ toaster is only as good as what you poot in it.  That’s why my reefer is always stocked with plenty of Zappa’s Toaster Poot Pie™, which like most Zappa edibles, is a mysterious mult-tasking miracle product.  Longtime users know the aroma of toaster poot produces the same exotic oriental fragrance as what the Beatles used to get off on, and in a pinch, there isn’t a better pumice extender on the planet.  Of course nothing will keep your iridescent Naugahyde as supple as a little squirtle of reconstituted poot juice, and a slice of dried toaster poot pie will wedge up a wobbly dinette faster than you can take a dozen provocative squats.

TeeVee food maven, Rachael Ray, tried to make her own toaster poot pasta back in the late nineties, with disastrous results.

When it’s all sung ‘n done, Zappa’s Toaster Poot is a proprietary substance that, frankly, continues to defy modern scientific chemical analysis.  While it would be presumptuous to say what toaster poot is, we can definitely say what it is not:  toaster poop.  You know— the shit that falls off ordinary toasting bread and lands in the crumb tray.  Those are crumbs, people. 

But all is not lost.  Keyboard storyteller Don Preston, who probably knows more about the etymology of Zappa’s toaster poot than anyone living today, frequently points out that poot is thought to be secreted by an unknown bacterium;  it is then purified using industrial-strength fermenters, which stabilize the poot gas bubbles and slow the diffusion of carbon dioxide and other gnarly stuff, especially during baking.  The end product is the mystery stuff of legend that toaster aficionados everywhere have come to treasure:  100% pure, high-grade toaster poot.

Politicizing Zappadan

Encino Two Hundred Motels security guard, Han-Min-Noon, stops Newt Gingrich in the parking lot;  Gingrich’s traveling Clown Caravan said it was in town to celebrate the beginning of Zappadan, which started the day before.

Open up your pocketbook,
Get another quarter out,
Drop it in the meter, mama
Try me on for size
Magic Fingers, Frank Zappa

ENCINO —  It’s widely undisputed that some politicians will do just about anything to get elected, and that the Muppets are Communists.  They will lie, cheat, and steal cheap motel towels.  They will perform jaw-dropping acts of hypocrisy as easily as a camel falls through the eye of a needle the size of Atlantic City, New Jersey.

Some of them however, are cut from a different cloth.  Calico Clown cloth, to be exact.  The latest outrage by a 2012 candidate for the Republican Party presidential nomination is clothed in that clown cloth:  it’s Newt Gingrich, and his creepy grovel for a few hip votes:  his impromptu celebration of ZAPPADAN.

An alert member of the parking security team for the famous Two Hundred Motels Motel in Encino, California, spotted Newt Gingrich as he squirmed into a clown costume behind an adult electric tricycle.

“When he saw me coming over, he hustled his fat ass— uh sorry;  can I say ‘fat ass’?  Okay;  well he gets his fat ass onto this red tricycle-thing, and tries to drive off,” said Han-Min-Noon, Day Lot Security Guard at Two Hundred.  “So I ask him if he’s a registered guest at the Motel, and he says, ‘Don’t you know who I am?’ I says, No, I don’t know who you are;  are you a registered guest of the Motel?  After about twenty questions, it turns out he wasn’t registered at the Motel at all;  he was just using our parking lot to launch some kind of weird fucking parade.”

Gingrich and the other members of his caravan were asked to leave.  They loaded up their clown-cycle and drove away.  They were not ticketed by security.

The current front runner for the Republicans’ presidential slot is not the first Republican to attempt a celebration of sorts of ZAPPADAN.  In 2009, we shared an exclusive report on a Zappadan party held by more than a dozen Republican politicos:

Don’t recognize some of these “pathetic sodomite PsOS,”?  Count yourself lucky.

Encino Mammilian Protrusion Cotillion Performed

The Encino Mammilian Protrusion Cotillion got their areolas all bumpy-like Wednesday, as they gathered for their annual Zappadan celebration. The Cotillion front row left 2 right: Frank Zappa, Frank Zappa, Frank Zappa, Frank Zappa, Frank Zappa, Frank Zappa;  back row: Frank Zappa, Frank Zappa, Frank Zappa, Frank Zappa, Frank Zappa, and Frank Zappa. (Click it.)

ENCINO—  Zappadan dress-up parties are becoming increasingly popular with Zappaphiles, and The Encino Mammalian Protrusion Cotillion is no exception, although members are required to only dress up as Frank, which has reduced their membership to a mere dozen highly excitable mammals.

The Mammalian Protrusion Cotillion members all more or less confess a musical admiration for either of the two soft, protruding organs located on the upper front of a woman’s body, which are known to secrete a warm and wonderful elixir, usually after a protracted bout of pregnancy.

The Encino Cotillion gathers at a discrete distance from the heart of the Pepperdine University satellite campus, and like other Zappadan revelers, lay into the White Port and Lime Juice.  But unlike other cotillions, however, the Encino boobs eschew the traditional burnt weenie sandwich breakfast and move right into a screening of the Free Range Boob scene from Woody Allen’s, Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex* (*But Were Afraid to Ask), where all sorts of prepared foodstuffs and rancid beer are hurled at the screen, while the twelve perform an unrehearsed dance number to a randomly selected playlist of Zappa tunes.

Anyone found to be sporting rigid ninnies after the dance are paraded in front of the members in a highly ritualized and often disturbing episode of creamed-corn spewing, followed by a free-for-all roto-plooking of any hapless strangers who may have gathered to watch the festivities. Citizens who manage to enjoy the plooking are invited to join cotillion members for lunch at the Zappadan Diner.

A small but highly vocal group of local Encinoans have begun insisting the celebration be moved to neighboring Tarzana, thanks to last year’s accidental spooging of the mayor after he was miss-identified as L. Ron Hoover.

We’re Still Just In It For The Munny


Yeah it’s already the second day of ZAPPADAN, and we’re off to a slow start, but then the main reason we do ZAPPADAN in the first place is to slow down enough to realize we’re having a good time.

First thing you should do on ZAPPADAN is reminisce about last year’s awesome ZAPPADAN,  and you can do that best by re-visiting all the little poots we made last year, by typing ZAPPADAN into the little slot to the right of the 200 Motels poster in the picture of Frank with the blender fulla wee wee. . . and that will bring up all the good stuff from the past you’ve already been missing.  And then come back for this year’s greasy stuff, right up to our Zappa birthday Varmitzvuh-looza on the 21st.

Or you can grab some of your favorite vile foamy elixir right now and drink a toast to ZAPPADAN TWENTY TEN, after reciting last year’s slightly adulterated toast. . .

To Frank and the Mothers

You popped up in the mid-sixties
Just when you were supposed to
All grungified and snarky
Freaked out and hungry true

There weren’t no angels singing
There weren’t no pompous cheese
Just a lot of melted plastic
And some dying BRAIN POLICE

Motherly Love will drive you mad
Your groupies scream and cry
Baum didi, baum didi, baum didi baum
You know it’s all a lie

You made us all excited
I was working on my car
I showed you my new gearshift knob
Before you drove us all too far

Been checkin’ out the news
‘Til my eyeballs fail to see
And these troubles have been seeping
Out of every hole in me

So we’re watchin’ and we’re waitin’
And still hopin’ for the best
But when things will really change
Is still anybody’s guess

Now you’re free from all our troubles
And the lameness of this place
Yet our question is the same one—
Do ya have the same old face?

But forget all that, we toast you
With a plastic cup, no less
Yeh we drink a toast to Zappa
We still think  you were the best