I've always been a little cursed in that music--particularly Bad, Catchy music--gets stuck in my head and replays on a seemingly infinite loop until I think I'll go mad. I actually lay in bed at night unable to sleep because some horrid Madonna song that I had the misfortune to catch 15 seconds of is running through my head like a slow torture. When I hear a Bad, Catchy song start playing on the radio, I rush to change the station before it implants itself in my pliable brain--but I'm often too late; just a couple seconds is all it takes. Frantically I call up a good song from my mental catalogue and try to start humming that before the bad song takes life, but that doesn't always work. Sometimes a Bad, Catchy song will continue to eat away at me for several days, til I want to shove a fork in my ear to stop any more bad songs from getting in.

That's where Pop Goes The Weasel comes in. Before I had Jake, I had no experience with children whatsoever, aside from having been one in the very distant, fuzzy past. No younger siblings, no babysitting jobs, etc. Now that I have a child, I'm discovering that every single toy on the face of the earth plays a goofy tune. What's worse, they play them OVER AND OVER until they get drilled into my head even more so than your garden variety Bad, Catchy tune would if I only caught a single dose of it. And these songs are an insult even to lovers of Bad, Catchy music.

Pop Goes The Weasel (How the hell does a weasel pop? It sounds vaguely pornographic.)

The Farmer In The Dell (What's a dell, and who cares if the farmer's in there?)

London Bridge Is Falling Down (Are kids really that concerned with faulty architecture?)

B.I.N.G.O (Are we seriously that concerned with teaching kids to spell a word that really won't be useful to them til they're in their seventies?)

Three Blind Mice--and here I really must protest. This song is just plain evil, and responsible parents should instinctively shield their children from this kind of sickness. This is a song about mutilated, handicapped mice and a bloodthirsty, animal torturning sadist. Dig this:
"Three blind mice, three blind mice
see how they run, see how they run.
They all run after the farmer's wife,
who cut off their tails with a carving knife,
have you ever seen such a sight in your life
as three blind mice."
Can this really be a children's song? This sick bitch was close enough to these mice that she clearly could have killed them or shooed them out the door, but she chose instead to hack off their tails--not an easy trick to pull on a small, fast-moving rodent, and it would take some serious time and dedication to accomplish it on THREE. And the poor buggers were blind to begin with, as if having their parts lopped off wasn't bad enough. Speaking of which, what are the odds of having three sightless rodents in one house? The only explanation that makes sense is that they were test rats who escaped from a lab. So these poor little mice are tragedy survivors, and they've managed to make a life for themselves in spite of their handicap, and this psychotic farmer's wife is slicing them up for her own amusement.

And where the hell is the farmer in the midst of all this gore? Out in the goddamn dell?

I should just put the kid in therapy now and get a jump start on things.

Labels: The Karlababble Household