Me and Bubba were at my apartment one night after work, tossin’ back some cold ones.  My girl Joletta and Bubba’s own Darlene had just gone to get a de-licious thick crust homestyle Italian Stallion pizza (“Extra cheese, please,” Bubba had wheezed).

     I was busy going through some oldies but goodies in my record collection.  I pulled out Rick Derringer’s “All American Boy” album, which features the classic “Rock and Roll Hootchie-Koo.”

     “This here,” I said to Bubba, “is the finest.”

     Raw guitar chords, vibrant drumming, and soaring vocals were soon pumping out at about two hundred watts per channel.  I tell you this now and you should believe me: the surest way to meet your neighbors (or the local sheriff) is to turn that bass control on the old Nakamichi all the way down.  The surest way.

     Bubba was loving it.  “Louder!” he screamed.  He grabbed up my battered acoustic guitar, and thrashed it wildly.  “Louder!“

     I couldn’t hear his straining words, but I could read his lips.  I liked reading Joletta’s lips better, though. With my dick.

     I cranked it up some more.

     The girls came in.  We were having too much fun for their delicate sensibilities.

     Joletta pulled the plug on the Nak.

     “-Lawdy Mama, light my fuse!” Bubba was still wailing along.

     “Hey, damnit!” I was mad.  “What’s the deal, Joletta?”

     Joletta’s a pretty snappy lady.  “You shut up, Travis, and eat your pizza.”

     “Wellllll…” I drawled.  She handed me three big slices on a Minnie Mouse plate.

     What the hell; Joletta had me (literally) in the palm of her hand.

     We ate all the pizza and gosh were we stuffed.  We all sat down in my good old boy-appointed living room, and popped a top, again. 

     Bubba picked up the guitar (I was afraid of this).  He strummed it melodically.

     “I was on this job one time…” Bubba told us.

     The girls looked bewildered.

     “I wrote this song called ‘Life’s Hard and Then You Die’ on the roof of the Hyatt Regency Hotel.”

     I took a long gulp at my beer.  Here we go, I thought, Bubba at the Met.

     “It goes like this- Breaking your back for a living

                               Working to stay alive

                               Everyone takes and you’re giving   

                               All the time

                               Nobody cares how you survive

                               They just want the money you earn

                               Nobody cares what you do to survive

                               They just want the money to burn,

                               To burn, to burn

                                   Was it for a woman?

                                   A fight you had in a bar?

                                   Was it just an accident

                                   That happened in your car?

                                        Life’s hard and then you die

                                        Life’s hard and then you fucking die

                                        Life’s hard and then you die

                                        Life’s hard and then you fucking die”

     Bubba put the guitar down.  We were impressed.

     “I wrote that song about child support payments,” Bubba said.  He cast an uncertain glance at Darlene.

     Darlene went and got Bubba another beer.

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