Ghost-of-a-Chance
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Aside from my paranoia as an adult, my parents’ homophobia is likely the only reason they haven’t figured out I’m bi. Hearing your teenage girl singing the chorus of Spill the Wine as “Do I dig that girl? Heh!” probably should have made them question things. Fortunately, Heiferlump just thinks I’m embarrassing; her reaction to me singing is to roll over, grunt, fart, and go back to sleep with her paws over her nose. Cats don’t let you get a big head.
(Yeah. Almost forty and I just figured out I’ve been singing that wrong all these years. Freud would be clicking his heels with joy over that slip. And almost forty and I only noticed now that autocorrect cut my age the first time. Ugh.)
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But that was the beauty of those ‘60s pseudo-psychedelic songs. The artist sang like they had a mouth full of peanut butter, and you picked your own damned lyrics!
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In-a-gadda-da-vida, honey
Don't you know that I'm loving you?
In-a-gadda-da-vida, baby
Don't you know that I'll always be true? -
Seaman, that’s exactly the song that came to mind when Wilde_Guess mentioned singing like they had a mouth full of peanut butter!
