It's Not Phair

There’s some beer commercial (Heineken, maybe?) that features that song by The Pussycat Dolls in which they ask, “Don’t you wish your girlfriend was hot like me?”
Technically, because it’s  the speculative subjunctive, that should be “were” rather than “was,” and further, it should be “I” rather than “me,” but even so, we know what the Dolls (Or is that Pussycats?) are asking, and, naturally, my answer is, “Yes.  Yes I do.”
Of course, that wish only comes after first wishing that my girlfriend existed.
But the point is, Heineken sucks.
Or something.
A while back I made a couple of references to how several of my idle brain cycles were devoted to thinking about banging Liz Phair, usually because that was preferable to thinking about the vi editor in Unix.
In any case, you may have wondered, “Why Liz Phair?”
There wasn’t any particular reason, other than that Liz is an attractive woman (who seems to have gotten hotter with the release of her latest album than she was when she released the previous one), and I suppose I had been listening to an inordinate amount of her music at the time.
Usually there’s one woman – amongst many – who will more or less dominate “those” thoughts for a while before being replaced by someone else.
I know we’re straying into TMI territory here, but I will mention that several women have occupied that position since my thoughts moved past Liz (since I saw her in the parking lot looking especially good last week, Daniela, the sales agent for my condo complex, has loomed rather largely in my thoughts).
All that aside, there was something that I’ve been meaning to say about the whole Liz Phair thing, which I’m finally getting around to doing.
While the reasons are myriad, and most of them are obvious, while listening to one of my favorite Liz Phair songs one day it occurred to me that the lyrics explained in great detail why such a thing – me banging her – could never happen anywhere outside of my mind, and I decided that I should share those lyrics with you, as I thought it only appropriate to explain to you in song why I will never get to bang this hot musician.
The song?  Supernova from her album Whip Smart.
I’ll present you with the lyrics in italics and provide my analysis of how they explain why no banging will occur in parentheses.
Enjoy.

I have looked all over the place, but you have got my favorite face
(I must have been absent when she got around to looking in the UP, which is where I was living when she wrote this song.  Not that it would have mattered, as I may have still been married at the time.  Of course, I doubt that I would have had her favorite face, as I obviously didn’t even have my [ex]wife’s favorite face.  I did have a friend who, when drunk, would squeeze my cheeks and say, “I love this face!” but, while that was an affectionate gesture of sorts, it really had more to do with her being dead drunk than any real appreciation of my face, especially given that she was usually sucking on someone else’s.  So, my point:  I’ve never had anyone’s favorite face and am therefore out of the running right off the bat.)
Your eyelashes sparkle like gilded grass
(My eyelashes generally don’t sparkle, and usually have crud caught in them, making them more like clods of dirt than grass.)
And your lips are sweet and slippery like a cherub’s bare wet ass
(Dry and chapped like grandma’s rough, leathery elbows would probably be a more accurate assessment, but honestly, I wouldn’t really want my lips compared to anyone’s ass, cherub or not.  As an aside, first time I heard this song it sounded like she said “sheriff’s.”  True story.)

Chorus:
‘Cause you’re a human supernova
(I live in Northern Virginia, which people often call “NoVA,” but I don’t think that counts.)
A solar superman
(Superman’s powers are based on the sun, making him solar, but I don’t have any powers.  And the fact that I know that about Superman makes me a nerd which, again, puts me out of the running.)
You’re an angel with wings of fire
(Continuing the nerd theme, Peter David’s version of Supergirl actually had wings of fire and was what was called an “Earth Angel.”)
A flying giant friction blast
(I don’t even know what this means, but knowing Liz, it’s probably dirty.)
You’re a  giant flying friction blast
(Doesn’t matter how many times you repeat it Liz; I still don’t get it.)

You walk in clouds of glitter and the sun reflects your eyes
(*Cough*  *Cough*  Stupid glitter.  And the last time I checked the sun wasn’t hazel and it didn’t suffer from lazy eye.  It might wear contacts, though.)
And every time the wind blows I can smell you in the sky
(I just picture her scrunching up her nose and fanning the air away from her face with her hand.)
Your kisses are as wicked as an M-16
(Well, the way women avoid them you would think that my kisses actually are deadly.  By the way, some lyrics sites say “F-16.”  The deadly weapon gag works either way, but it sounds like an “M” to me.)
And you fuck like a volcano and you’re everything to me
(Unless she’s talking about my tendency to spew hot ash and noxious gases, I don’t think this applies.  Still, I’m willing to bet that a virgin sacrifice would appease me.  Also, I’m nothing to her, and, as this song shows, could never be anything more than that.)

Chorus 2x


And there you have it:  why I will never bang Liz Phair, spelled out in detail.
There are plenty of other songs that illustrate the point equally well, but I thought Supernova was the best choice.
I do think that Support System, which is one of many that demonstrate her fondness for “bad boys” would have been a good choice, especially with lines like

This is such a stupid pictureWrap me in a steakWhy don't you throw me in the panther cageAnd maybe then I'll like you better

Which is something that I wouldn’t do, because even if it did make her like me, there’s a good chance that she’d be killed, which would still keep me from banging her (Or would it?  Ugh, sorry, couldn’t resist.), or at the very least land me in prison for attempted murder.
It wouldn’t work anyway:  she sums it up with a “No way!”
And of course there are frequent references in songs such as 6’1” to that thing which I am most decidedly not, which is to say tall.
Yes, I did put way too much thought into this bit of pointlessness, but if you know me at all, you know that’s what I do.
You also know that’s all for laughs, even if I am the sad clown who’s smiling on the outside and crying on the inside.  Oh, wait; I never smile.
Crying on the inside, though, that I do plenty of.
(This is the part where you go, “Awww, poor Jon,” and feel really bad for me.)
…
Come on, feel bad for me, dammit!
Fine, don’t feel bad for me.  See if I care.
…
Did it work?  No?  Come on; it was reverse psychology!
I tell you not to feel bad for me, which makes you feel bad for me.  Don’t you know how this is supposed to work?
*Sigh*  Whatever.  
Bet none of you will ever bang Liz Phair either.  After all, I’ll bet that not a damn one of you knows what a flying giant friction blast is.