Beltonic Backbite

On rare occasion I've been depicted as having exceptional taste in music; and while this attribution is truly flattering it is nevertheless inaccurate, insomuch that a more apt description would consist of me having considerable exposure to music, which is another way of saying I've listened to a wide array of tunes in my time and, by virtue of sheer probability, some of the aforementioned plethora isn't utter shit.

With said knowledge in hand, it stands to reason that, having routinely exposed my once-dainty ears to excessively loud live performances as well as equally-deafening headphone jaunts, my hearing isn't exactly what it used to be, yet I'd be lying if I were to propose that my ears have ever been sonically adept appendages, though I suppose genetics share an equal amount of blame with choices made. The men of my family have a long history of inadequate auricular endowment (to say nothing of a profusion of ear wax) best exemplified by phrases such as What? Huh? One more time? My penis is about to explode! and whatnot, thus it's safe to assume that misunderstandings are the norm when it comes to this chap's listening comprehension skill, be they linked to instructions, conversations, jokes, or lyrics.

Sometimes this growing disability is amusing, at others infuriating and, most commonly, perplexing to anyone engaged in conversation with me, such as when I'm in a crowded supermarket with someone and said interlocutor feels like looking away as he (or she) provides some terse commentary regarding a disagreement between the two of us. In the given situation, the individual's comment would -in all likelihood- be astute since I'm all-too-often full of crap, but for you readers (and Retards), be pals and remember that I may be unable to ascertain your message on account of the fact that I have atrocious hearing, a condition further hindered by you facing away from me, whispering amidst an ocean of Korean voices and mercantile noises.*

Moving on!**

As stated previously, lyrics are a total bitch, too. The following examples are a tad dated, perhaps, but they illustrate my handicap admirably:

1) Honest to god, the first time I listened to U2's Angel of Harlem -via FM radio, no less- I thought Bono had been crooning the phrase 'Angel of Hard-Ons' during the chorus. In a way, this gratuitous misattribution makes the song much better than it's ever been and I'd be lying if I said it hadn't increased my appreciation of the band exponentially, but even so, it's just silly.

2) 1990's Groove Is in the Heart (courtesy of bullshit wonder Deee-Lite) will forever be known in my heart as 'Roses in the Heart' because that's what it sounded like to me, and as idiotic as it may seem, I daresay it's a reasonable mistake for a lad to have made. It was 1990 for fuck's sake! My mind was still addled by Tim Burton's Batman and my ears were merely following my brain's lead.

Moving on yet again!

Speaking of 1990, something that I most definitely heard correctly was a crude joke told to me by this dirty old bastard who lived in a white-and-red brick house down the street from where I grew up. Some details are hazy, but I do recall that the guy delivered bread for a living, yet his truck never once graced the interior of his garage because it was full of pornography, and I don't mean "Yeah the man had a shelf devoted of Playboys", I mean this old man's garage was stacked to the ceiling with smut, and old-school, I-had-to-scour-the-earth-to-acquire-this-shit smut at that. The guy was fucking married, too. Once in a while my mom would proffer a gem such as "I don't know if she's aware of her husband's habit" and while I can endorse the occasional bout of denial, the dude's garage was full of motherfuckin' pornography! How could this knowledge have slipped by her in any way, shape, or form? Again, I'll grant that denial is a powerful force indeed as hs, historically, the (unfortunate) necessity of women around the globe to turn a blind eye to what men do behind closed garage doors, but damn. Then again, my own mother claims the woman may have been genuinely ignorant of all the dirt, so I shan't point too many fingers. 

Anyway, I'll post the creep's joke here, if only for the purpose of potentially negating everything I've said regarding hearing problems by highlighting a case of selective hearing (and retention):

One day a five-year-old girl walks in on her mom taking a shower, and she stares at the hair under her mom's arm.
Girl: What's that, Mom?
Mom: That's armpit hair, honey. You'll get it when you're older.
The girl then looked at the hair between her mom's legs.

Girl: What's that, Mom?
Mom: That's pubic hair, honey.
Girl: When will I get that?
Mom: You'll get that when you're older, too.
The next morning, the girl walks in on her dad taking a shower, and she stares at him.
Girl: Is that armpit hair, Dad?
Dad: That's right, sweetie.
Girl: I'll get that when I'm older, right?
Dad: Yes, sweetie. 

The girl then looks between her dad's legs.
Girl: What's that, Dad?
Dad: That's a penis, sweetie.
Girl: When will I get that?
Dad: As soon as your mom goes to work.

That's the 'joke' as told to me by Mr. Dirty Bastard. (No shit.) As one may suppose, I was bewildered to say the very least, at which point Mr. DB slapped me on the back, laughed heartily, gave me a novelty pen (you know, the kind where a woman's dress disappears when you tip the pen in a particular direction) and told me to head on home.

Apparently, my ears only perform dutifully when emotional scarring is likely to occur, and that's the most perplexing aspect of it all.

* To reiterate: I'm wrong about many things and my hearing sucks balls. Not the best combination.

** I'm talking big now, but I'll receive a savage beating for my insolence shortly.