10:02 a.m. - May 02, 2007
I used to think I was pretty good at song lyrics.
Sure, when I was a kid, I garbled some lyrics by the Stylistics (“You’ll never get to heaven if you wreck my car.”) and England Dan and John Ford Coley (“I’m not talkin’ about your living/and I don’t want to change your life/but there’s a warm wind aglow and the stars are round…”) but I successfully deciphered the Murmur album’s lyrics as best as any mortal could have done. I don’t even think Michael Stipe knows all the words, but I did, at one point.
However, Moose, my main man, set me straight when we were roomies on a few lyrics. But there was one song that we thought we had it. Now, sure, we may have been addled when we started to like this song by the Kentucky Headhunters. I think our motto was “Anything but Garth Brooks, PLEASE” when someone played the jukebox at the Scoreboard or Silver Dollar.
The song was “Dumas Walker”, and for YEARS, I was sure that it was “slawburger, fries and a bottle of skeet.”
I was so sure that I was right, that instead of Googling for the lyrics, I was trying to figure out what ‘skeet’ was. Perhaps that was redneck slang for a type of beer or another beverage that I was unaware of, but I was SURE the lyric was “skeet.”
Yesterday, I was cruising around Deadspin and there was a story about PacMan Jones and how he is appealing his year long suspension from the NFL. In the discussion thread, there were comments on how PacMan “made it rain”, which was a term that I had not heard before this incident (yes, I’m rural and un-hip, is that so wrong??) and then they mentioned ‘skeet’ in an urban hip-hop vernacular.
Well, that brought the song “Dumas Walker” back into my noggin, but first, I went to the urban dictionary to find out what ‘skeet’ meant in that context.
You don’t want to know. Please, don’t go there.
Needless to say, I started to question my take on the lyrics to that Kentucky Headhunters song.
So I did what I should have done earlier and Googled the lyrics.
It’s not “bottle of skeet” (which really, well, um, with what I know now, that’s a different twist on it, for sure) it was…
“Bottle of SKI”.
Ok, what the holy hell is a “bottle of Ski”?
Back to Google.
And I found it.
There used to be some grocery stores in this town that had a lot of the ‘off brand’ sodas instead of Coke and Pepsi. That’s where you’d find your cans of RC Cola (Moose’s favorite) and Double Cola.
See, I remember seeing Double Cola, but I never had Double Cola. I’m a Coke man, and also Dr. Pepper and Mountain Dew, along with the occasional glass of Sprite, 7UP, Sunkist, Grape Crush, and especially Squirt (or Wink, the Canada Dry equivalent of Squirt).
It seems that Ski is the Mountain Dew equivalent for the Double Cola line o’ sodas.
Double Cola is most noted in the South, since it originated in Chattanooga, so it makes sense that someone near the Kentucky / Tennessee border would know about it.
Of course, I mentioned something (jokingly) about ‘neck soda to Moose, and he got all in my face about how Indiana is always making Kentucky jokes when we’re as ‘neck as they are.
Yeah, point taken. Ouch. The truth hurts.
Anywho, in looking for Ski, I found the official website of Double Cola.
Ay-yay-yay! It’s enough to make my head hurt.
Animation! Colors! Fonts! All SCREAMING AT YOU! BUY THIS SODA YOUNGSTERS! WE ARE HIP AND FUN! OUR FONT LOOKS LIKE A 10-YEAR OLD WROTE IT! THAT’S EDGY….
But you see? How is THAT supposed to make ME want to drink Ski or Double Cola?
However, it may have worked, because now I’m going to scour the soda that’s across the aisle from the Coke and see what all they have in there. I may even make a trip to County Market instead of Kroger just to see if they HAVE Ski.
Damn you, annoying website for wanting me to try this soda even more, even though I’m no where near the target demo for such shenanigans. Stay off of my lawn!
For those of you playing the SmedIndy home game, I’ve hit on music, song lyrics, life in BFE land in the 80s and 90s, self-deprecation, sports, urban vernacular, rednecks, web design, grocery stores, advertising, and old-man jokes.
It’s a Smed-fecta!