Kill kill, bang your mom, gouge gouge. Ta-da

Tonight I was watching MTV because I have bad taste and no life. A music video came on (yes, they still play music videos, but only after 3am) that was this sappy "omgz i heart uuuu" quasi-R&B track that had approximately zero redeeming qualities. I don't even know what it was. The video was astoundingly typical: attractive-ish dude of indeterminate ethnicity trying to keep a beat while professing his love for his boo, who is gazing adoringly at him from the passenger seat of his tricked-out car or boat or I don't even remember. Duh. I literally could not have cared less.

But something struck me about the song and unleashed a feeling that I can only describe as premonitory dread. It was EXACTLY the kind of song that, when the DJ puts it on at your eighth-grade dance, all the awkward pubescent couples sway back and forth and if you don't have a date you hang out on the bleachers and cry because your social life is OVER. There is no other appropriate situation for this song, I promise you.

So the reason I'm writing about it is my internal monologue, which I found hilarious, because I'm self-indulgent like that.

"Oh shit, this song is terrible. I can already tell. It's a prom song. It's the song that everybody and their mother dances to at prom. Awkwardly. I guess maybe not their mother. I mean, if you're dancing with your mother at prom, you have bigger issues than your terrible taste in music. Like, between the two problems, your therapist is going to ask more questions about your dating your mom than he is about your peculiar fondness for intentionally shitty music."

When my train of thought veers off-track, it tends to crash and burn fairly quickly. This time the Thought Express took a flaming nosedive off Incest Cliff. Hey, gotta keep life interesting.

Speaking of interesting. I've been watching this owl thing, right? (See previous post.) There's a chat box next to the video feed, which I read but don't participate in. I love the random shit that comes up, though. According to other people who like to watch baby owls eat rats at 6am, tiny Tyrannosaurus Rex arms...are for throwing gang signs. Because, you know, what the hell else are they good for? So now I have an excellent mental image of T-rex, gangsta style.

This might have to be drawn, of course. Hmm.