I'm starting to make sense, and it scares the shit outta me.

I don't know what's wrong with me lately. My brain is totally unable to retain any sort of information for more than 5 seconds. Tops. And those of you who know me, or have read this blog for awhile, are probably thinking to yourselves, "What the flip is she talking about? This is nothing new. The girl is a mess." And you are right. But it has been worse than usual. I am sure that if The Hub were here right now he would totally corroborate my story. Yes, I am always a mess, but the amount of mess that I am at present time is approximately 127.5% messier than the mess I was previously. Did that make sense? I'm not sure. Not a whole lot of stuff really makes sense to me right now. Yet some things make more sense than ever. And I'm pretty sure that statement made no sense at all. This is obviously a downward spiral, so I guess I'll move on.

Something is totally up. I have been having some of the funniest thoughts that I have ever had, yet I forget them almost instantly. All I can remember is that they were HILARIOUS. But as far as I know, maybe they weren't. I mean, maybe they were totally stupid and I forgot that part yet I am so narcissistic that I assume that they were comedy gold. That's totally and completely possible. But since I realize that that is totally and completely possible, doesn't that mean I am NOT narcissistic? Would a narcissist even think for one millisecond that there was ANY possibility that they were not funny? Also, would a narcissist think that her hair looks like shit 80% of the time and that her nose was way too big for her face? And would a narcissist tell you that one time she accidentally peed on her friend's couch and another time while she was having a really heavy period and a really bad cold at the same time, she totally sneezed her tampon out? I seriously doubt it.

Narcissistic crisis averted.

But my point is: My head is a mysteriouser jumble than usual.

In case you didn't notice, my last two blog posts pretty much made sense. I mean, they were actual stories with a beginning, middle, and end. They both kinda had something that resembled a point. Ok, maybe not a point exactly, but a theme. And things like points and coherency and themes and stuff? Those are not usually things that I excel at. At all. And in an advice column that I did on the Ghetto Genius website, I actually gave straight up, good, advice, that wasn't even sassy at all. It was totally the perfect platform for me to recommend sporking someone in the under balls, yet I took (gulp) the high road and actually made mature and sensible recommendations. It was so uncharacteristically thoughtful and sincere that Facebook and the interwebs were abuzz with rumors that I had died and had my identity stolen by Oprah. Ever since I wrote that blog post about how much she was pissing me off, I'm pretty sure she has been out to get me. So I can totally see her hiring a hit man to take me out. And since her crappy network and all her shows totally suck donkey dong, she might be looking to score with my hip followers. But I am onto her plan and it ain't gonna see the light of day. I do believe, however, that somehow she is infiltrating my brain waves with her empathy and adviceyness. She probably has a machine that does that kinda stuff. If I had a bajillion dollars like her, I'd totally build all kinds of amazingly badass machines like that. And also open the Hobo and Koala Academy's that I've been dreaming about for years. I wanted to educate the hobos, plus turn them into a mega army. And the koalas' really need some Planned Parenthood stuff. Sex education. Condoms. Things like that. It's an epidemic. Seriously. Google it.

The fact that Oprah has time and money to spend building machines to mess with my brain waves yet has no compassion for the Hobo's or STD-ridden Koala's really says a lot about her "character". Or lack thereof.

Everything about me is just a little askew. Always has been. You can ask around. I am sure my family and lifelong friends will agree with this statement. My brain works in mysterious ways, and part of my charm (or so I like to think) is the fact that I ramble on and on and rarely write anything that makes complete sense. Oh sure, there are little sensey morsels embedded here and there is some of the things that I write, but writing an entire post that is completely coherent and fails to mention a hobo, a zombie, a unicorn, or a sporking, is really rare. But it's happened 3 times this week. And while most people would be worried if they started to think like I usually think, I am frightened when I don't. When I start to make sense? That's when I start to worry that I might be losing my mind.

I am trying to Dr. Phil myself here, and it's not working. And it usually does. I am someone who does plenty of dumb-ass things, yet after -or sometimes even during- the fact, I not only realize what I'm doing, but also exactly why I am doing it. I Dr. Phil myself at least 4 or 5 times a week. And I am really good at it. The only thing I lack are the down home, back woods euphemisms. I'm so totally not good at those and get them wrong every time. You can teach a man to fish, and he will eat some fish. But if you don't teach him to fish, he will probably just eat vegetables.

I love vegetables, BTW. Especially grilled.

So basically what I have learned is that once again I am opposite of most people, because when most people get out of sorts, they get "crazy' or "random" or "scattered", but when I get out of sorts I start to make sense. And while they make medication for the regular out of sorts people to get them back to normal, they don't make anything for me. So I'm pretty much mega-screwed. All I can do is wait patiently for whatever screw that accidentally got tightened, to get knocked loose again. And no, that is not an invitation to start whacking me on the head. So back off.

I did not win the lottery. I probably did not win any friends either. That's just how it goes when you like to act like a weird a-hole.

So last week was that big ass lottery thing and everyone was freaking the hell out about it. I have to admit that I didn't even know it was going on until my friend Stephanie emailed me and a shit ton of her other friends to see if we all wanted to kick in $20 apiece for a big pile of tickets. I am not traditionally a gambler because I don't like to lose money. At all. Oh sure I've gambled before, but not on my own dime. I went to a riverboat casino with the in-laws once and my father-in-law gave us all $20.00 to gamble with, so of course I totally accepted the shit out of it and got my gamble on good. If someone wants to give me free money to gamble with, I am all up in that situation. I figure if I lose it, big whoop. It wasn't mine anyways. But that night on the riverboat, all I would play were the slots because (a) They are easy, and (b) I am stupid. There were lots of other games that looked fun, but instead of pictures of fruit and piles of gold, those games had instructions and numbers and stuff and I am not a good instruction follower. At all. I space out within the first 2.5 seconds of the hearing or reading of any kind of instructions. Ikea furniture is my own personal hell and if left in my hands, an Oostaborgen-jorgen-wtf bookcase is likely to come out looking like it was put together by blind people with no hands. And board games? I love them long time, but I have to make someone else read the instructions then explain the game to me as we play. NOT ahead of time, because I totally won't listen. I will roll my eyes and sing songs and maybe cover my ears, but I won't listen.

Anyways...when I went to the riverboat with my free $20.00 I did the slots all night and lost pretty bad, then when everyone said they were ready to leave I put in my last quarter and won $20.00. Which I was totally not cocky about. At all. Then a few years ago The Hub had an office party at the horse track and everyone got a free $20.00 to gamble with and since everyone there was an engineer nerd, they were all reading the stats or whatever you call them and trying to mathematically deduce or equate or -insert nerdy math term that I don't know because The Maths give me diarrhea, here- which were likely to be the winning horses, while I casually perused the booklet and picked some cute names like "Cher Rocks My World" or something like that, and won around $400.00 plus total bragging rights about how name cuteness trumps math annoyances every damn time.

But back to the lottery...

So even though the $20.00 for this lottery situation was to come out of my own pocket and the likelihood of my getting anything out of it was slimmer than Leann Rhimes ever since she stole that Eddie guy from that other woman like a slutty ho, I decided to go for it. But in all honesty the reason that I decided to give away enough money to almost cover the cost of a case of Modelo is not because I thought that I would actually win this lottery, but because I was bored and I wanted to be involved in this hugemongous email thread that Stephanie started.

After Stephanie sent out the email asking around 20 women (most of whom I do not know) if they wanted to participate, I told everyone that I was "in" and then sent the following email to all of them:

"PS If we win I'm not above poisoning you all, burying you in shallow graves, kidnapping Johnny Depp and running off to FIji with the winnings. Just FYI."

Then Stephanie sent the following email:

"Problem to your scheme-you will have to take me along, or cut me a deal. I have the tickets."

To which I replied:

"I was gonna murder you first and take the damn tickets. Duh. But you must admit that we had an awesome time on our non-lesbian L.A. vacation and could probably live happily together in Fiji."

After those exchanges, a few of the ladies started talking all crazy and delusional like THEY were going to Fiji with us. Which I cleared up pretty fast. Then Stephanie told everyone to drop their money off at her house in envelopes. So I wrote:

"Everyone please be a peach and attach your addresses too. Ya know, for the murdering part. It's easier for me to kill you if I know where you live. XO"

Then Stephanie said:

"Patti, I may have to meet you in Fiji, after you have done your time in prison for murdering all of these people. Kinda like from the scene in 'Shawshank Redemption' where Morgan Freeman meets up with Tim Robbins on the isolated beach."

To which I replied with:

"Minus the butt rape."

And then some woman I don't know named Lori, dropped off her money with Stephanie's address written on the envelope so that I would perhaps be confused and murder Stephanie instead of her. As if I am THAT stupid. Well, actually I am. But thankfully Stephanie caught it and called her out. Then Lori feigned innocence and confusion which is always a great tactic to take when accused of any wrongdoing, as is -in my experience- showing a boob. But in Lori's feigning innocence email she also claimed that the neighborhood PTO has a non-lesbian trip to Fiji every year and that Johnny Depp was to be this year's guest speaker. To which I replied:

"Johnny Depp has been chained up naked in my attic for 2 weeks as my sex slave. He's gonna have to cancel."

Then another woman named Laurie emailed and really won me over with her offer to become my partner in crime and pretty much kill old people or anything else that was to get in our way, and I, of course, took an instant liking to her. But then another woman emailed and said that Laurie wins the email contest cuz she made her laugh the hardest. So I said:

"Well since you think I'm not funny I will kill you first. And more painfully. Like with a spork."

And I meant it.

And that pretty much shut down that email thread.

Then the day after the winners (not us) were announced, I sent this photo out:

And we didn't hear from anyone after that. And I doubt that they went silent because they actually thought we were in Fiji. Cuz dude, Fiji is pretty freakin' toasty and I'm wearing a cardigan since that was actually Malibu and it was a teensy bit chilly that day. No. I think that the reason they went silent is because I had threatened to kill them all one by one. It might possibly be because I also said the term "butt rape" which sometimes makes people freak the freak out. Or maybe it's because they had another secret lottery pool going, and they all won and cut Stephanie and I out of the deal. Hmmm.....I am totally sharpening my sporks and checking to make sure Depp is still in my attic. 

I sat down to write a story about a bunch of strange stuff including the fact that in 10th grade I had a "pet" giant dead cockroach named Riggy, which was short for Rigor Mortis. But then I started thinking about boys and first kisses and stuff like that. And those things have nothing to do with one another. I'm just really confused right now.

The summer between 8th and 9th grade was the first time that I ever open mouth kissed a boy. And I open mouth kissed that boy A LOT that summer. See, I may have waited a long time to tongue kiss a boy, but at least when I finally did it I was smart enough to choose a boy that lived within walking distance of my house, therefore increasing the amount of tongue kissing by, oh, I don't know...A bazillion-fold? I spent that summer making up for lost time and also making my mom ask me approximately 831 times, what was wrong with my lips. Because when you are kissing someone like there is an asteroid hurtling towards Earth and the only thing that can save humanity is not Bruce WIllis and a cheesy Aerosmith song, but YOU having your tongue in some boy's mouth all day every day, pausing only to have a drink of water every now and then so you don't totally dry up, your lips end up looking like giant, red, chapped fish lips.

And although this particular boy took my French Kissing virginity, I had semi-technically had a few previous "boyfriends" who weren't really "boyfriends" inasmuch as they were boys who were friends who one day said to me "Ya wanna go together?" to which I replied "I guess" and then became super duper confused when we didn't actually go anywhere at all. I soon figured out that all the term "going together" meant in middle school was that you tell everyone you're going out, and you basically just keep saying that to people until something dramatic happens, like your "boyfriend" sees the way that Susie Thompson's boobies bounce up and down when she competes in the sack races at 7th grade field day, and he dumps you and your A-cups before you even have a chance to totally hypnotize him with your mad mad hula hoop skills.

Psst! I'll tell you a little secret: Boys? They like the boobies.

I guess my first "boyfriend," at least in my mind, was a boy named Mikey. Our moms were friends so we hung out together a lot, went to school together, etc... And unless my memory fails,me (which it rarely does unless tequila is involved, which it wasn't, cuz I was only 8 and I'm not a goddamn Barrymore), one time we had a fast-as-lightening closed mouth kiss by the bathroom at school, which to an 8-year-old is some pretty heavy stuff. But it only happened once with him, and I realized that he was too goody-goody for me. He was a Ricky Stratton and I was looking for a Derek Taylor. Then came the boy in my neighborhood that I used to make play house with me under the picnic table. I would make him closed mouth kiss me, tell me I was pretty, and then sweep up the patio while I made dinner, i.e. opened up some Coca-Cola's and Slim Jim's.

My sister, me, and boy #1.
Yes, we are wearing matching keds.
Yes, our mothers must have hated us.

In 6th grade my friend's older 7th grade brother asked me to "go with" him. Since the other two boys were friends of mine, the had never asked me this particular question. Since we were already friends, we just skipped such formalities and got straight to the closed-mouth kissing. But this boy asked me to "go with" him, all serious and formal and everything. So I said "go where?" and he said "nowhere" and I was mega-confused and I just told him he was stupid. But then when I told my friends about it and they explained it to me, I went back and told him yes. And I went absolutely nowhere with him for a few weeks. And since I only saw him for 10 minutes before school and at absolutely no other time since 6th and 7th graders were kept totally separate and he did not live within bike riding distance of my home, it was a pretty innocent, and boring, romance.

Then one day this boy's sister invited me to spend the night, and since I had never slept over at her house before I was super excited and said okay. Then when I got there, she dropped a bombshell: "My parents said we could sleep out back in the camper, and my brother is gonna sneak out there and I will leave you two alone." Ummm....#1) WTF? And #2) Oh. Hell. No. This was a 7th grade boy that I had agreed to "go with" based on the facts that it meant absolutely nothing and I never had to be alone with him. Ever. But staying all night ALONE with me in a camper? An automobile with a bed in it? A sex vehicle? No thank you. I mean, he was in 7th grade for Pete's sake. And I had heard tell of 7th graders making sexy time in the woods during recess. And that news? That scared this open-mouth-kissing virgin (and every thing else virgin) to death. So what I did was what any good 6th grade tongue virgin would do: I pretended to have a tummy ache, called my mom, and went home. The trip home was quite a relief, but also slightly bittersweet because I WAS looking forward to that tongue kissing situation. I had practiced on my right arm so much that I was starting to develop strange feelings for one particular bit of my forearm. I was not, however, EVEN THE SLIGHTEST BIT READY to have ANYTHING else happen. Especially the sexy time. At least not with another person. Sure, I had been "dating" myself for quite some time, but "dating" a boy? No no no no no no and no.

After I barely dodged that camper sex party, I pretty much spent the next 2 years dry-humping my pillow and pretending it was Billy Idol. The closest I got to making out with a boy was square dancing in 7th grade P.E. class. Don't get me wrong, I was all kinds of fired up to do some making out. My pillow had pretty much been humped into oblivion. But during those years I got tall. Taller than the boys. And when you are taller than the boys, they aren't really that into you. And ya know what? You're not all that into them either. You know who IS into you? College boys. We lived in a neighborhood of fraternities and college rental homes, and when you are as tall as a college girl, you get talked to. A lot. They assumed  I was in high school, and I often enjoyed dropping the pedophile bombshell on them that I was, indeed, only 13 or whatever I was at the time. If I was afraid of that 7th grade boy's secret sex camper, I sure as hell wasn't gonna mess with any college guys.

That brings us back to the beginning of this story, which was the summer between 8th and 9th grade. When I tongue kissed a boy for approximately 90 days straight and pretty much lost total feeling in my lips after day 29, but kept on going anyways. Cuz I'm a trooper like that. And as an end of summer parting gift, I may or may not have let him touch my boobies. I'm not gonna say, because sometimes my parents read this when they're really mega bored and are in the mood to punish themselves. I don't know why they do it, but they do. So let's just end this story by saying that after the 3 month kiss-a-thon and a possible boob-touch, I read the Bible and prayed to Baby Jeebus every night and asked for forgiveness for being a tongue tramp. The End.

P.S. I totally let him touch my boobs. And it rocked.

Awesome stuff that I would like to have for Valentine's Day. Or any day, really. I'm totally not picky about the day.

Valentine's Day is tomorrow, you guys. And I haven't gotten The Hub ANYTHING yet. Last year I got him a cockroach named Stevie J. Chevrolet, which was by far the most romantic gesture I have ever made. And don't worry, cuz although the cockroach was totally real, it doesn't live with us. It lives in The Bronx Zoo. We just got a photo of him kinda like those photos of kids you get when you send money to Sally Struthers, or whoever the hell they have on those commercials nowadays. I have no clue because I have this thing called a DVR and I don't watch commercials. I am not hip to anything that is advertised on commercials anymore. For all I know they have invented yet another better tampon that lets me not only play volleyball on the beach in a bikini, but also ride a white mechanical bull while wearing no pants at all, without even the slightest chance of an embarrassing accident. And here I am, totally missing out.

As far as Valentine's Day is concerned, I'll probably go the get-him-a-big-ass-pack-of -Twizzlers-and-call-it-a-day, route. This is not a bad gift for him, at all. Dude loves the Twizzlers. And I am not a girl who has high expectations about this day either. I don't really care about it and I usually tell The Hub that all I want is to go buy some clothes or something without hearing about how much money I spent. That, to me, is the perfect Valentine's Day gift. The gift of shut-the-fuck-up. If only they sold that at Amazon.com there would be happy people everywhere this Valentine's Day. And due to the fact that pretty much no matter what a guy gets his woman, she isn't gonna be satisfied, Amazon could just do one of those things they do when you buy something and they suggest something else to go with it. For example: Let's say that you get on Amazon and order your girlfriend a nice bathrobe. Well, when you are checking out, Amazon says "If you also order some Shut-The-Fuck-Up you save $3.00 on your total plus avoid a fight because your girlfriend thought this robe sucked balls."

I think I'm a genius.

Scratch that.

I KNOW I AM.

And although I am not a mushy Valentine's Day kinda person, I will admit that there are a few gifts that I would accept with open arms, and probably even do "the dirty stuff" as a thank you for. I want these things pretty bad. And even though I tell The Hub about my desire for them, he just rolls his eyes and ignores me, and I have yet to figure out if that is due to the fact that he thinks I am joking, or due to the fact that he just thinks that the things on my list are stupid. But this is the man who thought that THIS was stupid:

This is the dead lizard that I wanted at the Flea Market in Austin.
The pain of not getting him still hurts. It hurts bad, you guys.
Dear Dead Lizard, I think about you every single day.
xoxo Patti

So here is a list of a few things that I would totally accept for Valentine's gifts in lieu of all that other stuff that most girls want. And just in case The Hub is reading this, I want to be very very very super crystal shiny glassy clear: I. Am. Not. Joking. And I also want to be clear that this is only a partial list. Partial as in, like, 2% of what I would accept. I want to make my desires known, but I also don't wanna overwhelm the man. And all of us ladies know that when it comes to things like lists of things we want yet our husband's find totally idiotic, it's best to dole the items out little by little. Baby steps, ladies. Baby steps.

Although I have mentioned this item MANY times before on this blog, it has yet to show up at my house, so I am going to mention it again. It is the majestic Cruzin Cooler. And if I would have gotten this baby back when I first asked for it two years ago, I would have been happy with one. But now I want a whole train of them so my friends can ride around the neighborhood with me. See what happens when you make me wait? My mind has time to dream up bigger and better things. Bigger and better and more expensive things.

I assume that most of guys know about my obsession for the unicorn bike. Or as I lovingly refer to it, the Bikeicorn. I have been wanting one of these pretty bad for nearly a year. And although The Hub likes to talk about how handy he is with tools and the building of stuff, he still refuses to build me one of these. This is a really big-ass, pointy, hard, and bitter pill for me to swallow. Why? Because there's nothing that The Hub likes more that building something awesome that lots of people are gonna see, yet he still declines to build me the Bikeicorn, which is the one thing that he could build that would garner him the praise of thousands. Cuz you can bet your sweet-ass I'd be riding this thing EVERYWHERE causing unbelievable envy in EVERYONE. And making people envious kinda rocks hard.

Aside from the whole Bikeicorn thing, my long-time readers also know that if there's one thing squirrels hate, it's me. I don't know what it is. Animals usually love me. As I've said before, I'm like Snow White, but more whorey. Unless -of course- she was messing around with those dwarfs. If she was, then she's totally got me beat. But animals have always been drawn to me. Except for when it comes to squirrels. On more than one occasion, squirrels have tried to kill me, and fortunately my friend Cathy can attest to this. And I am soooo glad. Cuz sometimes my stories seem a bit outlandish, so it's nice when there is someone to verify that yes, this shit does happen to me. So since I like to go walking in the mornings with Cathy, and since the squirrels know my schedule and often try to coordinate murdery opportunities along my walking route, I would like to get this mask so I can freak the shit out of them and make them think I am their king and make proclamation that they leave me the frick alone.

Seriously. I want these bad. Why? Because I want to wear them in public and have people ask me "What are those?" To which I will reply "They're Pickle Fingers! Duh!" And that's all. It's really not that difficult to understand. Let's not over-analyze it. Okay?

This is so amazingly perfect for me that it's like it was created with me in mind. As a matter of fact, I refuse to believe that it wasn't. I imagine myself singing the Jet Song from West Side Story, and then eating a nice Enchirito and Mexican Pizza after I spork some bad guys in the sack. Hygienic? No. Awesome? Yes.

This is it, you guys. This is the kinda stuff that makes me happy. I don't need roses and chocolates and fancy dinners. I just need to ability to fend off a would-be mugger with my pickle-fingered hands wrapped around a switchblade spork, and then celebrate by driving my Cruzin Cooler train filled with Modelo.

I am not a mysterious woman. Not at all.

Sometimes music can touch the soul, and sometimes it can teach you about sluts and morons.

When I was a kid, I was really into music. I had my own tape recorder, and when I wasn't busy recording my dad snoring, or my parent's private conversations, or episodes of Laverne & Shirley that I wanted to memorize, or my own soap opera's that I wrote, directed, and starred in and which revolved around the character's flatulence problems (The Young and the Farty was a popular one), I was usually using it to listen to my tunes. I even had entire dance routines to go with most of my jams. When I needed more people for said dance routines, I would invite a few of the neighbor girls over, and force them to learn my choreography. There was one girl who would always try to outshine me, so I would stick her in the way back, and sometimes she would get put in charge of lighting or the wind machine, AKA the flashlight and the box fan.

During my performances,  I was usually in costume, hairbrush in hand, singing along. I even made wigs out of yarn when a fancier hairstyle was in order, or the dance routine required a bit more sassy hair tossing than my own thin locks could handle.  

I was about 99.9% positive that I would someday be discovered. Basically it would go down like this:  I would start out on Broadway in "Annie." Then as I matured and my body blossomed into a beautiful garden of butt and boobies, I would move on to something along the lines of a starring role in TV's "Fame", or a permanent role on "The Facts of Life" on which I would play the part-time school girl/full-time rock and roller best friend of Jo's.

In other words, I was really really into my music. And I still am. And like most people when they get older, I have a soft spot for the music that I listened to as a child. But now when I listen to some of it, I hear things in it that I missed as a kid.

So today I thought I would share a few of these songs with you. Why? Because it's Super Bowl Sunday and I don't watch football. So I'm pretty bored.

#1- Heart: All I Wanna Do Is Make Love To You

When I googled this song for the release date, I was actually pretty shocked. It came out in 1990. And the realization of that made me feel like a total loser. Because truth be told, I kinda liked this song for awhile. I mean, only when I was on my period or was having boy trouble. The rest of the time I was into bands like The Cure and The Smiths and Led Zeppelin. But if my estrogen levels were high and this song came on the radio, I ain't gonna lie you guys... I sang along. But thanks to the fact that I was 18 when this came out, it didn't take me more than a few weeks to really listen to the stupid words that I was singing. And when I did I felt like an asshole. Cuz this song? This song was about woman who picked up a boy who was out walking during a rainstorm. And he was probably walking cuz he was too young to drive, you guys. So does she take him home? No. She takes him to a hotel. What hotel? One that she "knew well." Why did she know it well? Probably cuz she was a whore who picked up young boys and took them to hotels. And what happened there? Well, she pretty much screwed his brains out. Then what? Well, she snuck out while he was sleeping and she left him some dumb-ass note that said "I am the flower, you are the seed, we walked in the garden, we planted a tree." And that is, like, the dumbest note ever. Cuz if she is a stupid flower, and he is a freakin' seed, how the hell did either of them walk through a goddamn garden? Flowers and seeds don't have legs. And even if they did, a flower and a seed don't make a freakin' tree. Obviously this songwriter didn't take Botany in college like I did. And ya know what else bugs me? Not only did she pick  up this "lonely boy in the rain" and take him to a hotel and underage rape him, but she also left him there to find his own way home. Bitch coulda at least left cab fare. And unfortunately it gets worse for him, because later he runs into her and finds out she had his friggin' baby! The only good part about this song is that there wasn't a verse about asking for child support.

#2- Dolly Parton: Jolene

So this was a song that I loved as a kid. It came out in 1974 when I was only 3-years-old, but it was always playing on the radio even when I was a few years older. It's a pretty short song and was easy to memorize, so it became a part of my hairbrush singing repertoire. Sometimes I would even put stuffed animals in my shirt to give myself a Dolly kinda rack. It actually wasn't until The White Stripes sang it in 2004 when I kinda re-discovered this song and really began to listen to the lyrics. Basically what this song is saying is that Dolly Parton is a woman with very low self-esteem whose man is messing around on her with some red-headed bitch named Jolene. So what does Dolly do? Key her car? Kick her ass? Spork her man in the taint? No, no, and no. What she does do is she sings about how pretty and perfect Jolene is and begs her not to take her man away from her, when what she really needs to do is throw his shit on the lawn and take him for all he's worth. Really. No wonder he's messing around with Jolene. She's pathetic. And that slutty Joleen's probably giving him the butt sex.

#3-Sylvia: Nobody

This song came out in 1982. I love it big time. I had the 45 and I played it and wore a yarn wig and did the whole American Bandstand performance thing. This song got lots of play time in my house. And I really don't think I had heard it since 1982, until a couple of weeks ago when it came on the radio in my car. I was super excited and I was flash-backing all over the place. And I was totally surprised to find that I remembered all of the lyrics. But as I sang along I realized that I never knew what the hell I was singing about back when I was 10-years-old. Yes. It's yet another song about a stupid bitch. Basically this girl is having dinner with her man when this other chick walks past their table, and she notices that he looks at her like he knows her. So she asks him about it and he says it's nobody. Then all this other shit happens like he says he's working late with nobody. And then he's all day-dreamy and stuff and she asks him who he's thinking about and he says nobody. So then the nobody woman calls the freakin' house and hangs up when the wife asks what her name is. Obviously they coulda used some caller ID, and the stupid nobody woman could've at least cooked up a story before she called, just in case the wife answered. I would think that would be one of the top ten tips for being the other woman: Be prepared to lie your ass off.  And after all this stuff happens, what does the wife do? She just tells her husband that she can love him better than that sleazy-ass nobody woman can. Really? Dude. Get some self-respect. You and Dolly need to go to some kind of support group or something. Or maybe take some testosterone and grow some balls.

#4-Meatloaf: Paradise By The Dashboard Light

This came out in 1977. We had the 8-track. I was 6-years-old and I sang the shit out of it. It was about 17-year-old kids in a car making out and he's trying to get her to do it with him and she's fighting it and he keeps on pushing and she asks him if he's gonna love her forever and he's mega-horny so he says yes so they do it and then he's stuck with her forever. So I guess she got knocked up or something. Did I mention that when I sang the shit outta this I was 6-years-old?

My parents really dropped the ball on this one.