The Rock Canon in a Small-Town Drug Store

By Null

As a working-class kid, I’ve always had to work. I started working on a dairy farm when I was in elementary school. I didn’t get a paycheck, but my parents loved me, provided room and board, and keep me warm in a 100-year-old farmhouse in the wilds of Michigan. As with many families at the time, Reaganomics put an end to the dairy farm, and we had to escape the collectors in the middle of the night. 

We landed in Arizona where I attended middle school. During this period, my only jobs were taking care of the lawn and making sure the pool was clean. The workload was considerably less compared to the farm, which was nice because it allowed me more time to obsess about music, become an avid reader, and explore the highs and lows of puberty enhanced social interactions. 

High school found me back in Michigan. This time we didn’t live in vast farmland; we moved to one her small towns. When I finally received my driver’s license, I was able to get my first real paying job at a tiny, little drug store in our tiny, little town. It was around this time that the cornerstone and foundation of my world began to coalesce. 

My meager paycheck would provide gas for my run-down Ford Escort. It ran on diesel, and I could fill the gas tank for about ten bucks. A full tank would last two weeks. I’d buy a few packs of cigarettes, a bottle of Pepsi, and a few glass bottles of Perrier. I would consume these while driving around listening to music or while sitting in my room reading. I began exploring the great novels in the canon of literature, fiction, philosophy, and poetry. I read history books. I continued to obsess on music. I discovered punk rock and realized that I wasn’t the only one whose heart the world was breaking. These books and albums changed my life forever. My friend, Jake, and I would drive to used bookstores in Ann Arbor to find cheap copies of books. The university kids read the deep stuff. 

I had a few bucks leftover, so I would go through Alternative Tentacles and Discord Records catalogs. These were real, paper catalogs, which would show up in punk fanzines, or in the mail. I would send cash through the mail and receive brilliant punk rock cassettes a few weeks later by Alice Donut, NoMeansNo, Tragic Mulato, Doc Corbin Dart, Fugazi, Minor Threat, and the like. The punk kids played the deep stuff.

If I wanted to get my hands on an album by Joy Division, The Cure, The Smiths, and the like, Jake and I had to drive south, closer to the big cities, where we could find record stores. There weren’t any record stores in our small towns.

However, the small drug store where I worked contained an anomaly. Inconspicuously placed between allergy medicine and Dr. Scholl’s Food Pads was a wooden cabinet made specifically for housing about 100 cassette tapes. It was crudely painted black, and many of the slots were empty. The cassettes inside were secured by two glass doors fashioned with a lock.

At the time, a new album on cassette cost somewhere between eight and ten dollars. Most of the tapes in the case were marked at $4.99, while others were priced even cheaper; some were $2.99. I immediately assumed they would be crappy truck-stop knock-offs of questionable quality. To my surprise, there were many newer tapes and a plethora of classic rock titles by such artists as The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, David Bowie, and The Who. I assumed these were mispriced. As an employee of the drug store, I also received a 40% discount. It was a small town and there were not many people who worked at the store. I guess the owner, who was also the pharmacist, decided to show his gratitude toward his employees with such a generous discount. I’m pretty sure he was the richest guy in town; the rumor was owned his own plane.

I could buy these tapes for next to nothing, which was great for a high school kid on a budget. I still needed to send away in the mail for punk rock records and make the occasional pilgrimage to record stores in the big city. However, my classic rock knowledge was about to be greatly extended. 

I already had most of the classic Rolling Stones albums from the 1960s. I had also made the decision that the last great Stones record was Exile on Main Street from 1972. The drug store case contained Emotional Rescue from 1980. I only knew David Bowie from the radio, but I was very curious. The drug store case contained The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars, also from 1972. I had a few Beatles records, but lacked a general knowledge of their short output. The drug store case contained the unheard Magical Mystery Tour.

After I got paid, I took the key, which was kept under the cash register. I grabbed these three cassettes from the case and locked it back up. When I went to the cash register to pay for them, I was informed that I did not need to wait until I got paid. I could buy anything in the store, at any time. It would simply be subtracted from my paycheck. This cassette case was becoming more magical by the minute. I could buy a $2.99 tape for $1.79. A $4.99 tape would cost me $2.99.

After work, I drove home on a moonless winter night. The few streetlights and porchlights of the smalltown smeared colors across the wet and worn pavement. I threw Bowie’s Ziggy Stardust into the tape player and when the desperation of “Five Years” hit my ears, I took a turn down the back, gravel roads to allow side one to play out. I finally realized why the album was held in such high regard. A few days later, I learned that The Beatles Magical Mystery Tour almost functioned as a continuation of Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. The instrumentals where a surprise. I then listed to my first post-1972 Stones record, Emotional Rescue. I could take or leave some of the songs, but the fact that the song “Indian Girl” would have gone unnoticed had I not bought this cassette seemed tragic; it remains one of my favorite Stones songs and indicted that there were more juicy bits after 1972.

The following weeks were filled with school, youthful mixed emotions, dreams, and despair. I stocked shelves and logged inventory in the back of the store. The days went by. I walked past the meager cassette display and found that there were new cassettes. I assumed that when it was restocked, the cassettes I bought would be replaced with the same titles, following the logic that if someone bought Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars there was a good chance someone else would also buy it. If you sell all cans of Coke, you don’t restock, or replace them, with milk. 

Yet, I found that Bowie’s Aladdin Sane, The Beatles’ Rubber Soul, and the Stones’ Goat Head Soup were the new tenants in the drug store. None of these titles were there last week. I quickly grabbed all three of them. As I took the cassettes up to the front, I asked the cashier working that night who stocks the cassette tapes. “Oh, some guy comes in every week or so. We don’t have anything to do with it.” Curious. I wanted to ask more questions, but I didn’t want to jinx what I was hoping would be a pattern.

I continued on with my life. I devoured these tapes along with the tapes I continued to buy at the expensive record stores closer to Detroit and the punk rock stuff I ordered in the mail.

A few weeks later, the pattern continued. The Beatles’ Abby Road showed up, along with Bowie’s Pin-Ups and The Stones’ It’s Only Rock ’n’ Roll. In addition, John Lennon’s last two albums—Double Fantasy and, the posthumous, Milk and Honey—made an appearance. This is where I acquired a soft spot for Yoko Ono as she presented herself in the domestic period with Lennon and the looming sadness of his murder. 

The weeks that followed presented me with Bowie’s Station to Station and, my introduction to his “Berlin period,” Heroes. John Lennon’s Plastic Ono Band, Imagine, and Mind Games also showed up in the consecutive weeks. I fell in love with these albums and equated them with the more “radical” lyrics of the political punk rock I was devouring in unison.

I was experiencing an explosion of art and ideas. I was beginning to grasp the ideas of humanism and radical politics in my reading of literature, philosophy, and history. I was making an outline of the canon of ideas, not only intellectually, but also musically, as far as popular, Western music was concerned. When I went to the big record stores to get the new R.E.M. release, I was also picking up titles by Violent Femmes and The Doors. I also began filling out the missing records in my Beatles, Stones, and Bowie collections. I needed to fill in the missing gaps, which the “mysterious drug store cassette dealer” failed to fulfill. 

I came away with a new appreciation for The Stones albums post-1972. Many of them lacked the excitement and fire of their 1960s records, but they made up for it with a world-weary nonchalance, which had its own defeated and depressing charm. It extended my Stones appreciation all the way to 1980.

I became well versed in all The Beatles albums and most of Lennon’s solo albums, the latter of which contains gems that no one seems to ever mention.

The awkward, other-worldliness of David Bowie became something I embraced. His “rock band period” from 1970-1973 is great. The band is on fire. The strange Station to Station has become one of my favorites, and Heroes is the best of his “Berlin period” with the uncomfortable, insular, and claustrophobic Orwellian lyrics.

Shortly before I quit the job, The Who’s Who’s Next and a few Neil Young tapes showed up, as well as Bob Dyaln’s Greatest Hits. Let us not forget Pink Floyd’s Relics and Works compilations, which introduced me to their early recordings. These were the parting gifts from my “tape fairy-godfather.” There were other titles I bought over my time working at the drug store in this sleepy, small town. The years have taken some of these memories from me, as my life has been filled with digesting seemingly endless amounts of music and art.

Later in life, when I would talk with other music junkies about jazz, punk rock, metal, and what-not, I was often surprised at my extensive knowledge of these monumental bands in the classic rock canon. It seemed a bit unusual. As I said before, I was a working-class kid. The only reason I was able to fill my obsession with these artists is because I got it all for dirt cheap. It felt as though they were gifts; the drug store made no money from me. 

Music and the recording process have always been magical to me. We could not stream music on the internet. If we bought a cassette tape, we listened to it. Even if we were not fond of it, we still listened to it. Some of the albums we learned to love over time. When we dislike an album, we had tons of reasons why we didn’t like it, because we listened to it a lot before we passed it on to a friend at school. Though music seems to be available to almost everyone now, it has also diminished in value. It can be deleted in a second. If it isn’t adored immediately, it can be replaced or eliminated in the second. Patience and understanding are both skills.

The last week I worked in the drug store, the pharmacist asked me if I could deliver some prescription drugs to an old lady. I was a bit surprised by this request, but I acquiesced. I took the paper bag full of prescription drugs and the directions scribbled on a piece of paper by the pharmacist. I headed down long country roads surrounded by cornfields. It was a hot and humid day. The sun was blinding. I kept checking the address on a piece of paper. I was sure I was lost. 

Finally, I came upon an isolated and timeworn farmhouse. I walked up the creaky porch and knocked on an old door with a tattered screen. A lady appeared who was hunched over at the waist. She moved slowly and made grunting sounds, embodying the pain it took for her move. I wanted to open the door and help her, but I did not want to diminish her dignity. I didn’t want to be presumptuous. I wanted to honor her space. She opened the door and walked over to a small kitchen table. The house smelled of old skin and unwashed fabric. I wanted to grab a chair and help her sit down. She took the bag of meds and sat at the table. She motioned to the other room and asked me to bring her a pile of mail in a voice that sounded like “sandpaper and glue.” She was difficult to understand. 

I walked into the other room and found a large dinning table covered in papers. The whole table was covered in mail, but I didn’t want to bother her, as it was clear that every movement was a chore. I heard her get up and shuffle over to the 1950s refrigerator. I scanned over the plethora of papers on the table looking for what would be an obvious stack of new or unopened mail. My eyes fell upon a letter wishing her a happy 100th birthday. It was signed by President Ronald Reagan. 

The Dead Kennedys flashed through my mind. 

I immediately wondered how or why this woman was living alone. I found a stack of unopened envelops with postal stamps. I grabbed them and walked back into the kitchen. She pointed at a letter opener, which shinned like a silver knife on the table. I picked it up and began opening her mail. She didn’t need to tell me. I put the opened envelopes on the table and asked if she wanted me to remove the contents. She shook her head “no,” and pointed at a jar of homemade pickles. I picked it up and opened it. She then pointed at the door and gestured for me to leave without a word. I immediately worried about how she would get the large, open jar back in the refrigerator or even get the lid back on. I asked if there was anything else I could do for her. She grunted at me and pointed at the door. It weighed on my conscious to leave her, so vulnerable in an uncaring world. I followed her wishes and walked reluctantly out the door, across the creaky porch, and sat in my car. It felt strange to leave this lady in her 100-year-old farmhouse alone. 

I lit a cigarette, which I was too young to buy. 

Patience and understanding are skills.

I started the car and the cassette began to play. 

John Lennon’s voice sang, “God is a concept through which we measure our pain.” 

I backed down the long driveway and headed out into the vast wild farmlands of rural Michigan.

The World Sighs with Relief at News that Hegseth Has Died

 By The Infidel Cowboys (Lusk, Wyoming)

The following is a work of “fan fiction.”

On July 24, 2026, Hegseth was found dead in a stall in a barn in Kentucky. His skull showed evidence of blunt force trauma. News of his death was met with a mix of indifference and a sigh of relief. Nevertheless, there was some curiosity regarding the cause of his demise. The discovery of his journal, I Am a Warrior: My Domination of the Animal Kingdom, alongside his testosterone advocacy for U.S. soldiers to maintain the “leading edge of lethality” have generated much speculation regarding what transpired in the Bluegrass State. 

Hegseth’s journal was filled with cryptic notes, symbols, drawing of animals, and photos of his tattoos and his penis. On every page, the phrase Deus vult (God wills) was written, just as it was tattooed on his right bicep, with hand drawn images of the Jerusalem cross. He carried his right-wing Christian nationalist beliefs on his body and in his private thoughts, believing that he was a chosen one, moral in the eyes of God and above his fellow creatures. He hated feminism and the prospects of equality. He feared the democratic process. His hateful ideas were scrawled across the pages, as an exercise for the nonsense he stated in public. On several pages, he had a tally sheet, where he kept track of the women he had “fucked,” noting the dates and how he felt about his “conquests.” His infidelities were widely documented and contributed to his failed marriages, yet he strutted like a peacock, thinking he was special. As a self-described “nice guy,” he thought it was perfectly fine for him to sexually assault women. His disgusting behavior led his own mother to claim that he was “an abuser of women,” yet Fox News and her son quickly forced her to recant her statement and to claim that he had changed. 

Dozens of pages in the diary were filled with symbols, such as the Walmart Spark and arrows, alongside a list of various animals. In a column on a few pages, one word was repeated—Cat, Cat, Cat, Cat, Cat—on every line. Eventually, more details were included: Cat (Black), Cat (Ginger), Cat (Gray), Cat (Calico). Then the list started to vary, filled with types of dogs— Pomeranian, Poodle, Bulldog, Retriever, Labrador, German Shepherd. Following this, the list of animals varied between cats, dogs, sheep, and pigs. Next to the name of each animal, the Spark appeared with an arrow, two arrows, or three arrows hitting the center of the symbol. 

Investigators studied this section of the journal for a couple days, followed by reading his entries, where he made numerous declarations regarding his dominion over nature, especially all its animals. They determined that this list was another tally sheet. Here Hegseth was recording the types of animals and number of times he had sexual relations with these creatures. The arrows penetrating each Spark next to name of an animal detailed the bestiality. At first, there was some skepticism regarding this conclusion, but at the back of the warrior journal there was key, which unlocked a box filled with photographs of a familiar penis and Hegseth’s tattooed arm constraining God’s creatures.  

The medical examiner hesitated to release the findings, but decided the truth must be known. She provided a detailed report, noting how Hegseth died from a swift kick from the horse that accompanied him in the stall, knocking him off the stairs that he climbed to rape the equine. A horseshoe imprint was clearly visible on Hegseth’s cranium. Blood saturated the hay that surrounded his naked body. His shriveled penis, which he seemed so obsessed with in his journal, was unremarkable. 

While many people snickered at the devious activities of Hegseth, the majority recognized him as a dangerous scumbag and were pleased that he finally got his due. The musician Willi Carlisle immediately wrote a song celebrating the horse’s precision kick, embodying the “leading edge of lethality.”

A Few Songs for a Night in Austin

By Jack Stephen

I met up with one of my oldest friends in Austin. We hung out at St. Elmo Brewery in South Austin; it is a cool scene in a great part of town. Austin used to be all about 6th street and all that nonsense. We used to check out some Texas blues act at the time-honored Joes Generic Bar, which was always fun. Tonight at St. Elmo, it was The Lost Pines bluegrass band. They were freaking solid. It had been a minute since I had seen some live music, so I was especially enthusiastic. The band consisted of an acoustic guitar, fiddle, mandolin, and standup bass. The musicians were killer. I’m not sure who was my favorite; it was a close race between the mandolin and the fiddle player. The musicians were so good they made it look easy, and they were sure having a nice time. 

What song did they play when we sat down? “Ain’t No Trouble to Me” by Guy Clark.

I thought this was a pretty good selection, as it is a fun song blistered by some great lyrics. Guy was one of those great country artists who not only wrote a number of songs covered by all kinds of artists, but he was also a mentor who helped launch a number of other great artists (see Steve Earle for example). My buddy threw the band a tip and requested they play his favorite fiddle song “Orange Blossom Special,” written by Ervin T. Rouse in 1938. I guess it features a pretty amazing fiddle part. Unfortunately, The Lost Pines didn’t know that one. Didn’t really matter, they were crushing.

What song was playing in the bathroom? “Big Iron” by Marty Robbins.

As I relieved myself, I thought about how this was the deep country cut I didn’t see coming. I recalled that I have his album Gunslinger Ballads and Trail Songs, featuring this gem and many others. Marty had a fantastic voice. Don’t forget about the musicians he played with, the guitar player rips on “Big Iron” and other tracks. As I walked out, I was kind of thinking about requesting “Big Iron” to The Lost Pines as a possible song choice, but figured I should just enjoy what they were playing.

What song did they play when I sat back down? “Queen of Hearts” by Juice Newton.

As they prepared to play, getting set on the right key and whatnot, the mandolin player remarked “it’s time for the top of the 1980s.” He wasn’t kidding. This song went to number two on the Billboard 100 for a couple of weeks in 1981. It is one of those tracks where I really have no idea what is being talked about, but I sure have a fun time singing along to it. I figured I better get us another couple of those frozen Mangoritas, which seemed prudent at this point. I sang, “blame it on the Queen of Hearts, though it isn’t very smart,” as I moseyed back from the bar. 

A Couple of Songs for a Show at a Sushi Bar

By Jack Stephen

I had a show in Denver, Colorado, at a Sushi Hai. This restaurant, close to the intersection of 32nd Avenue and Lowell Boulevard, is in a super cool area, which was bustling for happy hour on a Thursday. I wandered into Meade St. Provisions to grab something to eat before the show. The restaurant was a great spot, albeit expensive. It was thirty dollars for a “craft” turkey and cheese sandwich and a “craft” lemonade. Wowszer! Nonetheless, the soul-funk playing in the background was solid.  

What memorable song were they playing? “P.Y.T. (Pretty Young Thing)” by Michael Jackson.

It’s almost impossible for people of my era to talk about the influential music of their formative years without mentioning Michael Jackson. While Michael was not the first Black artist played on MTV, he might as well have been (see the fun track “Pass the Dutchie”). It seemed like “Billie Jean” was played every 10 minutes or so. Next, we had “Beat It” on heavy rotation followed by the world changing “Thriller” video. Michael had many other awesome tracks and let’s not forget those great dance moves. Michael was mostly produced by Quincy Jones, who pivoted from his odd Jazz projects (see “Walking in Space”) to producer extraordinaire. Quincy and Michael formed what seemed like the perfect confluence of producer with artist, aligned with medium and Zeitgeist (the rise of MTV).   

Things began to turn for Michael perhaps starting with getting burned in the Pepsi commercial.  It was fairly clear at that point that the wheels were starting to fall off his superstar train. What followed was the horror of all the plastic surgery, and the weird relationships/pregnancy stuff (anybody remember “Blanket”?). And now, we are more than aware of his astounding predatory pedophilia. What was he thinking about singing “P.Y.T.”! How are we supposed to feel now that we know this superstar icon of our teens was actually a monster? It’s not just Michael either, there are endless examples (i.e., Harvey Weinstein, Paul Gauguin, etc.). Even though he probably had a preteen sex slave chained up in his Neverland ranch, is it okay to still think MJ had incredible music? I’m thinking maybe it isn’t our fault, there were plenty of people who probably knew about his predilections but looked the other way seeing this once in a generation talent and the massive dollar signs on the horizon (Quincy Jones?). I can’t ignore the great art people have made in a variety of mediums over time. I just wish someone could have given us a heads up. I suppose this is easier said than done. Regardless, “P.Y.T.” is a great song and there’s so many others, such as “Off the Wall,” “The Girl Is Mine,” and “Human Nature.” Also, don’t forget he wrote and was the catalyst for “We Are the World,” which was such an amazing idea!  Do famous musicians (artists) do things like that anymore? I mean amazing, incredible things and awful things as well?  

I was killing time walking around trying to get my head right for the show and I stumbled into Wax Trax records. What an incredible record store! I used to frequent the original Wax Trax on Capitol Hill, and I don’t remember it being this cool. I wish I had about two hours to thumb through the stacks. It was busy, customers were milling around and walking out with records! Screw you online music, vinyl is alive. I found myself checking out some Iron Maiden and would have liked to make a purchase, but $50 for a re-issue is…wowszer! I decided not to make a purchase, mostly because between the Iron Maiden and the turkey sandwich, I would have been down $80 and hadn’t even told a joke yet! 

At the show venue, in the basement of the Sushi Bar, I caught up with the other comics on the show. One of the comics also performs as a clown, another leads a Jewish women’s book study on “The Artists Way,” another had LSD for sale, and another, a last minute addition to the show, said when she got the late text to join the lineup she had just done a DAB and had broke out her vibrator, but didn’t have time because she had to get to the show! Comics are the best! 

What would have been a good walkup song for me? “Rock with You” by Michael Jackson.

Favorite Albums in 2025

 By Alec

1: Pile, Sunshine and Balance Beams.

2: Wednesday, Bleeds.

3: Prostitute, Attempted Martyr.

4: Geese, Getting Killed.

5: La Armada, De Vuelta a la Barbarie.

6: Jason Isbell, Foxes In the Snow.

7: Anna Tivel, Animal Poem.

8: Militarie Gun, God Save the Gun.

9: Shellac, To All Trains.

10: Willi Carlisle, Winged Victory.

11: Kal Marks, Wasteland Baby.

12: Flory, Sounds Like…

13: Palmyra, Restless.

14: Dave Alvin, From an Old Guitar: Rare and Unreleased Recordings.

15: Renny Conti, Renny Conti.

The Night Cheryl Eviscerated Kennedy

By SoDak

The following is a work of “fan fiction.”

Cheryl stood in the middle of her bedroom, relishing the euphoric moment. Glancing around the room, she saw her reflection in the mirror. She was covered in blood; flecks of skin and slices of intestine were matted in her nightgown. A smile of satisfaction appeared, as she contemplated how this moment came to be, wondering if her act would inspire others.

As a mediocre actress at best, Cheryl was mostly known for saying, “Larry.” Her performances were generally forgettable, leaving many to wonder how she ever received acting roles. In December 2011, Larry introduced Cheryl to Kennedy. Throughout the night, Cheryl and Kennedy talked about chemtrails, antivaccination campaigns, HIV/AIDS denialism, raw milk, tanning beds, testosterone shots, and his conviction for heroin possession, for which he received two years of probation. He constantly mentioned that “it’s good to be rich,” as he was able to do anything that he wanted without real consequences, at least for him anyhow. As the evening progressed, Kennedy acted as if he was a rutting elk, grunting between his stories, leaning into Cheryl to bump midsections. Those bearing witness to this emerging courtship, pondered whether one or both had previously been kicked in the head by a horse—this could explain Kennedy’s general stupidity and Cheryl’s horrible acting and lack of awareness that she was falling in love with a jackass.

Following their matrimony in 2014, Cheryl continued to be known, well, for not really doing anything notable and worthwhile. Kennedy seized every platform available to spew bullshit and misinformation, which found an audience as many in the United States embraced reactionary politics. Together, they stood, as Kennedy was sworn in as the Secretary of Health and Human Services, only to systematically dismantle the public health infrastructure and usher in policies that will result in the deaths of fellow citizens. When Attorney General Pam Bondi dismissed charges against Kirk Moore, a physician in Utah, for falsifying COVID-19 vaccination cards (medical records) and discarding government-supplied vaccines, Kennedy proclaimed that Moore should be given a medal for his courage and commitment to healing. Within the inverted world, social murderers rallied around each other, declaring that they were promoting freedom, while they created the conditions that directly led to the premature deaths of the most vulnerable. 

Amidst the ongoing developments of neofascism and rearguard mobilization, Cheryl simply smiled for the cameras and defended her husband. At the same time, she wanted to rekindle her dying career. Most of her colleagues did not want to associate with her given her close connections with the stormtroopers. However, she did get one offer, in which she would play the choir teacher in a reboot of Glee. She couldn’t sing, but that did not really matter, as this would add to the follies, in what was sure to be another subpar series. Nevertheless, Cheryl hoped other acting jobs would follow. She told Kennedy about the offer. He nodded his approval, while chewing on a nicotine pouch, as he prepared to inject some testosterone—he was ready to rut, yet again, so he started grunting indecipherable words, thinking he was a desired trophy.

Several weeks later, Cheryl was excited when she received the script for the pilot. She quickly thumbed through the pages, reading her lines. She paused when she saw that she had to sing a mashup. She was familiar with the Dixie Chick’s “Goodbye Earl,” but thought it was an odd selection for a television series. This song was paired with another by Cannibal Corpse, “Evisceration Plague.” “What is this? What a horrible name? I have never heard of them.” She remained nervous about having to sing, but she was filled with consternation about not knowing one of the songs. Terrified about messing up this chance to be back on television, she decided that she had to learn the songs and practice the mashup.

Cheryl first listened to “Goodbye Earl” over and over, reading the lyrics. She hummed along to the upbeat song, memorizing the words about how the wife, along with her friend, poisons her abusive husband and dumps him in the lake. From time to time, she chuckled, thinking about how the husband was despised by everyone. “It’s kind of clever,” she remarked to herself after practicing it for a week. Cheryl took a deep breath, as she contemplated listening to and learning the next song. She looked up the record online, downloading it onto her phone. She grimaced when she saw the frightening figures on the cover, “what the hell have I gotten myself into?” Hesitantly, Cheryl played the song. The mid-tempo, thick riffs fill the air. She shuttered and stopped the song once Corpsegrinder’s guttural growl started. “What the fuck?” Shaking her head, she paced the halls, “how I am supposed to pull this off? It is frightening.” As she steeled courage, she returned to the song, determined she needed to learn the lyrics, figuring the mashup would involve her singing “normally.” Unable to decipher the vocals, she read the opening lines:

Experimental pathogens, a devil’s design

The dark side of science breeds a weapon of war

Contagious killing and internal distress

Homicide or suicide will be the cause of death.

Internal organs altered by the disease

Your brain disabled by the constant pain

Erratic actions lead my thoughts to the blade

I’ve lost control, I've lost control.

“Jesus Christ, what is this about.” She started to sweat, wondering if she could pull this off and what it would mean for her career. After a few passes through the lyrics, she settled into the rhythmic delivery and started to hear the words within the song itself. She nodded her head to the chugging riffs. With renewed confidence, she returned to the script to see how the mashup was put together. The writers titled it, “The Evisceration of Earl,” starting off with the Chicks, leading to Cannibal Corpse, with a little back and forth at towards the end. Musically, the mashup primarily followed “Goodbye Earl,” but it was more foreboding and got more intense, as the song progressed.  

Mary Anne and Wanda were the best of friends

All through their high school days

Both members of the 4H Club

Both active in the FFA.

After graduation, Mary Anne went out

Lookin’ for a bright new world

Wanda looked all around this town

And all she found was Earl.

Well, it wasn’t two weeks after she got married

That Wanda started getting abused

She put on dark glasses and long-sleeved blouses

And make-up to cover a bruise.

Well, she finally got the nerve to file for divorce

She let the law take it from there

But Earl walked right through that restraining order

And put her in intensive care.

Right away, Mary Anne flew in from Atlanta

On a red eye midnight flight

She held Wanda's hand as they worked out a plan

And it didn't take’em long to decide

That Earl had to die.

Goodbye Earl (na-na-na-na-na)

We need a break.

Internal organs altered by the disease

Your brain disabled by the constant pain

Erratic actions lead my thoughts to the blade

I’ve lost control, I’ve lost control.

Beg for your life, you won’t escape the knife

Your fate was sealed today

Disease has spread, you pray for death

Evisceration plague.

Stabbing compulsion overwhelms my mind

Terrorized screaming follows the thrust of my knife

I wrench the blade from the chest to the crotch

Organs and entrails fall to the ground.

Driven to kill, this is not my will

I am compelled to slay

Invisible foe takes control

Evisceration plague.

Unable to be seen but with visible effect

Virulent disease causing outbreaks of violence

They tear themselves apart, offal covers the ground

Viscera torn forcefully from the abdomen.

Goodbye Earl (na-na-na-na-na)

We need a break.

Intestines slick with blood cannot escape my grip

Surgical incisions give way to frenzied carving

Delirium has taken hold, disembowelment is complete

Horror grips my mind, entrails are in my hands.

Goodbye Earl (na-na-na-na-na)

We need a break.

Driven to kill, this is not my will

I am compelled to slay

Invisible foe takes control

Evisceration plague.

Goodbye Earl (na-na-na-na-na)

We need a break.

Hey (na-na-na-na-na)

Well, hey-hey-hey (na-na-na-na-na)

Aw, hey-hey-hey (na-na-na-na-na)

Well, hey-hey-hey (na-na-na-na-na)

Na-na-na.

By the time of rehearsal, Cheryl knew every word. With renewed confidence, she embodied the song, making the performance visceral. She found that she was singing the song when she was not at work. She mauled over the arrangement and words, thinking about her husband; it was as if the veil had been lifted. “He truly is a piece of shit—a horrible, disgusting human being.” At the White House Correspondents’ Association Dinner, he did not give her a second thought, as he was rushed to “safety,” leaving her “unprotected.” That evening, he took a blue pill and some testosterone, grunting at her, thinking his erection was a cure for her displeasure. Turning her back, she walked down the hall to lock herself in a spare room, pondering what to do about the “fucking pig” she had married.

Over the next several months, she filmed the pilot, impressing all who saw her act. However, the truly impressive performance was at home, where she pretended to care about what her husband had to say, nodding along to his rambling. On the night when the episode was to air, she skipped the viewing party with the cast. Kennedy and Cheryl snuggled in bed, watching the show. Following the mashup, Kennedy was worried. What would his powerful chums think? Why was Cheryl so passionate in this performance? Why was she mouthing the unsettling words while they were watching the show? What was this song advocating? He turned to ask Cheryl why she agreed to take this role. He was startled to see her smiling, and then he felt extreme pain, as Cheryl drove a knife into his torso, running it “from chest to the crotch,” repeating the action several times as “organs and entrails” fell “to the ground.” With each cut, she sang “Goodbye Kennedy (na-na-na-na-na).”