A Mel Brooks Version of The Beach Boys

Getting a mentioned in a poem has never been a band goal but now that this has happened I must say it's kind of cool. Poetry Midwest, an internet literary magazine, published the following poem by writer/poet/food & wine critic, etc... Jen Karetnick. In this poem, Mrs. Karetnick dons her travel writer/food critic/poet (paper hat) to document her experience at the Jelly Belly Candy Factory where The Hipwaders last performed over 3 years ago. I love her description of us as, "A Mel Brooks version of The Beach Boys".

However, I must point out that the band has never, nor will ever, perform songs from "The Lion King". This sort of treacle can join the list of songs by other composers for whom The Hipwaders will never perform such as Diane Warren and Andrew Lloyd Webber. We would rather eat a dozen boxes of Jelly Belly's Harry Potter Bertie Botts. With that said, after the poem enjoy our specially-made version of "Jellybeans" for the Jelly Belly company that has never been published. We were hoping the company could use the song in some way for promotion. Sadly, the never did.

Substitute Sugars By Jen Karetnick

The morning after the death

of the Pope, at the Jelly Belly factory

where his portrait hangs, fixed in candy

like pointillism gone mad, next to Elvis

with his licorice and cappuccino sideburns

and Ronald Reagan delineated in cream soda,

pleasant but long since flat, a band

called “The Hipwaders” belted out the theme

songs to animation—Spongebob Squarepants,

The Lion King—while we ate hot dogs,

carpeted with ketchup, in the hyper-cheerful

café. From the recorded message we’d gotten

instead of directions I’d thought they were

“The Hip Waiters,” picturing men in tuxedo

jackets and cargo pants—some combination

of Todd Oldham and Old Navy—but found instead

a Mel Brooks version of the Beach Boys,

encouraging toddlers to cry in four-part chorale.

I couldn’t blame them; I was there, too,

wearing a paper hat shaped like a hope

that had seen days more crisp

than just-buttered toast, rubber pants

on my leaking patience, answering

over and over why no Jelly Belly beans

tasted like Cabernet, even though then

Mommy might like them. In fact

all production had ceased, though not

because of the Pope; inventory was being taken,

particularly of the newest flavor, mango,

with its orange-pink skin flecked with green,

mimicking the tiny fruit just beginning

to peep like the eyes of frogs from beneath

the buds in our trees at home,

and blackberry, thorned fruit

I can never get to grow. John Paul II

lay in state, televised, polished

beyond rigor mortis for whatever resurrection

might come his way. I hope he wasn’t disappointed.

The jelly beans, as it turns out, go through

three separate processes, tossed relentlessly,

drinking in the sanction of choice. In the end,

I bought ten pounds of Belly Flops,

those that didn’t quite get what kidney

shapes are all about, and don’t quite care

about livers, either. Like me, and the two kids

I know, or might know someday. Go ahead

and eat. It’s okay to gorge yourself

in the name of terminal harmony

JELLYBEANS (Jelly Belly Version) - The Hipwaders

Lyle: 'How 'bout some more beans, Mr. Taggart?' "
Taggart: [fans his hat in the air] I'd say you've had enough!"

Mel Brook's "Blazing Saddles"