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They’ll only answer more, more, more.

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If there’s anything all of us amateur critics and standup comics on the interwebs like to do, it’s pick stuff apart for a quick laugh.

In the past month or so, I’ve randomly happened to see two people — one on a blog, the other on Twitter — call out Bruce Springsteen for a daft lyrical moment in one of his obscure early songs.

(The song, “Incident on 57th Street,” includes the lyric, “Puerto Rican Jane / Oh, won’t you tell me, what’s your name?”  To which the Internet responds as one: “Dude. Her name’s Jane. You just said so.”)

In another example, I recently saw someone or other on Twitter play off the Bee Gees’ “Stayin’ Alive” by observing: “What fun is it being a woman’s man if you have no time to talk?”

And then there are those Twitter trending topics in which people come up with silly, not-quite-right variations on familiar pop culture themes — like #lessimpressivesongtitles or something like that. (Example: “Slim Majority of Americans Were Kung Fu Fighting.”)

You get the idea — and I’ve done it as often as anyone else has. Sometimes it’s funny. Sometimes, when every single person on the ‘Net goes picking through well-trodden pop culture for a gag line, it gets a little old.

That makes it refreshing on those rare occasions when you run into something that’s truly bloggerproof.

I heard Creedence’s “Fortunate Son” the other day in some public place or other, and was struck by the following verse, transcribed from memory and thus more or less accurately:

“Some folks are born, silver spoon in hand

Lord, don’t they help themselves

But when the taxman come to the door

Lord, the house look-a like a rummage sale, yes.”

If those lines had appeared in some current pop song, the million voices of blogland would rise up as one to point out:

  1. The proverbial silver birth-spoon is found in the mouth, not in the hand.
  2. The taxman doesn’t come to the door. That’s the census guy. (Or maybe the postman. He rings twice.)
  3. “Themselves” and “rummage sale” don’t rhyme, not even in John Fogerty’s self-created East-Bay-meets-Gulf-Coast drawl.

But nobody gets all catty-picky about “Fortunate Son.”

Why? Because it’s a tour de force. It roars like a hurricane, and is equally as impervious to correction or redirection. It blows the trivial and the picayune into the ditch.

It is, in short, bloggerproof.

The world needs more of that, I think.

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