“Honey why you calling me so late?”

Ok boys and girls, the long answer lies in the rest of the lyrics, and a little creative reasoning on the part of the listener.  I suppose we could delve into that, but not yet.  I prefer the short answer.

Let’s ask that question one more time, shall we?

“Honey why you calling me so late?”


“Because I’m an indecisive confused lying whorebag intent on selfishly mindfucking you.”

Click.  The end.

But no, that wouldn’t make a very touching song now would it?


“It’s funny that you’re calling me tonight
And, yes, I’ve dreamt of you too
And does he know you’re talking to me
Will it start a fight
No I don’t think she has a clue”


Now, maybe it’s just me.  Maybe I am just so damaged, and so cynical, and so easily disgustable, (er, disgusted?)


Fuck that.  I’m not.  It’s songs like this, and people who enjoy hearing such bullshit that serve to reinforce the ideas I have learned from having my insides roasted.  There are no lessons as good as the ones that life teaches you, and the idea that this is an acceptable tune is revolting and sadly typical of a modern young person. 

Exhaust every possible resource, say everything, do anything, fucking kill yourself first.  But don’t, don’t, settle to date another person if the one you really want is out there. 

And even worse, well, worst of all I should say.  The singer sounds like a strangled giant squid.  I say this only because I heard the sound of a strangled giant squid on my second favorite channel, discovery.  The only other sound that was more terrible than the loud futile squishing, was the staccato squeals of the lead japanese researcher.  Yet, I would rather listen to a white stripes cover band composed of that squid and Dr. Takahoshi than listen to that talking cervix belt out another line about relationship intrigue.

I like dogs, they are stupid, yet honest creatures.  I find it ironic that women call men “dogs” as a derogatory term.  I happen to think that is a compliment of the highest order. 

It’s times like these I have to cleanse myself by recalling lyrics from sage poets, who really knew how to handle relationships properly,


“Bitches aint shit but ho’s and tricks.”

Ah, Snoop, woe to the man who forgets this and listens to the aforementioned crap, and then promptly goes out to buy the new Nickelback and Daughtry albums.

Just fucking hang up you big piece of pussy lip.

For posterity, I will demonstrate proper phone call procedure.

[ring, ring]


[slight sob and whimper]

“It’s..it’s me, can you talk?”

“Wait, who is this?”

[pathetic sniffle]

“Janet…it’s Janet”

[pull phone away from ear, and stare for a moment in disbelief, as if to say, “bitch… please”]

“You gots the wrong number ho.”

[hang up and snicker, then head back to your bedroom and answer your girlfriends inquiry about who was on the phone with, “wrong number”, then remind yourself why you aren’t with the previously mentioned sloppy bitch by nailing your girlfriend like you was getting paid to do it]


There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?


Live it, Love it, (but don’t entertain its late night phone calls)