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| Revenge of the Rock-Away |
| "I said my Granny don't dance she just pull up her pants and, do the Rock-Away! Now lean back, lean back!" |
Over the last several months, the Terror Squad song “Lean Back” mercifully started to die out.
I heard it in the bars less and less, and when the D.J. did play it people wouldn’t attempt to
rock-away with as much gusto as they used to. I found myself being lulled into a false sense of
security. I even cleaned out the ear-wax I’d built up as protection against Joe Crack and his
cronies. Surely, finally and forever, I was safe from that god-awful abortion of a song. But no.
Just like that sandwich I ate last week with the bad mayonnaise and questionable turkey, the
Rock-away came back in a big and unexpected way.
I was standing in line, minding my own business, when somebody’s cell phone rang. But it
didn’t ring, per se. It screamed, “Do the Rock-away! Lean back! Lean back!” Quickly, I shot
a withering glance at the preppie guy in line behind me to let him know that his choice in ring-
tones was definitely not okay with me and might earn him an ass-whupping if he didn’t turn it
down. But it wasn’t coming from his phone. It was the guy behind him, who either had an
unfortunate aging disease or was at least sixty. Befuddled, I wondered how that particular
song had come to be the ringer on his cell phone. Old people don’t usually like that “hippity-
hop” music (I know, I read “The Boondocks” everyday in the newspaper). What’s more, I had
severe doubts about the guy’s ability to “Lean Back.” His spine would probably snap, or at the
very least leave him stuck in a position where I could easily steal his wallet. I started to
salivate over the prospect of scoring a prescription drug discount card and maybe even some
coupons for five percent off the early bird special at Shoney’s. I don’t like Shoney’s, but you
can’t argue with five percent off. I tried, and five percent off is a much better debater than I
am. It’s rough getting schooled by percentages.
Unfortunately, the old guy never leaned back. He didn’t even try to do the rock-away
(although from the high altitude of his waistline I could tell he was quite the expert in pulling up
his pants). He just answered his phone. Either way, all my illusions about wisdom coming with
age were shattered in an instant. I realized that no matter how old I get, I’m still going to be a
dumbass. I also realized how freakin’ stupid ring tones are. Ring tones are songs that you can
put on your cell phone so that when someone calls you, everyone within earshot will be able to
hear how hip and “with it” you are. That’s how it’s supposed to work in theory, but in reality
you just end up looking like an idiot with shitty tastes in music (unless you’re like me and put
the most bad ass song in the history of bad-assery on your phone: M.O.P.’s “Ante Up.” But
then again, if you put that song on your phone now you’ll just be copying me. Stop biting my
style already).
Seriously, why would you want to advertise the fact that you listen to the same forty songs
everyone else does? If I started mass producing shirts that said, “Hi, I have no personality of
my own,” nobody would buy the damn things. So why do people spend hundreds of dollars on
phones that allow you to say essentially the same thing? Why not calibrate your phone so that
when someone calls you, it makes a ringing noise? And then, instead of trying to impress
people by blasting shit-hop through a tiny, five cent speaker, you can impress them with your
sparkling personality and knowledge of ancient pottery-making techniques.
Sorry, I forgot. You don’t have a sparkling personality and know less about ancient pottery-
making techniques than you do about where that mysterious stain on your pants came from.
So guess what? You don’t get to impress people. If you have a ring tone on your phone, I
want you to go ahead and change it back to a normal ring. Or actually, just put your phone on
vibrate. Or better yet, go in the kitchen and make yourself a Drano Daiquiri. Here, you can
borrow my blender.
Wait. Actually, you can’t borrow my blender. I need it. Oh, who am I kidding? That’s a lie
too. I don’t actually have a blender, I just said I had one so everyone would think I’m a big
shot. Whenever I want a margarita, I pour ice, tequila and margarita mix in my mouth and chew
really, really hard. So if you’re ever at my house and I offer you a margarita, try not to think
about where it came from. Or do, if you’re into that kind of thing. Whatever frosts your bear
claw.
I heard it in the bars less and less, and when the D.J. did play it people wouldn’t attempt to
rock-away with as much gusto as they used to. I found myself being lulled into a false sense of
security. I even cleaned out the ear-wax I’d built up as protection against Joe Crack and his
cronies. Surely, finally and forever, I was safe from that god-awful abortion of a song. But no.
Just like that sandwich I ate last week with the bad mayonnaise and questionable turkey, the
Rock-away came back in a big and unexpected way.
I was standing in line, minding my own business, when somebody’s cell phone rang. But it
didn’t ring, per se. It screamed, “Do the Rock-away! Lean back! Lean back!” Quickly, I shot
a withering glance at the preppie guy in line behind me to let him know that his choice in ring-
tones was definitely not okay with me and might earn him an ass-whupping if he didn’t turn it
down. But it wasn’t coming from his phone. It was the guy behind him, who either had an
unfortunate aging disease or was at least sixty. Befuddled, I wondered how that particular
song had come to be the ringer on his cell phone. Old people don’t usually like that “hippity-
hop” music (I know, I read “The Boondocks” everyday in the newspaper). What’s more, I had
severe doubts about the guy’s ability to “Lean Back.” His spine would probably snap, or at the
very least leave him stuck in a position where I could easily steal his wallet. I started to
salivate over the prospect of scoring a prescription drug discount card and maybe even some
coupons for five percent off the early bird special at Shoney’s. I don’t like Shoney’s, but you
can’t argue with five percent off. I tried, and five percent off is a much better debater than I
am. It’s rough getting schooled by percentages.
Unfortunately, the old guy never leaned back. He didn’t even try to do the rock-away
(although from the high altitude of his waistline I could tell he was quite the expert in pulling up
his pants). He just answered his phone. Either way, all my illusions about wisdom coming with
age were shattered in an instant. I realized that no matter how old I get, I’m still going to be a
dumbass. I also realized how freakin’ stupid ring tones are. Ring tones are songs that you can
put on your cell phone so that when someone calls you, everyone within earshot will be able to
hear how hip and “with it” you are. That’s how it’s supposed to work in theory, but in reality
you just end up looking like an idiot with shitty tastes in music (unless you’re like me and put
the most bad ass song in the history of bad-assery on your phone: M.O.P.’s “Ante Up.” But
then again, if you put that song on your phone now you’ll just be copying me. Stop biting my
style already).
Seriously, why would you want to advertise the fact that you listen to the same forty songs
everyone else does? If I started mass producing shirts that said, “Hi, I have no personality of
my own,” nobody would buy the damn things. So why do people spend hundreds of dollars on
phones that allow you to say essentially the same thing? Why not calibrate your phone so that
when someone calls you, it makes a ringing noise? And then, instead of trying to impress
people by blasting shit-hop through a tiny, five cent speaker, you can impress them with your
sparkling personality and knowledge of ancient pottery-making techniques.
Sorry, I forgot. You don’t have a sparkling personality and know less about ancient pottery-
making techniques than you do about where that mysterious stain on your pants came from.
So guess what? You don’t get to impress people. If you have a ring tone on your phone, I
want you to go ahead and change it back to a normal ring. Or actually, just put your phone on
vibrate. Or better yet, go in the kitchen and make yourself a Drano Daiquiri. Here, you can
borrow my blender.
Wait. Actually, you can’t borrow my blender. I need it. Oh, who am I kidding? That’s a lie
too. I don’t actually have a blender, I just said I had one so everyone would think I’m a big
shot. Whenever I want a margarita, I pour ice, tequila and margarita mix in my mouth and chew
really, really hard. So if you’re ever at my house and I offer you a margarita, try not to think
about where it came from. Or do, if you’re into that kind of thing. Whatever frosts your bear
claw.
Comments? Email me, Jimi Changa, at Admin@SurlyTaco.com
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