Who'd have thought that those sick yodelings by a bunch of inbred hicks complaining about the woes of their little backroad lives could actually be based in reality? You know, those atonal arrangements lamenting the loss of their prize chicken who can count higher than they can, the final death sputter of their heirloom '55 Chevy that's been passed down in the family since great-grandfather Jebediah, or catching their favorite pig cheating on them with their spouse.
Yes, my life has become a country music song.
It's not perfect, for I have no sister to marry and the closest thing to livestock I own is my tarantula, but it's not a bad likeness.
First, I have no job, and I haven't had one for quite some time. This has put me in grinding poverty. I haven't done the research, but I think that I'm poorer than most nations on the planet. Those bigwig city folk just don't want to hire us country boys.
Then I have no woman. Like I said before, I have nothing that can be strictly calssified a sister to do, and my family has never been big on animal husbandry, so I'm forced to go out into the jungle of strange folk to find my luvvin'. In fact, it's been damn close to 1,000 days since my flesh torpedo has struck the stern of a hot chick. That's almost as many kids I'd have if I was true country folk!
And finally, the capstone of my country music life is the recent death of one of our dogs. Yes, our last Chihuahua has passed into the great big jamboree in the skies. Oh well, she warn't no good coon dog anyway. Yep. Got her little puppy box infected and died on the vet's dicin' table...just like Aunt Billy May.
It's not a perfect parallel. I have no pickup truck (but my Ford Tempo's on its last legs), I have all of my teeth, no kids, and, as I mentioned before, I don't work in the agriculture industry.
That, and I can sort of sing on key.