You know it's funny how a song can be the most satisfyin' thing under certain conditions. Fer instance, the other day I'm drivin' my pick-up home from work with the guy I carpool with. He's ramblin' on and on about all his personal problems, which I wasn't interested in hearin' -- some bullshit about how he can't hit on the cute secretary in the office because -- and I don't understand this -- she's vaguely like a young Joan Crawford, who reminds him of his horrible childhood, or some such bullshit like that. The stupid whiny-ass -- I can't stand him.
I'm gettin' really sick of listenin' to his weepy speech, so I turn on the radio to ignore him more easy. Well, my car radio is real shitty and I can only pick up this stupid, half-ass oldies station that I can't stand, but it's better than hearin' about how many damn coat hangers a month somebody's mother went through for disciplinary reasons.
Anyways, they're playin' that stupid Simon and Garfunkel song, "Parsley, Sage, Rosemary, and Thyme," which I've always hated 'coz it's got all that stupid harpsichord bullshit in it like they're tryin' to sound like Batch or somethin'. What the hell? I mean, rock'n'roll should be rock'n'roll, not some old fashion-ass kinda music like-what's it called?--"Broke," I think it is. Good word for it -- it sure sounds broke to me. So I just gripped the steerin' wheel real tight and tried to keep a handle on myself.
The song finally gets over and some silly-ass DJ comes on, and he's talkin' 'bout how he remembers when the song first came out. He was a little kid and it was his favorite, so -- get this, like anyone's interested -- he went to his mom's spice cabinet and found the four herbs in the title and rearranged them into that order. Then he laughs this stupid "ain't that for cute now" DJ laugh that made me wanna just puke.
I was thinkin' this was the stupidest thing I've ever heard, and I let out with "What the hell?" I'd forgotten all about the pathetic-ass cry-baby in the passenger seat and he piped up with, "Yeah, isn't that terrible?" and went right on with his wussy-ass babblin'.
Meanwhile, instead of introducin' the next song like a DJ is 'sposed to do, this guy kept on about his childhood. For some reason, thinkin' 'bout the spice rack triggered a memory of his father's aftershave and how he always smelled it real strong-like when his pop was whompin' on him. Then he starts talkin' about his big sister and how she'd force him to play "doctor" with an umbrella stand or some wierd thing like that. Suddenly, he's talkin' 'bout the family pets, and what his brother would make him do, but -- and I thank my jesus h. holy bejesus -- he didn't go into any details 'bout that. But the whole thing was just too preverted and wierd-ass for me to even think about, and I could feel myself startin' to get just a little pissed off.
My temples started throbbin'. The D.J. won't stop. Next he started goin' on about how he deals with all his childhood hang-ups: Every full moon he dumps a whole bottle of Old Spice on himself, shaves all five of his cats and then involves them in unnatural coitus with a hat rack.
Right then and there I let out a holler of "Whaddafuck?" and my stupid carpool buddy, again thinkin' that I'm talkin' to him, says, "I couldn't believe she made me do that either," and goes on with his sissy-ass cryin' sob story. But I didn't pay him no mind, 'coz at that moment I saw I was only three blocks away from the radio station where this crazy sicko-ass DJ was broadcastin' from. So I slammed my Ford into overdrive and what happened after that was -- aah, how do they say it in those stupid novels my lard-ass wife reads? -- "just a blur." I was gonna give that DJ what he needed.
So I screeched up the radio station, tires a-squealin' and made a parkin' space for myself on the front sidewalk, ignoring the protests of that teary-eyed twit in my passenger seat, who wanted to know why we were stoppin'.
I reached under my seat, grabbed my sawed-off shotgun and jumped out of the car. As I ran up to the building that warped-ass DJ was still talkin' about cologne, caning, cat hair, and I don't know whatdafuck else, but I was seein' red so bad that I couldn't hardly hear him anymore anyway. It seemed to me that no F. fuckin' C.C. would approve of this lunatic-ass psychopath fillin' the airwaves with disgustin'-ass garbage like he was, so I knew I had the law on my side. I busted through the front doors of the station and jogged down the hall.
When I tracked down the broadcastin' booth I found a stupid scene -- all the radio employees were just standin' around on their lazy asses, tryin' to figure out how to get through the blockaded door of the glassed-in DJ booth, but none of them was doin' anything. Ballsless-ass dipshits. They were all too scared of me when I burst in to even try and stop me when I took a runnin' jump through the soundproof glass window and landed myself right between that crude-ass DJ and his mike. His jaw hung open, slacked, and for the first fuckin' time in the last who knew how long -- thank you to yours truly thank you very much -- he wasn't talkin', so I stuck both barrels in there and told him to apologize to the listening audience right this f'n minute and slap a good piece of vinyl on the turntable.
I was still pretty damned pumped-up when I got back into my truck so I turned to that snivelly-ass in my passenger seat, shoved the end of my sawed-off friend into his mouth, and told him that he could go ahead and shutdafuckup any second now if he wanted to. Stupid moany-ass whimperface; I can't stand him. I turned up my radio so I could hear my song. It was the Rollin' Stones singin' 'bout Satisfaction. Then I started to cool off. Right then, that song was the coolest thing in the whole wide world.
Now Mick and Keith and those guys -- they're rock'n'roll. They don't do any of that stupid-ass Batch harpsichord shit. That's why I like 'em.