"Where the Hell am I?" you might be askin' yerself. Well you've wandered into Killville Massachusetts, the creepy little home town of Angry Johnny & The Killbillies. As long as you're here why don't you take a look around. We've got the"Killville Historical Museum Of The Strange" where you can check out some of the local crypto-zoology, prehistoric critters, grisly folklore and all sorts of weirdness, and the Killville General Store where you can pick up all sorts of Angry Johnny and The Killbillies souvenirs and the like. Then you can head on over to Angry's Creepy Little Gallery and peruse some of his world renowned artworks. And you can listen to Radio Free Killville WKIL the whole time you're checkin' things out. WKIL plays nothin' but Angry and The Killbillies sweet sound of rock & rollin'-countryfide-murder balladin'-bloodgrass 24 hours a day. So pop open a beer or a jug and stay a while, it's not like you've got anything better to do....

August 05, 2005

WELCOME TO WKIL-RADIO FREE KILLVILLE!!


Hallelujah folks! WKIL-RADIO FREE KILLVILLE is up and runnin'. Now you can tune into the sweet degenerate sounds of Killville at work or school or even while yer surfin' the internet porn. So tune in now to WKIL-RADIO FREE KILLVILLE for your daily dose of toe-tappin' misery. Tell you friends...tell your enemies...Hell, tell everybody!

posted by Angry Johnny at 3:35 AM

1 Comments:

Anonymous Bill C. said...

So who's listenin' to WKIL? Well, with many apologies to the Crankyville Trolley melody, I'll tell ya who...


My mama up in Joliet a-singin' while they shave her head,
my daddy stuck in Folsom listens too;
my brother while he's doin' crack, my sister while she's on her back,
my uncle when his contract killing's through.

Moonshiners way back in the hills listen while they work their stills,
and banjo boy he always plays along.
From satanic cults in Idaho to juvie halls, and on Death Row
the last request's an Angry Johnny song.

Saddam a-dancin' in his cell, Osama on his way to Hell,
them middle eastern women you can't see.
Drunk Eskimos in Saskatoon, that lonesome rover on the moon,
in every bar and crater in between.

Ol' Scratch he gets it down below, don't even need a radio,
just sticks his pitchfork straight up through them flames;
the angels tune in on the sly, and God himself sometimes sneaks by
to have a beer with Matthew, Mark, and James.

The dim, the damned, the sick, the sad, the slightly sane and mighty mad,
the losin' 'n those who are already lost --
they're tunin' in to K-I-L, and don't you think you should as well?
Your soul and one click's all that it'll cost!


(And I mean, MANY apologies.)

2:24 PM  

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