Why I should just burn more CD's

I realize I’m not really the person to ask about popular music. After all, I’m in love with The Cure, and have been for many, many years. This isn’t a Radiohead or Pearl Jam-esque obsession, because people who get all up in Eddie Vedder’s business are a little insane. Music by The Cure is always relaxing and happy to me, plus it makes me dance in my living room in spasmatic, uncontrollable fashion. Because I’m fairly positive my neighbors lead a boring suburban life and what better way to spice it up than watching the idiot cat-lady through the third floor windows?

It’s just I get confused by some forms of music. I spend the entire length of the song thinking about the circumstances that had to occur to get this idiotic representation of the human race a recording contract and by the time I’m done with my thought process, the song is over times four. Not all of it is bad, obviously. Take the 'popular' music stations, for example. Some of the music is nice, inspiring what I like to refer to as my non-death-metal head-banging antics. Some of it even makes me wish that seats didn’t have to cup your posterior so closely, thereby preventing the posterior from shaking it like a salt shaker should so obviously be shaken.

But the names, MY GOD, the names. A couple of years ago I was totally thrown off by a grown man who went by the name of Chingy. Maybe this is a perfectly acceptable moniker to you, I have no idea. But Chingy sounds an awful lot like dinghy (wee little boat) or dingy (see also: ding bat). These, in turn, make me think of dingleberry, which is what hangs off my cat’s ass after he craps in the litter box and a leftover piece of poo gets stuck in his butt-fur. Hence, I associate Chingy with fur encrusted poopage. Probably not what he was going for.

Now I know I’ve berated some of the more amusing songs on here, ones that verbally express their undying love for strippers with big, brown eyes who twirl around the pole. The song where female genitalia is, I assume, being compared to peanut butter and jelly. Fergie and her inexplicable lyrics about going down on her London Bridge. And now I have a new one to add to the list, per yesterday’s rush hour drive home: a song about a man who’s trying to get to you and that monkey. I’m assuming that, per usual, the never fully described “monkey” is referring to female bits (obviously these men are tired of having penises). Of course, he could actually be referring to a real live monkey, because he’s just kookoo for coco puffs, if coco puffs are the round bits of poop that monkeys will inevitably throw at each other. I seriously doubt he has such animal-preservation motives, however, because the line right before the monkey bit professes how he’s trying to get to you and that booty. This line I totally understand. He’s enthralled with a young woman’s backside and he’s been overcome with the need to get to it, like, right that very second.

Plus, he wants you shake it, shake it, later on tonight.