Give that big booty a slap.
No, no, that’s not what I say to potential suitors. It’s a line from the most aggravating song known to man (ie: me).
See, the radio station situation in this town has recently taken a nosedive. I’m more of a classic rock, anti-emo, super-anti-pop, really-fucking-anti-playing-the-same-five-christing-songs-over-and-over-and-over kind of girl. And there used to be two stations in my close vicinity devoted entirely to the Jimi-Zep, and one that was for rock of all eras. Well, in the last month, one station shut down, another changed to *twitch* Top 40, and the third won’t come in on the radio at work. So, in lieu of total silence, I turn on some random shit just for noise. Invariably, a song will break through my drudgery haze and actually ring the bell at the Eardrum Desk. Not just any song either, oh no, it’s the same fucking song every time, almost every hour, every frigging day. So I quickly change to another shitty station, only to find, within the hour, that lo! There’s that fucking song again!
Why do I hate it so much? Well, first of all, it sucks. I enjoy hip hop, and anything conducive to ass-shakin’ is good to keep the blood pumping during the midday doldrums. But contrary to what the teenyboppers on the message boards I read whilst trying to find out who is responsible for this horseshit, it is not, like, totally awesome, nor is it good to dance to. It’s bad. And repetitive. And grating. And completely fucking insipid!
The second reason comes down to this: I hate it because I hate douchebags. Seriously. In my line of work, which I will not elaborate for fear of being found out, I encounter and have in-depth interaction with a wide variety of people every day, some decent human beings, others lower than the manure crammed between the toes of a goat’s cloven hoof, and others that land somewhere in between. One young man in particular, was the bane of my existence on every possible level. I would looove to go into detail, but I won’t. (Okay, I can’t resist. One little detail I am privy to that I’m sure would completely wreck the guy’s uber-cool, wanna-G machismo: Shemale porn. As in proclivities for. Wooohaahahaa!) Let’s just say, the final nail in his proverbial bag of douche was when I overheard him singing along with the radio as this sonic shit stain polluted the air of my office.
Moral of the story: If I wanted good music in life, I should have been born twenty years earlier.
And also, if you must know, the song is called “Low” by Flo Rida.
Aaaaaaaaaaand also, you may notice that my writing today is considerably lacking in the colorful analogies and reckless drug references that you’ve all come to know and love. That is because I am at work right this very moment. Not working, of course, because the boss is gone, and I find it hard to find motivation when he is not standing over me with the rubber band gun.
Drunk: No. Whhhyyy, Jesus?!?!
Hearing: System of a Down. Which is playing on the radio right now just to disprove my point about this station playing nothing but shit over and over and over.
Drinking: Coffee.
Smoking: Nothing. Almost time for a smoke break.
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