I’ll See Your Milky Cocoa Puff and Raise You a Badonkadonk

I’ve never considered myself a country music fan, but living with and driving with my wife has afforded me the opportunity to expand my musical horizons.

The day before yesterday we discovered a song which is as irresistible as “My Humps” but has a better riff and much, much worse lyrics.

This song is Trace Adkins’ grindy, crunchy, driving “Honky Tonk Badonkadonk”

First we didn’t know the hell he was saying and then it became clear: badonkadonk.

What in the name of sweet Jesus is a badonkadonk?

It turns out the internet has an answer to this question like so many others.

According to Zillapedia!, a badonkadonk is either
a skinny girl/women with a big butt
or
butt, bottom, rear-end, buttocks

So here’s a small taste of the lyrics:

“… Now Honey, you can't blame her
For what her mama gave her
You ain't gotta hate her
For workin' that money-maker
Band shuts down at two
But we're hangin' out till three
We hate to see her go
But love to watch her leave
With that honky tonk badonkadonk
Keepin' perfect rhythm
Make ya wanna swing along
Got it goin' on
Like Donkey Kong
And whoo-wee
Shut my mouth, slap your grandma
There outta be a law
Get the Sheriff on the phone
Lord have mercy, how's she even get them britches on
With that honky tonk badonkadonk…”

Okay, this guy went to the same lyric writing school as Lenny Kravitz.

Witness a snippet from “Are You Gonna Go My Way”

“…I don't know why we always cry
This we must leave and get undone
We must engage and rearrange
And turn this planet back to one
So tell me why we got to die
And kill each other one by one
We've got to hug and rub-a-dub
We've got to dance and be in love

But what I really want to know is
Are you gonna go my way?
And I got to got to know…”

Two things:

1) If the girl with the big butt in Adkins’ masterpiece has got it goin’ on, well that’s just fine. But I’ve never considered Donkey Kong all that attractive or sexually arousing. Perhaps it’s because I’ve never lived in the south.

2) I agree with Mr. Kravitz, Helen Willis’ son, that we shouldn’t be killing each other and that the energies spent in violence would better be directed toward love. That being said, “rub-a-dub” in my mind leads to the inevitable “three men in a tub,” which (although there’s nothing wrong with that) is not my personal idea of sexually arousing either.

What these songs have done, and I wouldn’t have guessed it, is increase my interest in Karaoke.

No, I don’t want to hear amateur singers belt out these craptacular lyrics, rather I wish to hear the songs WITHOUT lyrics.

Oh and if Trace tries to slap my grandma, I think he might have difficulty getting his own britches on with my boot up his badonkadonk.

But that’s just me.