the joe head theory

show·business {sho biz' nis} n. ||< Gr sho, perform + bus, trade || 1 the arts, occupations, and businesses (as theater, motion pictures, and television) that comprise the entertainment industry.


  Does anybody out there know Garth Brooks?
  Got Merle Haggard's phone number?
  Friend of a friend know Reba, or the Judds?
  Please, give me a call. Hook me up. My life has suddenly become a country music song, and I am ready to hop a plane to Nashville so as to enter the music biz. Sure, it may sound like a risky endeavor--a pipe dream if you will. But I'm not scared.
  You see, I've got skills. And, more importantly, I've seen the proverbial light.
  In the realm of country music, "seeing the light" means experiencing a ridiculous amalgamation of misfortune at the same time. You know, the pick-up truck breaks down and your girl leaves you . . . on the same day.
  Or . . . for instance . . . as you approach Gate C at Miami's Pro Player Stadium, you realize that you left the Super Bowl tickets on your couch . . .
  in Cleveland . . .
  where two days earlier, and unbeknownst to you, your wife cheated on you with the bully who always beat you up in high school . . .
  And, just as you realize the tickets are at home, you see this bully approaching you with your wife on one arm and a big cardboard box in the other . . .
  He stops next to you, punches you in the nose, and unbuttons his jacket to reveal a t-shirt that reads "Thanks for the tickets . . ."
  He then turns around . . .
  The back of the shirt says "and your wife". . .
  As you fall to your knees sobbing, he informs you that there's more . . .
  He takes off the shirt--even bullies get hot in the Miami sun--to reveal another shirt, which reads . . .
  "I sold your baseball cards to finance our new house, and . . ."
  Before he turns around to show you the back of the shirt, he points to a small footnote beside the word "our" on the front of the shirt. You then look to the bottom of the shirt, where, sure enough, a small "1" is followed by explanatory text stating: "In saying 'our new house,' I mean a house for myself and your former wife, who has recently left you . . . for me." The footnote is itself footnoted to an even smaller line at the very bottom of the shirt which says, "The previous footnote was written in an ink consisting of a ground up mixture of the following items: all your family heirlooms; a letter you received in the mail yesterday from the brass over at Disney admitting, at last, that you were indeed the one who came up with the Mickey Mouse character, and offering a one-time $14 billion settlement payable upon your signed return of said letter; your autographed, first edition copy of Thoreau's Walden; that hilarious picture of you and the Pope where you're giving him bunny ears and he doesn't know it; and, this special stuff that gives random grindings the consistency of ink and allows the mixture to adhere to materials such as paper and t-shirts" . . .
  He then turns around . . .
  The back of the shirt says, "I do feel about bad about this, so I will give you this box. It contains one million dollars" . . .
  He then lights the corner of the box on fire, and hands it to you . . .
  The box is burning fast, and just as the flames are about to bypass the cardboard and start burning the contents of the box, the bully laughs and says "I wouldn't allow your money to burn, here's a bucket of water" . . .
  Relieved, you take the bucket and douse the flames. . .
  "Wet money still spends," you say quietly to yourself. . .
  The bully then takes off the second shirt--layering is so trendy nowadays--and reveals yet another shirt with writing on it . . .
  The front of this shirt says, "Oops . . . did I say there was a million dollars in that box? I meant to say that it contains all your old X-Men comic books, the value of which is around a million." . . .
  He then turns around, and the back of the shirt reads, "I can't believe that you would just ruin your precious comics by pouring water on them." . . .
  Next, he takes off that shirt, to reveal his bare chest . . .
  On his chest is a hickey from your wife, and, written in marker, the words, "Just wait until you see what I did to your cat . . ."
  As you scream, "No, not Furball. Furbaaaaallllll," he turns around . . .
  His back reads, "I paid some drunk guy to throw up on the first person he heard yell 'Furball.'" . . .
  Just as you finish reading his back, and pretty much on cue, a guy wearing a Philadelphia Eagles painter's cap and a San Jose Sharks hockey jersey vomits on you . . .
  The bully says "later dude," and he and your wife then enter the stadium.
  Anyway, what was I saying? Oh yeah . . .
  I really think that my life has become one of these country songs. Check this out. All the hallmarks of a country hit are there, among other things: I have no girlfriend. I recently told my boss to, in the immortal words of Johnny Paycheck, "Take this job and shove it." The family dog just died. And, for some unknown reason, I say "y'all" an awful lot.
  Feel free to sing my myriad misfortunes in some crazy country twang if you wish. From what I can tell, the song sounds best as follows--although there's plenty of time for refinement:
  "Poor ol' Tucker, he's barkin' in heaven. I'm lookin' for work at the 7-11. The girl of my dreams she's right 'round the bend. Said to give her a call when I got money to spend . . ."
  Now, admittedly, I know very little about the world of country music. But I really think that I'm on to something here. Plus, I've been giving it some thought, and I'm now convinced that country music has a lot more in common with my beloved hip-hop than most people would guess. For instance, we have the Old Dirty Bastard . . . they have Willie Nelson.
  Baseball caps are not such a far cry from cowboy hats.
  Cash Money Clique and the Oak Ridge Boys, two words . . . same dif!
  Black Rob . . . Clint Black.
  Come on, it's clear as day.
  Ever notice that BET and TNN both have three letters, all of which are capitalized?
  Up until a few years ago, the most ridiculous song I'd ever heard was this country ditty called "I Wish I was My Dog," that caught my ear in an Arby's upstate. Some poor old guy was lamenting on record about how his dog had no problems and got to lay around all day without the bossman yelling at him. I didn't think I'd ever hear anything so stupid. Then, R. Kelly came out with "You Remind Me of My Jeep."
  These are not mere coincidences y'all.
  Country is the yin to hip-hop's yang, and realizing the numerous interconnections between the two has given me the confidence I need to succeed in the rough and tumble world of country music. I know just about everything there is to know about hip-hop, so, the way I see it, I'll be good to go at the Grand Ol' Opry.
  I am going to be a damn star. You will be able to tell your friends that you knew me way before the limo with the longhorns on the grill--back when I wrote columns, rather than songs, deriding myself for the pleasure of all those willing to read.
  But, don't worry. I won't forget you when I hit it big. I'll thank each and every one of you when I'm on stage accepting a CMA for my smash hit "All Tuckered Out."
  No. I promise. I'll remember you.
  As long as you give me the phone number of that cousin of yours who went to grade school with Randy Travis.

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