Why Country Singers Ain't Catholic Either

Country Singers Ain’t Catholic Either

Music has always been important to me. I play several instruments, and was told by a professor in college that I have perfect pitch, which means that I can ridicule singers for being off key with the best of them. God made me special:  he gave me perfect pitch, but somehow, when I sing, terrible, terrible things happen. My “Hush Little Baby” serenades are probably why my husband is the favorite parent. But really, I do have an ear for music and I honestly think I’d die without it. Music is in my veins just like my great-granddaddy Willie's moonshine. 

I’d rather slap my granny than call somebody out for being a liar without evidence, but ya’ll, country singers are so full of crap their sweat looks like Yoo-hoo. I grew up on country music, and I love a lot of it, particularly from the 1980’s. I’ve been known to have religious experiences on Highway 20 when my iPod shuffles to ‘Seven Spanish Angels’. I scare my kids to death because they don’t know what to do or say when it happens. Just last week, we were heading to daddy’s office when “I’m Gonna Hire A Whino (to Decorate Our Home)” came on the radio, and my son thought God had just revealed the Mega-Ball numbers to me. The volume went up, and the service started. I closed my eyes (“Mama! The road don’t go that way!”) and lifted my hand in praise…but just to the shoulder level, as I’m still a first generation Pentecostal. I didn’t realize until I heard myself screeching  “and a neon sign that points the way to the bathroom down the hall” that a) I wasn’t in church (thank God), b) I was still driving, and c) I was worshipping during a song that talks about converting my house into a bar. I told ya’ll I can’t be Catholic! I’ve got so much twisted junk spinning through my mind it looks like a spring tornado in South Alabama.  I just can’t wait till I get to church to ask for forgiveness; I’ve got to get it right here, right now, or my demented mind could  keep me separated from Willie and Jesus forever.

But onto why country singers lie. Let’s start that the song we were just talking about. It might be believable if a woman was singing it, but what country music listening, cowboy boot wearing, man of God would ever spend a dime on an interior decorator, alcoholic or not? I know, I know, he added a “she said” to the beginning of each verse and chorus, but when I think of this song, it’s David Frizzell preaching to me. Know what my daddy’s idea of redecorating is? Putting his grass-cuttin’, holey jeans in the floor on the other side of the bed. You don’t believe me? Let somebody move those bad boys, and family peace will vanish like a fart in the wind.

I heard another song on the radio the other day that made me want to ask forgiveness on the singer’s behalf because if he’s not married to a supermodel, he is indeed full of fecal matter. He went on and on about how beautiful this woman is when she wakes up in the morning. He goes on to say that she’s more beautiful in blue jeans in a t-shirt than in expensive clothes. Now, he could be married to a truly beautiful woman that is just perfect all the time, and if that’s the case, I’d like to meet her so I can punch her in the goozle. But I am more inclined to say….LIAR!

I wasn’t the ugliest dog on the leash in my younger days, but I’ve never been what you would call an attractive woman. I now have three amazingly beautiful children, and I have concluded that my anemic levels of aesthetic pleasure increasingly diminished with each round of childbirth. Some women glow when they’re pregnant; I went nuclear. I didn’t get the rosy cheeks that showed the promise of new life; I got a haz-mat suit in the mail from Homeland Security cuz my pregnant glow seemed to indicate a security breach in Area 51. 

 If you saw me roll out of bed in the morning, beautiful is not the word that would flow from your lips. When I get up and stagger my way to the bathroom in the mornings, I could haunt a house with a big ‘ole front porch.  I stagger around in my Old Navy night shirt that has these cute, colorful doodles all over it. It looked adorable on the hanger in the store, but when I slip it over my linebacker shoulders, it magically transforms into a spirographic nightmare. Hasbro should be paying me hush money to stay away from doors and windows.

Remember all those conspiracy theorists that said Neil Armstrong’s walk on the moon was fake? If it weren’t for it happening 10 years before I was born, they could’ve made their case on Mythbusters with a 20X magnification mirror, and a mess of cold cream, and my morning facade. But God knew what He was doing when He brought my husband into my life. You see, he’s in construction, so he understands how much spackle and paint it takes to make certain things presentable. He knows and respects how much work it takes this Southern girl to put her face on. He no longer tells his buddies to drop in when they get a chance; for the sake of their own life and functioning optical nerves, he lets me know at least an hour before anybody’s coming. So,to David Frizzell and Cover Girl cosmetics, bless ya’lls hearts.