So I was speeding down the highway when Tim Wilson’s “Booty Man” came on the radio and I was so horrified I put my hands to my cheeks and screamed like that kid in Home Alone before plowing through a guardrail and plunging off a very, very high cliff, and I’d be writing this from Rock Critic Hell if my car hadn’t run out of gas halfway down and stopped dead.
That’s what happens when you refuse to fill your gas tank because gasoline costs $98.64 per gallon, thanks to your wonderful President, the orange fuckface.
Still, it was embarrassing. I had to call Triple A, who said they’d send somebody from their Emergency Moron Management Team to help me out. Then I called my buddy Steds and explained what had happened. I said, “What kind of a maniac would play a song that dumb on the radio? It’s the height of irresponsibility!”
To which he replied, “I’ve been reading up on this, and it’s quite possible nobody played it. Turn your radio dial.”
I did. I counted a total of 31 radio stations, and every single one of them was playing Tim Wilson’s “Booty Man.” Alternative rock, Christian, contemporary country, urban storm, political talk radio, smooth jazz, adult contemporary, sports talk radio, and some station that I think is run by and for dogs; the format didn’t matter. It was “Booty Man” from 87.9 to 108.9.
“How is that possible?” I asked, as Tim Wilson, a country singer/comedian who was booty-called off this mortal coil in 2014, sang, or I guess I should say rapped, or perhaps I should say just talked:
“Sweeter booty, sour booty
New booty, used booty
Whose booty? Sister’s booty
Your mama’s booty
Cookin’ booty, mean booty
Good luck with the booty.”
Believe me when I say I tried turning off the radio. No go.
“Some bug in the airwaves,” Steds said. “Scientists are working on it. One minute you’re listening to Hall & Oates “Kiss on My List,” which I would be remiss if I failed to mention is the greatest song ever sung by someone who isn’t Moses, Krishna, or Black Oak Arkansas, and the next you’re listening to Tim Wilson repeat the word “booty” some 800 times.
“In the meantime, people are driving off cliffs. You’re really lucky gravity is suspended in instances where the car you’re driving off a cliff runs out of gas. Otherwise, I’d be sitting at a round table in a dark room with a medium, and you’d be communicating via knuckle knocks. Did he get to the part about discount booty yet?”
“Not that I’ve heard. But I WOULD have heard it. That’s the worst part about the song. You can’t NOT hear every word. The guy really enunciates.”
Meanwhile, Tim Wilson was going:
“Leased booty, selling the booty
Working booty, easy booty
Sleazy booty, greasy booty
Need a lot more booty.”
“What gets me,” I said, “is that the song isn’t really a country song. It’s not a rap song; it isn’t even a country rap song. It’s a real live-in-the-flesh disco song, complete with KC and the Sunshine Band horns and this funky electric guitar that comes in every now and then as punctuation. Which makes it a country disco song, which in a way is a stroke of brilliance!”
“Sweated booty, powder that booty
Bad booty, sadder booty
Wide booty, wider booty
Double-wide booty.”
“Country Disco has a hallowed tradition,” said Steds. “Dolly Parton’s ‘Baby I’m Burnin’ ” is dance floor gold. Kacey Musgraves’ “High Horse” is the ghost of Studio 54 exacting its awful revenge. And the Bellamy Brothers’ “Let Your Love Flow” isn’t just wonderfully slick cow shit mysticism from a hayloft on some rural astral plane, it’s disco dynamite and makes me want to dance on the ceiling.”
“Breakfast booty, lunch booty
Supper booty, dinner booty
Expensive booty, cheap booty
Buffet booty, hot booty
Cold booty, takeout booty
Delivery booty
All Booty.”
“I can’t take it any more,” I whined. “If he says ‘booty’ one more time, I’m going to smash the radio.”
“Won’t work,” said Steds. “It’ll just come out of your air conditioning vents. Or if you’re really unlucky, he’ll materialize like Marley’s ghost in your back seat. Then you’re really fucked.”
I stifled a sob.
“If you listen carefully,” pontificated Steds, an academically accredited pontificator, “you’ll notice he never mentions fried-chicken-loving booty, cowboy-boot-wearing booty, Lou Reed booty, moose booty, Siamese twin booty, recalcitrant booty, German-speaking booty, leopard-skin-pillbox-hat-wearing booty, equal-opportunity booty, throw-some-shrimp-on-the-barbie booty, French deconstructionist booty, moody booty, potty-mouthed booty, loony tunes booty, or booty that does exceptionally well on standardized tests. Otherwise, he hits all the bases, including first, second, and third. And home plate.”
“Wouldn’t they fall under ‘All booty’?”
“I suppose. But I can’t believe he forgot Lou Reed booty. Foghat booty he mentions, but no Lou Reed booty? He could have at least included Metal Machine Music booty. And it’s not like he’s some NYC-hating hillbilly. No Wave booty is in there.”
“It’s not like booty hasn’t been the subject of a million songs,” I said. “There’s ‘Shake Your Booty,’ J. Lo’s ‘Booty,’ Bubba Sparxx’s ‘Ms. New Booty,’ Destiny Child’s ‘Bootylicious,’ Mos Def’s ‘Ms. Fat Booty,’ and literally dozens of booty-related songs without booty in the title.”
“Like ‘Ass Itch’ by Korn. Or “Ass Town” by Iggy Pop.
“Or “My Humps” by Black Eyed Peas.” Or “Shake Your Rump” by the Beastie Boys. And I’m not going to ask you how you’re familiar with Korn’s “Ass Itch.” That’s fucked up.”
Silence.
“Hey, I think I see the AAA truck in my rearview mirror. I’m saved!”
I watched as it got closer, closer, then flashed by. I caught the briefest glimpse of the driver screaming before the truck headfirsted into the rocks below and exploded in an impressively cinematic manner.
“Getting me out of here may not be as easy as I thought,” I said.
“No worries. I’ll send a helicopter.”
I watched the pretty flames below as Wilson sang/rapped/talked/whatever:
“Booty, booty, booty, booty, booty
Booty, booty, booty, booty, booty
Booty, booty, booty, booty, booty
Booty, booty, booty, booty, booty!”
As I merrily sang/rapped/talked/whatever along.
“You know,” I said to Steds, “I think I’m beginning to like this song.”
GRADED ON A CURVE:
B
