Country Music Broke My Brain by Gerry House Page A

was all stained. Then he vaguely remembered he wasn’t feeling so good earlier. He also remembered her screaming something at him through the bathroom door about what a lyin’, cheatin’, washed-up bastard he was. Something about calling her the wrong name. Washed up? Who’s washed up?
    He took a deep breath and tried to clear his head.
    Let’s go over this again. I’m naked. I’m in a bathroom. I’m stuck. I’m STUCK!
    That’s it . . . he was stuck!
    Wait a minute. I’m not stuck, I’m . . . I’m glued! I am glued to the goddamn floor. I’m naked, and I’m glued to the goddamn floor.
    Be calm.
    He was calm.
    Breathe deeply.
    Then he saw it. There, in the corner by the dead plant. Nausea and panic fought for control of his stomach. Panic was winning on points. The panic had started from somewhere deep inside him. It was true. It wasn’t just glue, it was Gorilla Glue.
    Jesus!
    That batty woman had Gorilla-Glued him to her bathroom floor. He felt like “The Fly.”
    I have a gig in Jacksonville tomorrow night. Go panic! I can’t sing Gorilla-Glued to the floor. I’ve sung drunk. I’ve sung high, I’ve sung on mushrooms, I’ve sung half-asleep, but who the hell can sing SUPERGLUED TO THE BATHROOM FLOOR OF SOME LOONEY I’M CHEATIN’ WITH?!
    They rescheduled the Jacksonville concert, although the promoter said he was taking it out of his hide. Actually, a good portion of his hide was already missing. His manager had received a call from a woman telling him where the fallen star could be found. Her story was that a couple of thugs had broken into her apartment and overpowered her. The thugs then thought it would be funny to attach our star to the floor with Gorilla Glue. She had somehow “managed” to escape, but was afraid to call the police on account of the bad publicity and all. She was only trying to protect his reputation as the moral and righteous country singer he was. Why, if it hadn’t been for her, he might have been found months from now, layin’ there like a country ham.
    His manager had to call an ER buddy and a carpenter to get him loose. His wife didn’t really buy the “attacked by glue-wielding thugs” story. Or his later tale that he’d actually slipped while doing a charity visit to an old-folks home and had fallen into a pile of denture cream—the kind that’s super-powerful and grips tight to help you eat corn on the cob.
    The wife was spotted two days later driving a new pink Porsche 911.
    His girlfriend—correction, ex-girlfriend—sent a message that she had pictures and her lawyer was holding them in case anything happened to her. She told his manager that in one of the shots her ex looked like 200 pounds of Spam on a barbecue spit.
    His manager quit.
    He had to wear women’s panties for three weeks because he was so raw. He also had to ride the bus sitting on one of those kid’s inflatable swimming pool tubes. He swore on his great aunt’s eyes that he’d never drink or cheat again.
    That lasted ’til Saturday night in Lubbock.
    His great aunt’s vision is fine.
    When the waitress reached back and grabbed his ass, the pain was so intense he shouted his wife’s name.

Grand Canyon Reba
    HERE’S HOW LAME I AM. I got bored with the Grand Canyon. I have a grandeur limit. I can only take so much fabulousness, and then I start to glaze over. We drove from Phoenix to the Grand Canyon, as excited as could be. Just an early glimpse through the trees of the very edge was like seeing Marilyn Monroe get her skirt blown up. After about five or six pictures and some oohs and aahs, I was over it.
    I started looking at other people taking pictures and wondered exactly how many gawkers a year fall backwards smiling for Grandma. Isn’t that awful? One of the wonders of the world, truly, the Grand Canyon is, as canyons go, really, really grand.