Michael’s got nothing on Husband-Head
Glenwood Springs, Co Colorado
“I don’t like it,” Husband-Head announced as we sat in front of the television eating dinner the other night.
“The TV show or the dinner?” I asked, looking to see if he was talking about his vegetarian black bean burger. “Please be more specific so I know whether to get mad and give you the silent treatment the rest of the night.”
He opted to say it was the TV show.
We were watching the reality program “America’s Got Talent,” in which I don’t think there are any criteria for getting on the show. At least in “American Idol,” the people have to audition, and it’s all about singing. This show lets any Tom, Dick or Harry perform a variety of acts.
As we were eating, this particular act was a group of five guys rollerskating to an old Michael Jackson song. Husband-Head started singing along.
“Annie ate a monkey! … Ate a monkey! … Ate a monkey, Annie!” I peered into his glass to see exactly what it was he was drinking with dinner. …
“Those aren’t the words to the song,” I corrected him. “It’s, ‘Annie, are you OK? So, are you OK? Are you OK, Annie?”
“I’ve never heard the song before,” Husband-Head shrugged. “I was never exactly a Michael Jackson fan.”
“You, like, completely missed the late 1980s?” I asked with amazement. “How could you have never heard it before?”
I explained that the song, “Smooth Criminal,” had been a hit on Jackson’s “Bad” album.
“Yeah, well it’s bad alright,” Husband-Head agreed.
Then he thought for a moment.
“Why does he want to know if she’s OK?” he wondered out loud. “What’s wrong with her, and why does he keep asking over and over?”
I didn’t really know the answer, but said that the lyrics included someone going into her apartment and leaving bloodstains on the carpet and that she’d been struck by a “smooth criminal.”
“Those are stupid lyrics,” Husband-Head retorted. “And if she’s toast, why does he keep asking her if she’s OK? By the way, didn’t he have a monkey at one time? Do you think he really ate it?”
No honey, he spanked it. … How do I know?
But this conversation was quickly becoming ridiculous, and I was not going to even pretend to try and analyze the lyrics to a Michael Jackson song.
But as I did the dinner dishes, I found myself softly singing, “Annie ate a monkey … ate a monkey … ate a monkey, Annie” without even realizing it. This threw Husband-Head into a fit of laughter. “YES!” he cried out victoriously. “I love it when I get a song stuck in your head!”
This is the same man who also thinks it’s a hoot to ruin a sneeze.
As we continued to watch “America’s Got Talent,” Husband-Head came up with another idea.
“I want one of those signs like Piers and the others have,” he decided.
He was talking about Piers Morgan, one of the three judges on the show who have the ability to basically “gong” an act they don’t like and a large red “X” lights up.
“I could push the button and that would signal that you’re not to talk anymore,” Husband-Head said, getting kind of excited about the idea. “Especially during football.”
He then reflected back on his version of the Michael Jackson song.
“You know, anything with monkeys and midgets are pretty funny,” Husband-Head confessed.
“No, that is politically incorrect,” I admonished. “We can’t make fun of monkeys or midgets.”
“Oh yeah? Well why do you think the ‘Wizard of Oz’ was such a big hit?” Husband-Head retorted. “Anything involving flying monkeys and midgets is funny.”
Later that evening as we were lying in bed, Husband-Head started to sing yet another song.
Thankfully, this time it wasn’t a Michael Jackson tune. It was worse.
“Black Beans singing in the dead of night!” Husband-Head chortled to the old Beatles tune, much to his own amusement.
I didn’t find it funny at all and pulled the covers over my head to escape the stench.
“You are not a very good singer and can’t even compare to people like the King of Pop or the Beatles,” I warned in a muffled voice. “You may have talents, but singing isn’t one of them.”
He was silent for a moment, then started up again.
“Heidi are you OK? Are you OK, Heidi?” he whispered in the dark.
Heidi Rice is a reporter for the Post Independent. Her column runs every Friday. Her book collection of columns, “Skully Says Shut It!,” is available at the Post Independent, local bookstores, http://www.amazon.com and http://www.barnesandnoble.com. Visit her website at http://www.heidirice.com.
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