Emma June Grosskopf

It all started with a discussion in the office about the country music group Rascal Flatts, which apparently is breaking up after a 20-year career.

I’m going to be honest with you: my only real emotional connection to Rascal Flatts is their song “Riot,” which was the cool-down song for my Zumba class in college.

Or, as I like to call it, instead of a “cool-down” song, a “lay-on-the-floor-like-a-beached-whale-because-Zumba-takes-it-out-of-you” song.

This sort of got me thinking about country music, a genre that I personally have never been that into. I’d like to say that there’s no particular reason why it doesn’t appeal to me, but that’s not exactly true.

I think that a lot of the modern country music (cleverly named “hick hop” or “bro country”) is just terrible. Like, sinfully painful to the ears. Not that I don’t love a good drawl, but I just feel like a lot of the newer stuff is just so poorly written. Heck, I could write a better country song, and I’ve only been living in “the country” for 4 months!

I know, I know, some of you are probably well versed in “classic” country. You know, the older stuff that was actually written well and doesn’t make me wish ill upon the grizzled, tobacco-scented Golden Oldie singing it. I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about the cringe-worthy contemporary stuff.

And so, I have decided to write a country song for you using only select phrases that I have already written in my past columns to prove that my true calling is not, in fact, journalism. My destiny is actually in Nashville with all of the other stars.

I can’t play the guitar, but we can pretend. Now, listen up for a little ditty I like to call “CMAs, Here I Come.”

I have rain boots, snow boots, thigh high boots,

Eat their gelato, drink their wine

This is going to be a very hydrated year.

The stories last a lifetime.

Elton John is always a good idea,

They will write about me for years to come.

I ran over a squirrel leaving my driveway,

It’s incredible to have that kind of freedom.

I know about the rut,

Cut me some slack.

How very Claude Monet of me:

I was the victim of a sneak attack.

As the New Kid in the Holler,

I’m not a gal who knows about cars.

Some things will always be in style

Sipping a girly drink in a painfully chic city bar.

I’m practicing my night vision by creeping around in the dark,

I have to walk before I run.

That’s something people don’t talk about

It’s the poop emojis and the snack puns.

You win some and you lose some,

I’m an indoor cat all the way.

As a 23-year-old I still have frizzy hair,

I feel like I’m an extra in Bambi On Broadway. 

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