Some random tidbits for the first “official” workday of this week. All are gleaned from travels this past weekend.
I had thought of a number of bands I left out of my worst musical act discussion (which I have since forgotten), but the one I do remember was the most glaring omission anyway. It is the band Rush. Their music makes me heave, primarily linked to the shrill sound of the lead singer’s voice. That is too bad because the host of my favourite talk radio show (currently off the air thanks to the drones at CBS Radio) is an ardent Rush fan, and always played sound clips of them.
I picked up a rental car for the weekend that appeared to have satellite. I was excited for that fact until I discovered that there was only 4 stations and they were encouraging me to get the service going. What an absolute tease. I called Hertz, XM, all to no avail. Anyway, that left me to the land of the terrestrial. I tend to stick with a given station because I get tired of searching for reception. That often leads to a top 40 station because they typically carry far. Anyway, this past weekend I heard plenty of a new song that talks about shorties getting low in the club. He details their attire, manuevers, and how they get “low.” One of the verses involves him saying the following “…the Reebok’s with the straps…she turns around and gives that big booty a slap.” The mental imagery is so strong from that quality rhyme that I feel like I am having Thoreau audibly describe Walden lake to me. Regardless, I cannot get this out of my head. While I remember other parts of the song, this is the only one I repeat - audibly I might add. I just hope noone hears me singing it, because it would be a wee bit tough to explain. “No, I swear - it’s a lyric. You just don’t understand - she was getting l-o-w, damnit!”
Lastly, my bladder trumped my appetite on my return trip. This created an awkward stop as I was forced to feed my potato craving at somewhere other than McDonalds given that the rest area was only populated by a Popeye’s and a Burger King. The former had crazy expensive fries for some reason, so I was relegated to the latter. I hate everything about Burger King. I hate flame broiled burgers; I hate their advertising (the King makes me run away); I hate their menu; and even their non-burgers taste like sh*t. As such, I could barely even figure out how to order fries and the appropriate size. I approached the more womanly of the two teenage countermonkeys and placed my order for just spuds. The fries weren’t done yet so she stopped and turned to the other one to talk. The other one adjusted the black rim glasses on the square zit-infiltrated head that was attached to her rectangular torso and lamented about some boy she liked. Meanwhile, I reverted my gaze to the innocently smiling cherub that was to prepare my food when she noticed she had an itch. She proceeded to stick her hand clean in her polo shirt and scratch her mammary. She did this inside the contents of her bra. I know this fact because she was standing perpendicular to the counter and it was apparent. The fries then came up at which point she filled my container, holding it with the same hand. I didn’t know whether to be titillated or horrified. If she had used a digit to venture south of the equator, that is one thing, but this was up in the hills where it is decidely less rural. Should I have been disgusted by this. I suppose I should be. Boy I hate getting old.
Perplexedly yours,
-Michael
Would you like some boob sweat with your fries?