I was reading Pirate Monkey Zombie's Narnia post today. It prompted me to recall a deep-seated, long-standing hatred of Tweety Bird.

Now, a normal person might wonder about me. Why a grown woman cares enough to loathe a cartoon bird, for instance. Or, what the hell does Narnia have to do with Tweety Bird? Or, perhaps, "Looney Tunes" pretty much sums up this lady. As usual, I don't give a shit what normal people think. I hate that smug, pampered, baby-talking little yellow bastard and I don't care who knows it.

He's a spoiled little troublemaker. He reminds me of those Eddie Haskell-type kids who used to cause trouble in school, then tattle on his schoolmates with wide, innocent eyes. "Look what the bad widdle kids are doing, Mrs. Schultz," he might say, after throwing erasers across the room and starting a brawl. "I twied to stop them, but they don't want to listen to me. I'm too wholesome, and it makes them angwy."

If it were up to me, Sylvester would get the chance to catch that bratty bird, pull his feathers out, roll him around in lemon juice and Kosher salt, then roast him with a sprig of rosemary stuffed up his ass.

The good news is, when I Googled "I Hate Tweety Bird," I found a soulmate out in the blogging universe. Not only does she hate Tweety Bird, she eloquently sums up my distaste for "Freedom Rock." (Sorry, B.A. You and I just don't like the same music. I still love you and think you're the cat's pajamas.)

I got shivers when I read this, as if someone had reached into my head and formed the clay of my ideas about Classic Rock into a beautiful masterpiece of sculpture:

"It sounds dirty and sweaty and skinny. Clumps of hair stuck together, twined around the neck of a guitar. Long, dirty fingernails flipping through a roll of ones, looking for that one five he knew he had around here somewhere. Girls in tiny shorts with their asses hanging out the back climbing into the back of a truck, pulling a joint out of their bikini tops and then leaning back to fix her spiral perm before Lance goes whipping around the neighborhood so fast she chokes on her gum again.

In my head classic rock has become the anthem of bad stepdads and deadbeat fathers. It's the sound of, 'Are you gonna come down here and say hello to your child or do I have to call the cops again?' It makes me feel like I'm trapped in a Wal-Mart in Mississippi, and I've got to pick between the grey acid-washed peg-legged jeans and the bleach-spotted denim mini-skirt with high top sneakers and pink socks."

God, that's awesome. I think I'm going to cry.