My son-in-law Jerry, a Southern Baptist, tells me that "badonkadonk" refers to the female buttocks. This song is about a bar-hopping woman's rear end? Really? Who, in their right mind, would view a voluptuous harlot as a fitting partner? I guess this appeals to the base interests inherent in the human male, but those of us who have ascended above the lusts and whims of sin find no appeal in the part of the homosapien that exists only for providing a comfortable cushion on church pews and office chairs or parting to release feces. Viewing a woman's derriere as some signifier of their worth as a marital partner is certainly of the Dark Lord. It is my belief that another demon gets it's black wings every time a man says "whoo-whee" or "Mmh!" about a nicely proportioned "badonkadonk." This part of the anatomy is not even used in the procreation of the species so it defies me why it is such an identifier of sexual attractiveness. Jerry says my daughter has an aesthetically pleasing rear end. Why he felt the need to let me know this I do not fully comprehend. Finding a job should be his primary interest, not the backside of my offspring. Anyway, Trace Adkins is a perverse individual who is only concerned with promoting immorality for financial gain. One only need hear his recent song "Brown Chicken Brown Cow," which Jerry said is a reference to deviant pornography (Jerry was not my preferred suitor for my daughter), to see that he finds no glory in the spiritual side of life. As for me, I tend to ignore my wife's rather large, veiny and cellulite-ridden backside. I keep my eyes on the Lord, for the only "booty" I care about is the crown I will wear on the streets of gold.
F
For my 50th nugget of wisdom, I'm gonna get as real as it gets with you, my peeps. If you're not writing with, as Snoop dee-oh-double-gee says, "my mind on my money and my money on my mind," you might as well crap in one hand and wish in the other and see which one fills up first. There's a process to this craft, a formula if you will. I don't sit down with pen and guitar in hand and think "Where will my feelings lead me today?" Hell naw, I think "What's in it for me?" The day I start worrying about the art of songwriting is the day I slice off my testicles with a dull letter opener and start collecting Hummel figurines. You think I write this junk because I enjoy it? Nah, homie, I write it because it stocks the bar with Goose. Peace y'all.
