Just call Doug, Pavlov.
In the 80s, Martin, TN had exactly ONE bar and they didn’t card students. Anyone who was in that grimy, dirty saloon for more than ten minutes heard David Alan Coe’s “You never even called me by my name” played on the jukebox. More than the jukebox, you heard everyone in the bar singing along with it. I’m not a beer drinker but, Martin is a pretty small town so I spent enough time in that bar to learn all the words. I don’t deny that on the rare occasion that I heard the song on the radio I did some time travel down memory lane. Well, I used to anyway. Around this time last year I found myself spending far too much time umm, kneeling in front of the throne. One day I was so ill that I was actually dozing off on the closed lid because every time I tried walking back to bed I ended up racing back to the facility. As I kneeled in the dingy rubble of our downstairs bathroom (everyone who has seen it knows that description is overly generous), wishing I could just die, I was being serenaded by Doug’s stereo. Yes, Doug sat at his computer playing David Alan Coe’s “You never even called me by my name” at a volume to more than drown out my moans of pain, over and over again. By the third play of the song I was mentally wishing terrible acts of revenge on Doug. I eventually made it out of the bathroom and slept many hours, haunted by the song that wouldn’t stop. Since then, I’ve told Doug how he tortured me with his music, oblivious to my suffering. He thinks it was very humorous. I think he sadistically wants me to feel waves of nausea every time he plays that song. He’s been playing it this afternoon and I’ve been thinking some very bad thoughts about that CD. It may have to have a little accident soon.

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