Billy Deploys An Attitude Adjustment: Part 15: Bart Meets A Non-Racist

The afterglow of the world’s first Ursus Americana turbo wedgie didn’t last long. With immense ferocity, an explosion tore part of the roof from the building. Everyone scattered; except Billy. He stepped back two paces, planted his feet carefully, and drew his pistol.

The first two extreme greeters, slipping into the gap in the ceiling on their rappelling gear, took two expertly placed 9mm hits to center mass each. Wincing as their armor deflected the bullets, both men dropped their lines and fell to the floor. Billy’s view of center mass was obscured as the third man roped down, so he drew a bead on his head. Then, for reasons even Billy couldn’t explain, he refrained from the headshot he’d lined up. Quickly, he holstered his weapon, grabbed Doogie, and slipped through the glass door of a beer cooler.

Meanwhile Bart had an epiphany. The third man down the lines was NOT a racist! It was Bart’s first exposure to a black human being.

He rushed forward to embrace his new-found brother, who was momentarily distracted unhitching his harness. He crashed into him like an over-eager puppy, butt wiggling, and both of them fell to the ground. Team member #3 found himself flat on his back with a bear on top of him. His rife was pinned to his chest.

The bear opened his toothy maw and… SLURP!”

Team member #3 screamed as a big slimly stinking bear tongue licked his face; from chin to eyebrows.

Member #4 was looking down from above. “A bear is eating Mike’s face!” he screamed. He leveled his rifle but any shot that got the bear would pass through and hit Mike.

“Confirm report.” The leader ordered.

“Shots fired. Two men down. A bear is eating Mike’s face.”

Twitch skittered away from the chaos only to press the bar on the back door that said “Alarm will sound.” It did. Inexplicably, this also set off the sprinklers.

Bart, desperate to make a good impression on his new soulmate, decided it was a good idea to shield his “friend” from the water. Mike, still screaming from being licked by a bear went silent as his face was shoved into the smelliest bear armpit in creation.

Two more men in full battle rattle slid down the rappelling lines while a third kicked in the back door and immediately tripped over a wet hyperventilating unemployable comic book colorist. As he went down his trigger finger involuntarily jerked and he sent a three-round burst into the Slurpee machine; which exploded in a volcano of neon green icy sugary goo.

The two men rappelling turned and reflexively fired at more or less anything in the vicinity. They missed Twitch, hit their colleague and, realizing what they’d done, blanched. Shooting your own team member was a one-way ticket to six months of retraining followed by demotion to the TSA. Each realized there was only one other witness to this mess. They turned on each other, but team member Roscoe was quicker on the draw than team member Stevens, who took three hits and collapsed.

“Are they shooting each other?” Doogie whispered.

“Shut up.” Billy hissed. He was trying to figure out an exit strategy. At the moment, everyone was too busy screaming, tripping, and shooting each other to notice the two of them hiding in the beer cooler. What to do?

Just then Achmed leapt over the counter and made a beeline for the door. Achmed, using the faulty logic that his traditional garb was more generic than his work uniform, had slipped into what most Americans would call a big white robe. Achmed could be forgiven for his miscalculation. Everything had gone pear shaped from the moment the K-cup man had started burning faces with coffee and being the only man in the time zone wearing a salwar kameez was the least of his worries. For example, after vaulting the counter he’d landed on a dead soldier, a manic soldier who was desperately trying to aim at a writhing pile of neon green goo near the Slurpee machine, and a bear with muffled screams coming out of its hairy armpit. All in a pile.

As Achmed rolled off the heap, two squirrels scampered up his leg, across his face, and leapt for the rappelling cable. The first two soldiers, still wincing from Billy’s hits to their armor, aimed for the squirrels and fired like all of their ammunition was free. As any squirrel hunter will tell you, two magazines of 30 rounds each isn’t enough to hit a squirrel that’s moving fast. Terry and Mary had scaled the cable and were in the helicopter before the hot brass landed on Bart’s stincky black hide.

Angrily, Bart bashed his tormenters, who despite years of combat training, had missed the “swap magazines while getting a wedgie from a bear” lesson.

Billy’s ears were ringing from all the shooting, so he tapped Doogie on the shoulder to get his attention and relay what he needed. Doogie nodded and handed Billy a porter from a nearby rack. If you’re going to let chaos play itself out while you’re hiding in a beer cooler, you might as well have a drink.

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Billy Deploys An Attitude Adjustment: Part 14: Fractional Reserve K-cups

Back at the convenience store Billy and Doogie high-fived. They had just witnessed history’s first interspecies turbo wedgie. It was amazing!

Bart spit out the stretched remains of a pair of Joe Boxer underwear and grinned. His experiment with human-based persuasion techniques had worked swimmingly. He was justly proud of his invention.

Achmed was nearly vibrating with fright. He looked all around; the store was entirely destroyed and Twitch was collapsed in a fetal position on top of a pile of Pringles. Billy sipped his coffee while Doogie capered about.

“That was better than the fourth of July.”

“With the best finale ever!” Billy agreed.

Back at NSA headquarters in [REDACTED] the analyst was contorted into a permanent face palm. From nowhere a voice oozed into his ears. “The tactical monkeys don’t get it?”

It was the cigarette smoking man (who is totally a hero in this story). He was behind the analyst, in a perfect position to garrote him. Sadly, the analyst was too upset to be awed by and compliment his sneaky ninja stealth entrance into the room. The smoking man shrugged and took a seat opposite the analyst.

“So, the squirrels are on to project FRN-K?”

“I think so. My currency manipulation detection routine is what found them. I don’t know how they discovered it.”

“Visual confirmation? This isn’t just another goldbug… or Ron Paul?”

“Well, the evidence fits. The squirrels are associated with that screeching harpy Dr. Rothschild. The doctor has a captive Pakistani graduate student working at the convenience store. Tonight, that store sold every k-cup in a 15 minute period. Then half an hour later he tried to sell more.”

“Tried to sell k-cups that don’t exist?”

“Yes. The original purchase looked legit but the second one can’t be.”

“Fractional reserve K-cups!?!”

“Apparently.”

The smoking man was livid. “First the hippie do-gooders devalue our emergency cache of Lucky Strikes…”

The analyst nodded. The smoking man continued.

“…then as if their healthy breathing crusade hadn’t done enough damage, they start their stinking hipster microbreweries so, our monopolistic control of cheap shitty beer is broken!”

The analyst shrugged. It had been a good plan but it didn’t hold.

 

“And the damned frackers devalued the National Petroleum Reserve.”

“Yep.” The analyst sighed.

“But after countless failed experiments, we are finally back on track…”

The analyst glanced at the monitor, drop zone in four,

“…it took 20 years to teach Americans they’re too stupid to make their own coffee.”

“Five dollar, skinny, half-caff, macchiatos.”

“And we’ve unitized it into premanufactured, controlled, tradeable denominations…”

“Replace grody old communal office coffee makers with sleek new Keurigs.”

“…just so we’ll have liquid assets when Congress finally flushes the dollar…”

“Kick the can down the road until there is no road.”

“…and these damn activist squirrels figure it out…”

“Clever little buggers.”

“…and they immediately try to turn a hard asset into fiat currency?”

“Can’t stop ‘em.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.” The cigarette smoking man hissed. He reached forward and keyed the mic.


Back on the helicopter the consensus was they were totally hosed. What were their orders? Then an oily voice came across the headsets.

“Do you know why NORAD has almost 400 million portions of unitized coffee stored under carefully controlled conditions?”

Everyone froze. It was – HIM. Dear God!

Team leader alpha spoke… these might be his last words.

“No sir.”

“Well I do. And if you don’t want to wind up begging the Amish for turnip soup after things go tits up you’re going to go down there and KILL EVERYTHING.”

The team cheered. Finally, rules of engagement that made sense.

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Billy Deploys An Attitude Adjustment: Part 13: You Should Have Studied STEM

The Analyst briefed the Extreme Greeters while their chopper rocketed toward the scene. Listening thought their helmet mounted headsets, each greeter did their level best to listen; but it was no use.

“So the scan of more K-cup sales than the available inventory sent up flags on the blah, blah, blah….”

The Analyst’s words continued for some time. Then there was a pause. Suddenly and en masse, the team members realized that not a single one of them had paid attention.

Bravely, their leader threw himself on the grenade. “Yeah, right. Got it. But can you repeat that last part?” Everyone breathed a sigh of relief. Good leadership is priceless.

“Sure, you see we had no idea the squirrels were aware of project FRN-K but clearly they’ve added currency manipulation to their arsenal of blah, blah, blah… You should have studied STEM. Nerds rule the world. Math, math, math…”

The Analyst paused again. Once again, the entire team had zoned out.

Their leader tried to save their bacon a second time. “So, you’re saying K-cups are made of green paper? And this relates to my 401(k)?”

It was no use. Everyone on the chopper knew they looked like idiots.

Their pilot was on the same audio channel. He tried to help. “Look guys, I was listening and it’s simple. You see fractional reserve banking, interest rates, depreciation… I know math because I’m a pilot. Declination, navigation, woogy woogy woo, big fat hairy deal, drop zone in five.”

That last part got their attention! What the hell were they supposed to be doing? Shit!

They all knew secret tactical handsigns and they began to chatter amongst themselves; silently so the folks on the radio wouldn’t know they’d spaced out again.

“WHISKEY TANGO FOXTROT?”

“CAPTURE SQUIRRELS OR TERRORIST?”

“TARGET UNAWARE OF APPROACH. CONFIRM?”


Just then there was a disturbance in the force. Everyone in the chopper felt it. It was as if a Millennial’s whiny voice had cried out in terror and was suddenly silenced in a way that had never happened before. They looked at each other. Something great and powerful and terrible had just occurred. Something new and terrifying had sprung forth and now it was part of the world. They had no idea what form this undefined menace took but they felt it in their bones. They began nervously fidgeting with their knives and magazines. Today they’d earn their pay.

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Lesbian Squirrels Update: INCOMING!

Dr. Mingo and my dog have complained, I’ve been compared to the Orange Menace, and a tip was withheld! This cannot stand. More squirrels will ensue shortly.

For those of you who have no idea what I’m talking about, pick up a bottle of bourbon, pull a chair next to the fire, and start reading:

Attack of the Lesbian Activist Squirrels


If you do know what’s going on and simply need a refresher (possibly because I let too many weeks lapse between installments) check out the most recent chapter:

Billy Deploys An Attitude Adjustment

It the Church of Awesome isn’t enough to knock some sense into the deluded, Billy can do the job with violently delivered coffee.

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Lesbian Activist Squirrel Update: I’m Apparently The Worst Marketer Ever

“You are the worst marketer ever! You’re like the guys that invented New Coke mixed with whomever cancelled Firefly.”

Ouch. That hurt.

The commanding voice was hard to ignore. It was my friend, very occasional blog author, and frequent (though constructive) critic, Dr. Mingo. He continued.

“You crank up interest in your Activist Lesbian Squirrels story and then, just when I start paying attention and it’s getting good, it drops off the planet. Then I get interested in your homesteading shit, and then you’ll drop that to talk squirrels.”

“Well…” I hesitated. I have no excuse. He was right.

“And nine posts about a two-minute eclipse everyone forgot about last month? Plus, who the hell cares about Bonnie Tyler. Isn’t she dead?”

“I’m a polymath?”

“No, you’re a blogger who lacks focus. What happened to the squirrel story?”

I tapped a few keys on my laptop. “Chapter five had a dozen posts between July 31st and August 10th.”

“And since then?”

“It hasn’t been long.”

“Look at the calendar.”

Shit! No squirrel posts for five weeks. Time really does fly.

Mingo didn’t wait for my inevitable lame excuse. “Finish the fucking squirrels.”

“Yeah, sooner or later I’ll…”

“Get serious and type it out. You had time off work last week, did you write?”

“I went squirrel hunting.”

“IS THERE NO END TO YOUR IRONY?!?”

“I’ll say, the little fuckers eluded me at every tree. I had pizza for dinner instead of tree rat. I still need a better air rifle scope…”

“God dammit, complete the story!” Mingo interrupted.

“Meh.”

“Now!”

My dog was nodding, as if in agreement. That changed things. If my dog and Mingo were in agreement I’d better do some writing.

“OK, how about a few more posts?” I capitulated.

“Ugh… fine. I’d rather it all at once but at least keep moving. Wait a minute, is this because of your damn dog?”

“I’m putting this on my blog.” I tried to change the subject.

“The dog is not sentient!”

“Gotta’ go. I feel like cutting plywood in my shop.”

“Keyboard first, bandsaw later. Focus!”

With that he hung up.

I’m not promising focus but there will be more squirrels. In a few days. Probably.

Posted in Lesbian Squirrels, Miscellaneous Squirrels, Sagas | 16 Comments

An Inside Joke

This post is for [REDACTED]. We were having a discussion about Game Of Thrones. (I read a few of the books. It was OK.) The guy I was talking to was a big fan of the show, which I’ve never seen. He voiced cogent arguments while all that popped into my head was this:

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Bleeping The F-Bomb, Curmudgeon Style

Phssthpok pointed me toward this:

Which reminded me of this:

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Fake News

Suppose you’re being fed a line of bullshit. How would you know? An easy start would be to:

  1. See if they contradict themselves.
  2. See if they contradict what you see in the real world.

Ace of Spades just posted an example of CNN contradicting themselves:

It goes from “baseless claim” and “flat out lie“, to “the government really did wiretap the campaign“. You can’t get more internally inconsistent. This is not a multi-year evolution of opinion as careful thinkers muddle through difficult concepts; it’s an 180 degree u-turn between “flat out lie” and “exclusive report” in 13 days.

If what CNN said on one day is called bullshit by CNN itself 13 days later, what it’s saying today may be called bullshit by CNN itself in a couple of weeks. They’re demonstrably untrustworthy. Regardless of your political affiliation, CNN doesn’t even agree with itself.


I’m too lazy to make screenshots of headlines. I prefer an old fashioned “reality check”.

In 2016 the press insisted all sentient beings would vote for Hillary. Reticent people like me were called rare, stupid, misinformed, racist, sexist, troglodyte, rubes. (Usually several times a day.) We ought to be either re-educated or lined up against the wall. (If the loathing wasn’t quite so explicit it wasn’t far below the surface.)

Was I really part of a teeny weeny tiny insignificant group of morons? As a reality check I started counting campaign signs:

In October 2016 I counted Hillary and Trump road signs along a 400 mile blue state road trip. Total count for Hillary? 3. Total count for Trump? Many dozens (I lost count). I posted that “Trump signs are outnumbering Hillary maybe 40 or 50 to 1”.

In November (just before the election) I tried it again. Total count for a 550 mile road trip in two “very blue” states was 27 Trump signs, 5 Hillary signs.

Of course this wasn’t a scientific survey, but I had an inkling that the press did not. What’s amazing is that a nitwit blogger who looks out of the dash of his Dodge at reality saw something totally invisible to what once were called journalists:

It didn’t have to be like that. If “journalists” had gotten in a minivan, drove beyond their neighborhood, counted signs, and maybe even talked to people… they might have had a warning. They didn’t (or wouldn’t). That mistake led to what has become almost a full year of painful cognitive dissonance.

Of course, nothing is new under the sun:

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The Bonnie Tyler Explanation And The Evil Cake Song

[Note: pretty much every link on this page is SFW. Go ahead. However, if you play them in your office your co-workers will demand an explanation or (probably correctly) out you as a geezer who pre-dates Seattle Grunge.]

So that backfired!

[For those of you who just tuned in, I Carly Simon’s “You’re So Vain” recently established an earworm beachhead in my skull. The single word “eclipse” had done it. Everyone knows you can’t kill an earworm but, for reasons which elude modern science, it’ll you can plant it in someone else’s head and run like hell. So I wrote a 1,400 word rant to exorcise it. It worked! I had a blissful earworm free evening. Then things went pear shaped! Follow if you dare.]

It began with a commenter who linked to Bonnie Tyler’s “Total Eclipse of the Heart”.

Guiltily I’ll admit I sorta’ like that song. It’s a guilty pleasure at best. It’s over-orchestrated, overwrought, over produced, and almost a parody of itself. But I liked it when I was young and as the ’97 New Beetle proved, we’re all soft about our youthful influences. So I can live with it.

I hadn’t, however, seen the video. In my youth I listened to it on a “Boom Box” (a technology that held sway until Apple killed it with iNinjas). No screen on a boom box so no bullshit. Just the ability to rattle windows and drain D-Cells by the dozen. Also when I was a kid… we actually played outdoors. Amazing how the past is different.

Was there anything more American, than 65 dials and switches shoved into a deafening wad of batteries and speakers. I love my culture!

The video, on the other hand, is precisely why the 1980’s were shit. It has very large hair and an inexplicable blend of cougar based homo-eroticism, and a boarding school. If you missed it; perhaps you are too young to remember the 1980s, or maybe you spent that decade drunk, or perhaps you spent it hiding in a bunker waiting for the Russkies to vaporize us all… you should watch it. Consider it a cultural foray into why the past wasn’t all good.

I commented on the Bonnie Tyler video experience:

“What. The. Fuck. Is. Going. On. In. That. Video.

Did I just spend five minutes watching a cougar with ’80’s hair having an ecstasy freak out at the young gay men’s athletic club and religious cult boarding school?”

Almost immediately I was presented with the “Literal Translation Version“, which is pure brilliance! (A salute to commenter Phssthpok for 5:33 of concentrated awesome.) You must see it! (Ideally watch it after you see the original. You’ll kill 10 minutes total but  what the hell else are you doing right now?)

Meanwhile, my brain dodged Cheeseburgers and Lawyers. Nice try folks but I cannot be swayed by Jimmy Buffet or Warren Zevon. (Zevon’s lyrics remind me that somewhere there are poor bastards that had to raise young members of the Bush and Kennedy clans and they certainly got those sorts of calls.)

Just as the dust settled, Tennessee Budd fired this:

“MacArthur’s Park is melting in the dark
All the sweet green icing flowing down….”

It meant nothing to me. I playfully sent off Strawberry Alarm Clock’s “Incense and Peppermints“, which I like so much I don’t mind when it “earworms” (to coin a verb).

Little did I know that MacArthur Park would hit me like a nuclear bomb!

Folks, this is important. MacArthur Park is the name of that goddamn “Cake in the rain” song. It’s the weaponized smallpox of earworms. If I’d associated MacArthur Park with the brutal, unrelenting, schmatlzy, death blow that is the Cake song… I would not only have refused to click the link… I’d have set my computer on fire.

I’m putting the link below but I’m serious about this… don’t fuck with the Cake Song… it’ll earworm your ass into the stone age. You’ve been warned:

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Eclipse 2017 After Action Report: Part 09: Carly Simon Is Pissing Me Off

I’ve gone into left field with this thread but it’s my blog and my dog is sleeping. Until the dog wakes up I have no editorial bounds.

The eclipse is about more than celestial visions and meatloaf. At the moment it’s about Carly Simon. She’s in my head and it’s pissing me off. There is no reason my head should have anything to do with Carly Simon!

I’ve always thought of Simon as an average vocalist from the 1970’s with a tragic penchant for future catlady whining. I especially dislike “You’re So Vain”. Now it’s an earworm and it’s killing me. Among the lyrics is the word “eclipse” and my mind has latched on to it. There’s nothing worse than bad lyrics. It’s as if squirrels are afoot!


As a form of exorcism, I’m going to discuss the song “You’re So Vain” and list the incontrovertible reasons why it should be stricken from the record and replaced with something better… which is pretty much anything that doesn’t whine so much.

For your homework you may listen to the song below (there’s a “remastered” version as well but the synonym for “remastered” is “fucked up” so I’m linking to the original):

Let’s start with the positives, there’s an excellent initial lead in and a nice beat. Then Carly Simon jumps in with the lyrics and I begin to foam at the mouth.


Argument #1 why this song pisses me off

Here are some of the lyrics:

“You’re so vain, you probably think this song is about you
You’re so vain, I’ll bet you think this song is about you
Don’t you? Don’t You?”

Uh… yeah! The fucking song is entirely about him. There’s nobody in the song but the vain bastard that dumped Carly Simon on her ass! There’s nothing about the girl’s hopes, dreams, future, job, hair color, car, favorite food, or sexual proclivities. It’s all about him. The song describes the color of his goddamn scarf (apricot) but doesn’t say anything about the girl. Is she a redhead? A professional bowler? A heroin addict? You can’t tell because it’s not important. She made it all about him and then challenged him with “you probably think this song is about you”. Who the hell else is it about? Ghandi? Robotron? The neighbor’s cat? An oak tree?

It’s completely dismissive of the whiny bitch who’s singing; so yeah, it really is about him!


Argument #2 why this song pisses me off

The eclipse line that is stuck in my head.

Here are the lyrics:

“Then you flew your Lear jet up to Nova Scotia
To see the total eclipse of the sun.”

Holy shit, what a great idea! Is there a better use for a personal Lear jet? If you’re rich enough to have a Lear jet and you use it to enjoy the beauty of nature… that’s bad? It’s vain? Where else should he fly? Las Vegas? Portland? Bhopal?

The song describes a handsome sexy dude that’s richer than God and can have anything he wants. So he goes out to look at the sky. Yeah that’s real jackass behavior there.

For that matter, what does one do with a Lear jet that could be perceived as humble? Rescue kittens? Deliver pizza?

If I had a Lear jet I’d fucking see every eclipse in my lifetime. Also I’d use it to haul elk haunches from British Columbia; which is why guys like me don’t have Lear jets.


Argument #3 why this song pisses me off

It fails to make me identify with the sufferer.

The lyrics are about falling for the dude’s sexy apricot scarf and how they were a pretty couple but she wasn’t unique. Indeed “all the girls dreamed that they’d be your partner”. So the singer had the same aspiration as all the other women and even got to live the dream for a while; because she was pretty. Then it went away.

I’m supposed to feel bad about that? Is she saying that nothing is such a tragic loss to humanity as rich pretty people who are sad?

The singer’s not curing cancer, not building bridges of love and peace, not caring for a child, not even delivering a truckload of grain to the elevator; just a pretty girl that’s got the sads because she’s no longer part of a pretty couple. First world problems bitch!


Argument #4 why this song pisses me off

It’s self deluded and clearly so.

The song drones on about how he “gave away the things [he] loved and one of them was me”.

I call bullshit. He didn’t give away the Lear jet did he? Unless he gives away the Lear jet there’s no indication he gave away anything that meant Jack shit to him.

The song indicates he kept the things he loved; the confidence, the cool hat, the sexy scarf, the Lear jet, the works. He’s not living in a mud hut is he?

Fix this! If you want me to see this cad as tragic, write a few lines about the lost sexy scarf. Tell me how it wound up dumped in a gutter by a fading loner. Describe how he wanders around the streets of Hoboken, back hunched against the weather, scarfless neck exposed to the rain, a broken man accidentally spilling cloudy coffee on his formerly fashionable pants. He should be doomed to walk the world regretting his moment of self-destruction and wondering where he left his Lear jet keys. Absent that I’m going to assume the singer was a stalker and her boyfriend bailed out of the situation before she keyed his Learjet.


Argument #5 why this song pisses me off

It’s an endless stream of negativity!

It sucks to get dumped. We get that. However, hopelessness is not uplifting. It’s ugly.

Everything about “You’re So Vain” is so negative and hate filled that it goes past the event horizon of sad and circles around to blaming the world for your sorrows. Would it kill Carly to end the song with a round of recovery. Something like “but I’m hot and I just did the gardener so I don’t need your fucking Lear jet.” I’m all about people overcoming sorrow y’all. Fuck it, add in some heavy metal drums and really get your freak on. Enough of this sitting in the corner sighing.


How to fix this shitty song:

There’s nothing wrong with sorrow. It’s cathartic. But if you’re going to sing about misfortune you have to do it right. Weeping wont’ cut it. Here are alternatives:

  • Embrace the suck and go down the rabbit hole. For this I present George Thorogood from House Rent Blues:

“I ain’t seen my baby since a nigh’ and a week
Gotta get drunk, man, till I can’t even speak
Gonna get high, man, listen to me
One drink ain’t enough, Jack, you better make it three”

  • Throw in a twist. For this I present B. B. King from Never Make Your Move Too Soon:

“Three days of snow in Birmingham
Thought you would wonder where i am
Rang our number all night long
It’s no comfort on the telephone
Ran out and caught a midnight flight
Thought a little love would make everything all right
The landlord said, “you moved away”
And left me all your bills to pay”
Look out baby, you might have made your move too soon

Left me with a keno card
This life in Vegas sure ain’t hard
I ran it up to about fifty grand
Cashed it in and held it in my hand
That kind of word can get around
And make a lost love come up found
I hear you knocking baby at my door
But you know you ain’t living here no more
It’s too bad
I think you made your move too soon”

  • Make a horrid joke. For this I present Guns and Roses from I Used To Love Her But I Had To Kill Her”

“I used to love her
But I had to kill her
I had to put her
Six feet under
And I can still hear her complain”

  • Indulge in a revenge fantasy. For this I present Carrie Underwood from Before He Cheats:

“I dug my key into the side
Of his pretty little souped-up four-wheel drive
Carved my name into his leather seats
I took a Louisville slugger to both head lights
I slashed a hole in all four tires
Maybe next time he’ll think before he cheats”


Hey, it worked! I got that damn brainworm out of my head. Brilliant! Thanks for joining me on this trip and if anyone needs a lyricist I’m available for hire. I work for beer and/or Lear jet fuel.

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