And this week the ear worms are wearing Santa hats.
I do a lot of walking. I enjoy the fresh air. I enjoy the exercise. I enjoy not having to worry about finding a parking space.
What I don't enjoy is the sound track in my head, radio station WTFD (Why The F#$@ Did-I-Remember-That), playing non-stop drivel in the form of pop, rock, and folk. Since that is about the only music I have ever listened to, I can't really expect to hear arias, classic jazz or Handel's Messiah, now can I?
Last week's ear worm (All About That Bass) has been supplanted for the holidays not by Good King Wenceslas or even Weird Al's Christmas At Ground Zero, but by the Whiting's Egg Nog jingle, straight from the Vault of Really Old Crap from the 1950's embedded in my psyche.
When I listened to it on You Tube I was quite pleased to discover that in spite of it's age and mine, I had remembered the lyrics.
Cheer, cheer, cheer!
The holidays are here!
It's egg nog time!
Whitings' Egg Nog time!
The reason I remember must be that I heard it year after year after year. Seems quaint now, but companies used to repeat the same Xmas ads year after year after year. Even more quaint, the Xmas hoopla didn't start until the day after Thanksgiving.
But the egg nog jingle really seems a bit much. I don't have any fond memories of sitting around the family punch bowl, and I really hate egg nog, which has always seemed like a drink for people who want to hide their alcohol consumption in a cup of opaque glop. I guess the modern equivalent would be pouring a slug of vodka into the green sludge of a kale smoothie.
Every ear worm runs its course, even if it may recur, and I'm sure the egg nog will pass in time for New Year's, if not before, when it will probably morph into Blue Christmas or I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus. I'd like to put in a request for something with a better beat. In that case I'll be the old lady shimmy-shimmy-coco-bopping down to the Post Office, in sync with the music in my head.