Ticks?

Brad Paisley, you're the bain of my existance these days. City Boy thinks you're the cat's meow. Okay, not his words, exactly. But given the choice, I think he'd rather spend a Friday night with you than he would with me.

It all started with your old Hee Haw style recordings with Dolly Parton. I was forced to listen over and over (and over) again to Cornography. That was followed by the Politically Correct Christmas. Or White Holiday. No...Caucasion Holiday. Oh~whatever. Again; forced to listen to another of your funny the first time but not the three hundredth and first time (in one day) songs.

But nothing you've done in the past could quite prepare me for your latest attempt to gain control of City Boy's mind.

TICKS!

I swear, it's all City Boy thinks about these days. "Honey, listen, it's our song!" he says with a look that exceeds the romance speed limit. "No, City Boy, it is not our song. It's Brad and Kimberly's song. Not our song."

City Boy is not convinced. He sings me his off key rendition, treating it like a romantic ballad that ought to be serenaded beneath a balcony, and every junkyard dog in the valley is singing backup.

So let's just set the record straight, here, City Boy:

I do not drink beer, so being the bottle isn't going to get you any closer to my lips.

There is nothing playing peek-a-boo, butterfly tattoo or otherwise, back there under my jeans, so keep your hands to yourself, buddy. Stop it. Just STOP IT!

And as for ticks? Puh-leeze! There are no ticks on me~back or front...you keep your hands to yourself, Mister. Oh...City Boy...no ticks...that tickles…er...well...I did go for a walk in the sticks yesterday...maybe it's okay if you check just this once...