Country Music

Anyone who knows me knows that I despise country music. I don’t use the word “despise” lightly. In the Official Book of Dieter’s Vocabulary (not available in stores…yet) the word “despise” is reserved for items and subjects to which I passionately hate with such vehemence that it induces physical illness and anger.

Lately, at work, I have been sentenced to listening to hours of country music. I have been contemplating a boycott or a one-man strike. If I didn’t have a family to feed, I would walk out because I despise country music that much.

Back in the early days of America, when country music was young, it defined a lifestyle; the cowboy working the herds, the farmer toiling in the fields or the blue-collar worker slaving over barrels of Jim Bean at the distillery. These people worked hard and described their hardships through earthy, folksy music with guitars, violins, gin bottles and harmonicas. Their hard lifestyle afforded them the right to complain.

Let’s take a look at today’s country music. Almost every country song these days is about love. Yeah, that’s original, love. Whether it’s a lover, son, brother, mother, dog or pick-up truck, it’s all about love. What about today’s country music singer? Are they working their hearts out to make a living in the fields, on the ranch or in a distillery? NO. These so-called musicians primp themselves up with “Country Clothes” to look like they are come from the hard lifestyle. Give me a break. The hardest part of their job is having to decide which bottle of vino to pop open in their modified Ford F350 limo (complete with store-bought steer horns on the grill).

The majority of Country Music fans are urban dwelling people, who rarely break a sweat at work, have never been on a horse outside of the pony ride at the fair and whose concept of the origin of alcohol is “It came from the liquor store”. These are the same country music fans that wear Stetsons in their Geo Metros and Ford Festivas. They often wear Wrangler jeans that are so tight, they can’t sit normally and have the Wrangler “W” imprinted on their butt-cheeks.

Not to disrespect those hard working people who still wrestle cattle, farm stuff or who still work in the Jim Bean plant. You have my utmost respect. You should be ashamed of the music whose roots were founded in the hard work of your occupational forbearers.

Tribute to Laurie: You are the Queen!

Fatherhood is great. I love being a dad, and I think it's a result of my son being such a stud. He is usually really calm and content. I sincerly think that he loves me, too. There is a minor dark side to our relationship. Lately, Noah has decided that he hates sleeping at night. This is difficult on me because I don't get much sleep; however, my suffering is nothing compared to the beating my wife goes through every night.

Over the past 3-weeks, here is a typical night. Noah goes to sleep around 8:00-8:30 PM. Mom and dad plop into bed around 9:30 or 10:00. At Midnight, we hear the tortured screams of our little boy coming from his room. One of us springs into action, usually, Laurie. Laurie gets up and tends to the wee one for about an hour or so and then slinks back into bed. Around 3:00 am, we hear Noah cry again. Laurie gets out of bed to take care of him for an hour or so and then comes back to bed. There is a repeat of this hellish process at 5:30 am, until Noah wakes up for good at 7:30 am.

I have thanked Laurie for her hard work. I have made numerous attempts to help her out during Noah's "no-sleep zone", but I think I fall short of what she needs. So this is a tribute to Laurie. She is the absolute greatest mother and wife on earth. Not only is she patient and loving with Noah during the day, but she maintains her patience into the early hours of morning and beyond. She is a saint who deserves to be spoiled with flowers and daily foot-massages.

Laurie, you are the Queen of our family. You have earned my gratitude forever. You are a woman unmatched by any other I have met. You have the right to punch me in the mouth anytime I complain, because you endure far more than I think I have the moxy for.

Zombie Movie with Midgets

There are no great zombie movies with zombie midgets. It seems unjust to exclude midgets from the ranks of the creepy, blank-faced undead. Little people can be terrifying zombies; in fact, I contend that they would be even more terrifying than your average-height, run of the mill zombie. Midgets, by design, would make the scariest zombies ever known.

Let's consider the facts:

Midgets have been the brunt of many degrading and humiliating jokes. This contributes to their midget-rage. If you combine midget-rage with the powers of the undead, you have yourself one bad-ass midget who won't hesitate to open up your skull and slurp your head hollow.

Midgets can fit into places that taller people cannot. Let's say there is an apocalyptic catastrophe that turns the majority of earth's citizens into brain-thirsty zombies, hell bent on killing all non-zombies. You are one of the few survivors and you are holed up in a “safe place”. With midget zombies, your safe place will become a zombie buffet. Midgets can fit in ventilation shafts, sewers, chimneys, underneath public restroom stalls, in the overhead baggage compartment of planes and other tight places that their larger, zombie compadres cannot. Once you have a midget zombie breach in your stronghold, say your prayers brother, cause’ your grey matter is as good as gone.

Finally, midgets would make superior zombies because their high-pitch screams would cause extraordinary terror in the hearts of their victims. The low moans and grunts of larger zombies are too tired and old. Those low zombie sounds have been used too often. Victims of large zombies are probably lulled into boredom when they hear their attacker gently moaning and grunting like a big zow. Imagine the heart-halting fright as a midget zombie approaches you for the kill and screeches like a mighty eagle! Oh, it gives me the chills just thinking about it!