I May Be Weird Al Yankovic's Lovechild

I'm sure you've had a sung stuck in your head, at one time or another. For most people, the tune is mentally replayed for several hours or even days, to the point of annoyance. Apparently, I am not like most people. For as long as I can remember, I have always had at least one song stuck in my head. Not the same song, mind you, but always music with lyrics. The criteria for entry into my mental set list is simplicity and repetition, which, unfortunately, covers much bad music. Sheryl Crow, whose music could be written by 8 year olds, is a perennial favorite of my brain. Gwen Stefani, Eminem, and Avril Lavigne have also been popular, although, I may be having some type of subconscious contractual dispute with Lavigne, as she hasn't been getting as much airplay lately. The all-time #1 single at WTFG, Those Were the Days, by Mary Hopkins, got over a month of un-fucking-interrupted airtime, which was one of the few times that this has become annoying for me. Normally though, it doesn't bother me, as it is easily ignored.

I am sure that I am not the only one who is like this. In fact, I believe this is how Weird Al Yankovic got started. Once a song has cycled through my head a few times, some part of my brain goes to work on changing the lyrics. It is not exactly a conscious effort, but at some point I notice that some of the lyrics are different.When this occurs, I may deliberately make lyrical additions/subtractions and send it back for more airtime. Sometimes, I think that the part of my brain that replays the music argues with the part that makes the changes. The more that I dislike the song, the worse the lyrics are apt to be. For example, I always have and always will despise country music. Nevertheless, I inadvertently heard Sara Evans' Suds in the Bucket twice this week and it has been looping through my melon since Thursday. Here is what we've got so far (original lyrics in blue--improved lyrics in red):

She was in the backyard, they say it was a little past nine / She was at the trailer, they say it was a doublewide
When her prince pulled up, a white pickup truck / When she got knocked up, in a garbage truck
Her folks shoulda seen it coming, it was only just a matter of time / Now the baby-daddy’s running, but she knows it’s just a matter of time
Plenty old enough and you can't stop love / Before she goes to court and scores child support
She stuck a note on the screen door, "sorry but I got to go" / She took a note to the Motomart, “sorry, but i just retired”
That was all she wrote, her mama's heart was broke / That was all she wrote, Achmed’s heart was broke
That was all she wrote, so the story goes / That was all she wrote, on the dole she goes

Now her daddy's in the kitchen, staring out the window / Now the baby-daddy’s bitching, knowing he’s a loser
Scratching and a racking his brain / Scratching and a racking his brain
How could 18 years just up and walk away / Goddamn that Maury Povich and his test for DNA
Our little pony-tailed girl growed (yes, she sings "growed") up to be a woman / Our little trailer-park queen grew up to be a hosebag
Now she's gone in the blink of an eye / Dropped her drawers in the blink of an eye
She left the suds in the bucket / She left the trojans in the glove box
And the clothes hanging out on the line / And now she’s headed for the welfare line

Now that I see it in type, I'm thinking my version is kind of "purdy." If the song stays in there long enough for completion, I may have to head to Nashville. Even if I don't make it as a country star, I look damn sexy in a garbage truck.