They have more in common than you might think . . .
As stated previously, the Evil gets the muzak at work. You might imagine most of the songs selected for a work-safe, repeating-daily playlist are calculatedly putrescent. You would be correct. (And possessed of a severely flaccid imagination; when the Evil imagines things, we’re talking about a horde of lascivious harlots cavorting on the beaches ringing the Lake of Fire—now that’s imagination!) Lots of Carrie Underwood, John Mayer, that kind of dreck. Evil recalls an era when a “safe” playlist was comprised of last decade’s easy listening/soul music, piped along the grocery store aisles as he rolled along in a shopping cart. Alas, no more.
And yet there are some lines the Sirius muzak playlist-maker won’t cross. The Evil wouldn’t have believed that until he wandered into Target a few days ago and began to seize up—unexpectedly, uncontrollably.
They were playing “My Heart Will Go On.”
Why? How? Didn’t we as a nation, as a culture, as a species, ban that song sometime around the turn of the millennium? Evil’s not talking about one of those VH1ish “Top 100 Worst Songs Ever” countdowns. (Though he does remember MTV pulling just this stunt—officially banning one video from its programming forever. Unfortunately, MTV corporate liked the idea so much they banished all videos forever.)
No, no—Evil doesn’t mean that. What he means is . . . really. Evil feels sure we banished “My Heart Will Go On.” And was he proud of us! A single, targeted thrust of the collective unconscious, aimed like a laser to excise a musical tumor from our lives. Remember? There was that six-month period when “My Heart Will Go On” finally left the national playlist, and you walked around in Old Navy blinking and saying to total strangers, “Wow, isn’t this nice?” It was a beautiful moment of unity, a secret handshake deal we all made without actually having to touch each other’s filthy hands. Right?
Or did one of you have your fingers crossed? Bastard!
Anyway. Celine is back. We mourn. But in the meantime, hearing her shrieking harpy voice forced the Evil to consider another song he would like to—and might even pay dearly to—never hear again. Near. Far. Wherever, um, he are.
To make this more interesting—and in hopes of drowning out Celine—Evil restricted this exercise to a song he didn’t necessarily always hate. Maybe he even liked it once upon a time. Maybe he struggled to learn how to strum its melody. But at some point, after the ten-thousandth time he heard it, the Evil simply desired—desperately—never to hear it again.
It didn’t take long to hit on the answer. “Hotel California,” of course. By this point, hearing Don Henley whine about pretty, pretty boys that some chick calls men makes the Evil want to vomit. On Don Henley. And to puke acid, like Jeff Goldblum in The Fly. Right on Don Henley’s vocal chords.
The Evil had forgotten how gross Jeff Goldblum looked in The Fly. Now he wishes he hadn’t posted this picture.
. . . And of course Sirius spins “Hotel California” on the work-muzak. Twice a day.
The Evil can’t control the work-muzak, but he does hereby swear that “Hotel California” will never be heard in relation to any of the National Evil’s sundry media properties. Consider that a solemn pledge.
Now: Evil wants to hear what song—one you might once have loved—fills you with such nausea that you ban it, if you could, from Earth.
Just please—please—don’t say “Babe.”