Seriously, Don’t Tell Everyone That I Listen To Norah Jones On My iPod

6:56 AM THURSDAY MORNING
Your Town, USA
PowerPower Gym

HEY MAN, ARE YOU GOING TO BE HERE ON YOUR LITTLE TREADMILL FOR AWHILE? ME AND SOME BROS WHO ARE ON THE WAY ARE ABOUT TO SLAM IRON, SO IF YOU WANT TO LEAVE, THAT’D BE AWESOME. YOU STAYING? SUIT YOURSELF, CHUBBS, BUT KNOW THAT WE’RE GOING TO BE DOIN’ A LOT OF SWEATIN’, LOT OF SCREAMIN’ AND A WHOLE LOT OF METALBLARIN’. LIKE SO!

(/pushes iPod button on speakers)

Oh, God. Listen…listen, man, BUDDY!, man, you CANNOT tell any of the guys about to be here that I was listening to that. Please, pal, you’ve gotta do me this solid. It…it wasn’t even mine! Oh man! It was totally my girlfriend’s song on my iPod, she’s always listening to that kind of crap and IT TOTALLY MAKES ME SICK. Right? So we’re good. It’s my f’in girlfriend’s song. Just that one. Norah Jones. Every chick loves Norah FREAKIN Jones. Not me though. Give me METAL. Give me GUITARS. Give me RAGE! Glad we got that covered up, Puss. Now….let’s not mention it again. To anyone.

(/changes song on iPod)

Whoa…um…looks like…she’s got a…lot…of songs on my iPo-….look, you really can’t tell anyone about this. I need this group to think I’m the baddest badass that’s ever had an ass that’s ever been ungood. Seriously, I’m wearing a camo hat. I’ve NEVER been hunting. It’s just I don’t like waking up abruptly, and these piano playing women are the most soothing sirens I’ve ever heard. They sound like they’re made of body pillows that secrete sensual lotions that seep into your brain and tell you that you’re not the failure your father says you are. I need them more than I need this weightlifting thing and I REALLY need this weightlift-…

HEY GUYS, WHAT’S UP?! YOU READY TO SLAM SOME IRON? YEAH! AHH! WHAT? AHHH! WHO’S READY?! YOU READY?! I’M READY! LET’S DO THIS! LET’S! DOOO! THIS! WHO’S GOT THE IPOD? LEFT MINE AT HOME!

You’re not going to tell them I actually have my iPod, are you? Please don’t. They don’t understand how blissful it is to sit with a warm pumpkin spice latte and whole wheat bagel and just let Norah rock you to comfort within the warm embrace of her soulful melodies. I don’t know how she does it, but somewhere between her fingertips and her larynx is where I’d love to make my gentle cabin in the wilderness and live the rest of my days.

NO! I DIDN’T! I DIDN’T BUST THAT ONE OUT HAHA! GOOD LORD THAT ONE SMELLS LIKE EGGS AND DANFORD’S MOM’S FUPA! OOOHHHH! SHUT UP DANFORD, YOU PANSY! LIFT THAT, DANFORD! LIFT THAT AND I’LL NOT TOUCH YOUR MOM EVER AGAIN! AHHHH YOU KNOW I CAN’T STAY AWAY. JUST MESSIN’, DANFORD, YOU BAG OF NUTS.

Please, don’t tell them that when I hear an alto voice coming from a piano-playing woman, I melt away into a Parisian cafe to talk about life, love, and other mysteries. Don’t you tell them about any of that. Nary you mention how this is the only thing playing in my Victorian duplex, or smartcar, or iPod. Please, I don’t even LIKE my iPod! Vinyl is the only way to listen to these soulful sirens. Norah Jones, Joy Williams, Tristian Prettyman-

HEY, WHERE ARE THE TUNES? I CAN’T LIFT UNTIL I GET SOME FIVE-FINGER DEATH PUNCH! LIFT IT, DANFORD! GET IT! YEAH!

-Keri Noble, Allison Krause, Natalie Merchant, Adele, and on and on. Do you realize how many puppywuppywoowoo-, I mean, dogs, Sarah McLachlan has encouraged me to adopt? Eight. Now I have nine dogs and three cats crammed into this duplex. AND I LOVE ALL OF THEM. Each and everyone one of these adorable creatures. We read magazines, sip Earl Grey tea, and live our simple lives together and the only two things I have holding it all together is this music and this weightlifting group I go out with on weekends.

OH, T.J.! OOOH T.J.! YOU ARE GOING TO POUND YOU SOME SQUISH THIS WEEKEND! WE ARE GOING DOWNTOWN! AND WE ARE GOING TO JUST SLAAAAY!

Please. Not a word. I’m begging you. These guys…they, uh, wouldn’t understand.

THIS A-HOLE? I DUNNO, BUT HE’S BEEN ON THE TREADMILL FOR AWHILE? KICK HIM OUT? NAH, BRO. LET’S NOT DO THAT.

Oh please. No. Don’t say anything about it.

OH I AGREE, I TOTALLY WANT TO THROW HIM OFF THE TREADMILL. I JUST DON’T THINK RIGHT NOW HE’S WORTH IT. I ALREADY WARMED UP! NOW I’M READY TO LIFT THE BIG WEIGHTS! DON’T WANNA GO DOWN ON THE WEIGHT SCALE BECAUSE OF THIS CHUMP! HAH! I BET HE IS GAY!

You’re not gay are you? I’m not, but I’m really sensitive to LBGT and questioning persons issues, so I’m so sorry if I offended you. Please. Don’t say anything to them. Oh, Lord. I’ll give you money out of my wallet. Please.

NO THAT’S NOT MY IPOD.


DUUDE. THAT’S SOME LAMENESS. I LIKE DON’T EVEN WANT TO WORK OUT ANYMORE. LET’S ALL LEAVE! AND GO BANG CHICKS! YEAH! RAAGE!

Thank you. We’re leaving. Thank you thank you thank you.

HEY, SO MY IPOD GOT SMASHED…CARE IF I JUST STEAL THAT ONE?

…Thank you so much.

One thought on “Seriously, Don’t Tell Everyone That I Listen To Norah Jones On My iPod

  1. Okay, here’s the deal, Zack. I read this blog everytime you update and, more recently, even when you don’t. You might even say religiously. Over the last week you have updated three glorious times and have filled my otherwise disturbingly empty life with joy. After only a week, I find myself franticly wanting, no, needing more of your ecclectic, absurdist prose to shine a golden light on my hauntingly dim existence. Please, never stop writing. You are all I have, Zack. You are all I have.

    Your not-so-close friend (and stalker),
    Jeramy

    psouTou do remember me, right? I birthed your first child.

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