I, like most people who have a shred of musical decency, experience copious bleeding from the ears whenever a Nickelback song is played anywhere in my immediate vicinity. If the radio station unthinkingly slots in one of their heinous torture mechanisms onto the air while I’m driving, I quickly flick off the radio for a five minute duration, lest I pull over and start shoving the keys into my ear drums in a violent attempt to unhear what cannot be unheard.
Verily, verily, I say unto thee: Nickelback is the Bubonic plague of rock “music.”
I was in the Minivan of Doom with The Goose earlier, driving across the St. James Bridge to pick up The Duck from a birthday party somewhere near the airport. We were enjoying a heartening, child friendly sing along of “Mr. Brownstone” by Guns N’ Roses, followed by “Gold on the Ceiling” by The Black Keys (please, don’t hold back on those parenting awards, yo) when IT happened.
Chad Kroeger proceeded to whinge and moan in his perpetually constipated tone about everyone reminding him who he really is. (Honey, it sounds like you need some laxatives and a toilet, not an apology, m’kay?) I was torn between pushing the gas pedal to the floor and doing a 2012 rendition of “Thelma and Louise” off of the bridge and into the Assinaboine, or simply smashing the vehicle into the rear end of a Gardewine tractor trailer to make the bleating from the radio stop. Not giving in to the impulse, I quickly turned off the radio, and breathed a sigh of blessed relief as we pulled up to a red light at Ness.
The Goose: Why did you turn that off? That was good.
Me: I hate Nickelback. Nickelback makes Baby Jesus cry. Blood comes out of my ears like a stigmata.
The Goose: I don’t think Nickelback is in the Bible, mom. Jesus loves everyone. Even Nickelback.
Me: No, Goose. Jesus forsook Nickelback in the mid-90’s.
The Goose: When you are old, and you go to the nursing home, and you can’t talk or get away? I’m going to tell the workers that you LOVE Nickelback, tuna, and grape Slurpees. I’ll tell them to play Nickelback for you ALL THE TIME. “My Mom LOVES Nickelback. She used to collect their t-shirts.”
*Author’s note: canned tuna and purple grape flavoured anything are the things I cannot be paid to ever consume. Ever.*
Me: I am going to write you out of the will.
Goose: When I write that thing in the paper about you dying?
Me: The Obit?
Goose: Yes. The Obit. I’m going to write “Mom decorated the house in Nickelback posters, collected their t-shirts, and went to every one of their concerts. She liked writing Nickelback love letters.”
Me: I don’t know you. I’m going to drop you off over there. Find a new home.
Goose: Just wait. I’m going to tell ALL the neighbours that you LOVE Nickelback.
Me: Not my child.
*turns radio on*
Me: Ooooh! Soundgarden! Ooooh! Chris Cornell! YES! “Spooon maaaaaan! Come together with your hands!”
Goose: This sucks. Spoonman? SPOONMAN? Dumb. Who sings about spoons? I’m going to find Nickelback on another radio station, because it’s always playing somewhere.