What I Need To Do, Part 1

Ever see that "Top 100 One-Hit Wonders" on VH-1? I did. Probably twice. (I'm a sucker for those sorts of arbitrary musical countdown list thingies.)

Somewhere in the 60s was "Play that Funky Music" by Wild Cherry. So they explain how the song came about and show the band members in their insane bellbottoms and mustaches rocking out on some TV show back in the day, probably coked to the gills. And then it's time for the "So, where are they now?" portion of the segment.

The guy who wrote the song...where is he now? Probably on his boat with his thumb up his butt in Florida. He doesn't do SHIT. He just sits on his ass, all day long, collecting royalty checks, rockin' that same 'stache from '76 which probably still has coke stuck in it, and rides around the Intercoastal Waterway on his boat.

So you know what I need to do?

#1: Write semi-OK ballad for female vocalist du jour (Carrie Underwood, Taylor Swift, et. al.) which doesn't require any self-reflection or insight into the human condition on my part yet nevertheless still allows me to face self in mirror every morning

#2: Sell said song to her management company for use on her next album

#3: Wait for album on which song is contained sells 6,000,000 copies and blows up like fucking "Pyromania" circa '86 or whenever that piece of garbage was released

#4: Commence sitting on ass in Belize with my wife, our children, the Internet, a DVD player and endless cases of ice-cold Belikin (the national beer of Belize, imagine a cross between Corona and Red Stripe...it's fucking delicious, and I'm not a lager man at all)


Because this shit right here, in the cold and the snow in an office with no windows and people screaming at me about fucking signs? This shit right here? Right here?

This is BULLshit.