For the drive to Hometown on Saturday morning, I asked GTB to play me something buttrock-esque. I don’t have anything like that on my iPod and he left his at home. So he grabbed his CDs and improvised. I saw him slip something into the player that said, “70s Mix.” I figured that was OK. If I couldn’t hear buttrock, some bad disco or easy-listening would tide me over. Of course, this was GTB, and 70s music to him means Iggy Pop, David Bowie, and Lou Reed. So that’s what we listened to.

It was all going well. Singing along, doing just a little bit of car dancing. By the time we hit Longview, T-Rex came on. It was “I was dancing when I was 12” or whatever the name of that stupid song is. See, I don’t know the name of it because I hate T-Rex (except for “20th Century Boy”). Which is what I said to GTB.

“You don’t like T-Rex?” he asked.

“Nope.”

“Why not?” he goaded.

“I don’t know what it is. But listening to them is like hearing someone say the word ‘caress’ over and over and over and over again.” I explained.

We all have one (or two) of those words that make us cringe when we hear them. That word for me is “caress.” GTB’s is “moist.” So between us, we determined that

“I want to caress your moist skin.”

is the most disgusting sentence in all of the English language.

Anyway, we skipped over T-Rex and moved on to the next song. Which was probably by the Clash or something. It wasn’t buttrock, but at least it didn’t make my teeth hurt.

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