You’ve had an early hell week this quarter, one haunted by tinny, whiny vocals, complex drum lines, and soaring synthesizers. You’ve memorized every guitar lick and pseudo-poetic lyric. You could’ve written the Mark Twain classic of the same name in the total time you’ve spent listening to “Tom Sawyer.” You’re tired of this prog-rock crock.
“It’s a joke,” your roommate says, rolling his eyes and leaning back in his office chair, “I’m ‘Rush’ing, get it?
” Oh you get it. all right, it’s a real fucking lark. Y’know, rush and RUSH. Like the frat thing, but it’s the band instead.
You recognize the pun, you’re not an idiot.
He could have spent the day listening to Rush Limbaugh; it would have been just as funny, less frustrating, too. Limbaugh doesn’t try to cram fifty goddamned snare drums into the studio. Limbaugh preaches, sure, but at least he has a voice for it, and he doesn’t feel the need to discuss ‘drinking the milk of paradise.
’ And there sure as hell isn’t anything “prog” about Rush Limbaugh.
Hell gave your roommate a bid last night, and he graciously accepted. The room is quiet; no Geddy Lee, no Neil Peart, no more Canadian bullshit, only peace and quiet. You drum your fingers on the desk.
Perhaps too quiet. ‘Rush’ appears in your search bar. Your speakers are on full blast.
Your head rocks back and forth.
There’s a knock at the door. “Turn that shit down!” the voice says. “Fuck you!” you shout back, “You don’t know shit! This song is a classic. Rush is the best band in human history.”
