50-Feet Deep in Men

Whenever I listen to Mike Doughty's Smofe and Smang, like I did last night while sitting around with M, I am always reminded of the song "It's Raining Men" (he rambles briefly about how the next time concert-goers feel the urge to shout out "Freebird" lamely at a concert, they should instead shout out "It's Raining Men").

And whenever I hear someone mention "It's Raining Men," I am always reminded of this one time when I stopped at a gas station to fill my tank up. I went inside and paid first, and the cashier folks were a couple of teenage boys who were goofing around and being loud even as I approached to pay. Anyways, I paid, I went outside and started pumping gas. Suddenly, that speaker that they sometimes use to talk to people if they're having problems pumping or they need to pay first comes crackling on. And two boys' voices came stumbling out over the crackles, shouting, "This song's for you, Pump #3!" Which was me, of course (otherwise I wouldn't be telling this story). And they immediately started into two sung verses of "It's Raining Men," their voices wobbly with laughter and completely off-key and couched in horrible crackly dissonance. And there I was, my fella in the car not hearing a second of it, getting serenaded by two teenage boys with one of the *LAMEST* songs ever. It was great.

And whenever I think of this incident, it always makes me think of the retardedly terrifying possibilities of the event that the song describes actually taking place. Men tumbling, ass over head over ass, from the sky and slamming into pavement, cars, rooftops, trees. People who are unlucky enough to be out on the streets screaming and running in every direction to avoid them all. Male bodies building up one on top of another on top of another until they're 50-some feet deep and people are having to wade through with giant rubber boots on to get to and from work. Umbrellas demolished by the sheer force of such raindrops. People watching through their picture windows from a comfortable seat on their couches, muttering, "Thank god, I don't have to go out today" and sipping tea. The phrase "Ah, Cleveland weather. Gotta love it..." taking on a TOTALLY new meaning.

And that shit's fucked up. That shit's really fucked up.

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