What a Tortured Mind Produces

Yesterday I asked you all to contribute your suggestions to a list of songs and artists that would form the basis of a play list you'd find pure torture to endure. There were many fine additions thanks to all of you. One comment stood out in particular for a couple of reasons. First it describes a mighty extreme reaction to the song listed.

Suldog said... Theme from The Bodyguard, by Whitney Houston. Like nails on a chalkboard to me. If they played it continuously, I would seriously consider cutting off my dick to make it stop.

Really, Suldog, that paints quite the picture. Forgive me but it also evoked a memory that made me laugh. I was going to share it with him just in email but I decided I needed to inflict it all up you as well. You can thank me later. Suldog, just to be safe, put on a cup or have YOUR WIFE remove all sharp implements from your immediate surroundings.

*Walks past and whacks Suldog in the crotch with a baseball bat and calls "Cup check!" Ok, you're ready. If you can make it through the post, my friend, I hope you'll find it was worth it.

Now onto the story. As many of you know, the Lime family lived in Trinidad once upon a time. At the time Diana was a mere tot who was highly impressionable. Also at that time the local practice in television broadcasting was to delight viewers in between scheduled programs with music videos rather than commercials. I believe it was just shortly before we moved to Trinidad that the movie Suldog mentioned was released. Upon our arrival on the island and the discovery of regular video rotation between TV shows we also took note of the frequency with which Whitney Houston's cover of I Will Always Love You was played.

Diana also took note of this particular song and became quite fond of it. In fact, every time it played she felt the need to add her own dramatic rendering of the song as she sang into a plastic xylophone mallet that was supposed to be a microphone. Mr. Lime and I found this highly amusing both because of the passion Diana infused into each and every performance as she emulated Ms. Houston and because of the way she mangled the lyrics. I wish I had a video of her singing it so you could hear the itty bitty white girl with a Trini accent trying to make the great big Whitney voice with all the runs. It was a hoot. Ok, so maybe it would have just made Suldog run with a bad case of the runs but it made us laugh like loons. To this day if the song comes on the radio the entire family breaks out in very exaggerated song. Just think, and entire family of musical torture!

Ok, so I have tormented poor Suldog long enough. I hope his dick has survived. Now I will tell you why I can't stand Neil Diamond. First of all when I was in elementary school the beginner orchestra was required to learn Song Sung Blue every year. If you want musical torture just imagine a xylophone made of cats which is played by stepping on each cat in order to screech out that tune. The will be the rough equivalent of hearing the elementary school orchestra play it. I am sure if I had a dick the mere memory of that experience would make me consider chopping it off if it meant the musical horror would stop.

A few years later I added another reason. The summer I was 15 I babysat 2 younger cousins, a brother and a sister. The boy was about 5 at the time. His father was a Neil Diamond fan. I already had a certain bias against the singer who shall not be named again on this blog. The father's fandom was maintained at fairly reasonable levels. However, as demonstrated by the story with Diana, youngsters tend to take it to a whole new level. The wee lad in my care was no exception. Every...single...day we listened to The Jazz Singer....the...entire...album. We didn't listen once. We listened any time the boy wasn't watching the game show Press Your Luck (which was another brand of torture all by itself) or making me play it with him on his little chalkboard easel. We didn't just listen to it, we had to dance to it. I HATED the Jazz Singer with every fiber of my being by the end of the summer. I also hated the game show Press Your Luck in equal measure. They both make my teeth itch and my spine contort.

It was my own personal Scylla and Charybdis. To avoid the singer who shall not be named I had to endure the game show which must not be played. To escape the whammy hell of Press your luck I was whammied with the singer who makes my teeth itch. So, dear reader, you will understand why I sank into the old sofa with relief one day when my young charge announced he was going to his room to play alone for a while. I basked in silent bliss enjoying the brief respite from both musical and televised torment.

After some time it seemed perhaps I should check on the boy since he had been quiet far too long. Upon reaching his bedroom I found the door closed and heard some sighing as the bed squeaked. I cracked the door open and found the 5 year old rolling around on top of his bed in ecstasy. He had taken the Sears catalog and a pair of scissors. He turned right tot he lingerie section and had spent quite a while cutting out nothing but pairs of bra-clad breasts, no faces, no torsos, just the breasts. The top of his bed was covered in tiny titties as he rolled in them delightedly.

After I could breathe again from laughing so hard I almost fell down the steps I paused to wonder if I should make him clean up or if I should go back downstairs and allow him to roll in a hundred paper tatas while I basked in the relative peace. I opted to take the scissors and let us both enjoy our respective pleasures.