Isaac Mumphries' Saddest Song

    I just cashed my biggest royalty check yet, and I'm on my way to the record store to see what kind of competition I'm up against.
    Now, I don't write funny songs, or as we call them in the business "novelty songs," but I thumb through the comedy section to see what's out there.
    I did write a novelty song once, a bluesy number called "Knock-Knock," which was as series of knock-knock jokes, ending with the loop:
Knock knock.
Who's there?
An interrupting cow.
An interrupting cow wh... Moo!!!
An interrupting cow wh... Moo!!!
An interrupting cow wh... Moo!!!

    And so on.  Then the tape slows down, and a computer voice comes in telling you that the song has crashed and that the listener should restart and try again.
    It's kind of hokey, but it's all good fun.
    But my colleagues at the Starlight Hits Studios apparently didn't know what parentheses meant, and at the end of the song, the vocalist sang the interrupting cow joke once, then sang:
Open parentheses.
Repeat Joke several times.
Tape slows down.
Computer voice says quote this song has crashed.
Any unsaved work has been lost.
Restart the disc and try again unquote.
Close parentheses.

    I know it's a novelty song, but some things in a song are sacred, and not pronouncing the punctuation marks is one of them.
    Needless to say, I never got royalties for that one.
    But "No More Morning Wood," my ballad of growing older, I'm really proud.  The recording is just perfect.  The extra fifty dollars for the guitar solo were definitely worth it.
    And if this 13 dollar royalty check was any indication, the public liked it too.
    And... ohmygod! It's in this very record store!
    But... whatthefuck? Why is it in the comedy section?

    I wake up with a pain in my head much like one that would be created by fainting and hitting my head on a record bin. A bandage is around my head, and the store's owner is snapping his fingers in my face to a rhythm not unlike the drum solo to "Wipeout."
    As soon as the guitar would have come back in, I stand and walk to the comedy section, grab my disc and say "what is this doing in the comedy section?"
    "Well it looks like one of those song-poems, which..."
    "This song is about the perils of growing older. Ouch" I grab the back of my head.
    "Would you like a Tylenol?"
    "Sure. But how can you belittle the human condition so much that you mock an old man's inability to... thanks" I try to swallow my Tylenol but gag.
    "I'm sorry if you feel the song is filed inappropriately. Would you like some water?"
    "Sure."
    "So I will give the CD a listen, and I will file the song appropriately," he hands me a bottle of water.
    "Thanks," I swallow the pill, "it should be under bluegrass, by the way."
    I leave the store wondering if he's really going to re-file the song.
    What I need is a way to find out where he puts the song without him knowing it's me. What I need is a good music-themed disguise.
    I head to the local punk rock bar.

    "Where can I get stuff to make my hair um, do that?" I ask the friendliest looking punk around.
    "Are you trying to be a fucking poser?"
    "Um... no."
    "Hey everyone, here's a poser!"
    "Boo!" says everyone in the bar.
    "He's probably a fucking narc," says one punk.
    "You're lucky pacifism is latest ideological trend on the scene right now," said the friendliest looking punk, "or else, I think I'd use these brass knuckles."
    Although he's much bigger than me, I figure, since he's a pacifist, I can kick him in the knee before I leave.
    Apparently, I was wrong.
    About 20 punks parade behind me yelling typical angry punk stuff as I walk to my car.
    When I get in my BMW, they encircle me in a human chain, and relax in my car seat, my hands behind my head, showing them they aren't bothering me in the least.
    This doesn't work, so I roll down my window and say "what do you want!"
    "Anarchy!" says the crowd.
    "When do we want it?" yells a random punk.
    "Now!"
    "If I bought you a case of beers, would you leave me alone," I ask.
    They agree that this would be satisfactory.
    A few links break in the human chain, and I drive off with no intention of honoring my offer.
    When I get home I shave my head and see how the ol' fake mustache still fits.
    It fits perfectly.

    The next day I call in sick to work and, in costume, I go down to the record shop.
    "Do you have 'No More Morning Wood' by Issac Mumphries?" I say in that British accent I haven't use since my theatre days in middle school.
    "Hahahaha. Oh that? It's in the country section."
    "Country?"
    "Yeah, some asshole came and... Oh, actually, we're out, someone bought it this morning."
    "Oh."
    "Geeze man, don't cry. Can I order you a new one?"
    "Oh, splendid."
    "It'll take a few days."
     "Thank you."
    He asks for my name and number.
    "Isaac... I mean, My name's Johannes Gutenberg."
    "Haha, really?"
    "Yes, 'tis an English Name, I'm English, you see, but I grew up here"
    "Get tired of people making fun of your accent, Eh?"
    "What?  Oh yes, of course. My non-British voice"
    I give him my number and leave.
    The next few days of waiting for the call are tough.
    I wake up in the middle of the night, sweating and swearing. I hear a voices. They tell me to be quiet.
    I also oddly misplace my driver's license.
    Then, I finally get the call.
    "We have 'No More Morning Wood.'"
    "Oh great. I'll be right down."
    I get to the record store and realize I don't have my mustache on.
    So I say in an Irish accent, "Oh blarney! It seems like I've wandered into something that's not a pub! Cheers!"
    I leave, run home, re-shave my head, slap on my mustache, and by the time I get to the store, I realize that I'm wearing the same clothes as the "Irishman." I run to a nearby construction area and roll around in the dirt.
    I'm resourceful when I need to be.
    I run into the record store, and the owner says "Rough day, Johannes?"
    "Oh yes, a tough day down at the construction, um... thing."
    "Site?
    "What?"
    "Nevermind."
    "So, old chum, do you have the Isaac Mumphries in stock.
    "Yes, we've actually got several orders of it coming in, it's become a bit off an odd local hit."
    "Really?!?"
    "Yeah it's truly funny shit.  Or maybe the local hipsters see something I don't.  After all, what do I really know about music?"
    "Funny?"
    "That'll be five dollars by the way?"
    "Might you take a check?"
    "Sure make it out to Pap's Vintage Records."
    I write the check. I think he sees my signature.
    "Wait a sec," he points his finger at me, "you're..."
    I grab my single and run out the store.
    While running home I realize there might have been a hint of irony in his rhetorical question "What do I really know about music?"
    He does own a music store.
    But who cares? I have a bit of an odd local hit, The royalties'll come rolling in like pigs into a slaughterhouse.
    
    But I wait for several weeks and no checks come in, not for that song at least.  But for some reason "Knock Knock" earned a few royalties, totaling at 35 cents.
    But my spirits are lifted when I hear "No More Morning Wood" on the local Clear Channel station.
    I call in to see how big I've made it.
    "The song's a bit of an odd local hit, especially in the punk scene." says the DJ. "I'd get fired if my bosses knew I was playing it, but It's my last day, so what the fuck, ya know?  It's one of those song-poems. Someone writes a poem and sends it to a studio, along with two or three hundred dollars, and the studio records the song. Don't know how a copy got out, I thought the studio only made one copy and sent it to the songwriter. It's truly funny shit though, you gotta admit.  Haha, I think I'll say 'shit' on the radio tonight. Asshole bosses."
    I can't believe it.  I hang up and run down the liquor store. Buy whiskey. Come home. Drink. Vomit. Wake up. Write an angry letter to the studio, detailing my history of sending them quality material. 
    Detailing how they scammed me.
    A month goes by and they don't respond to me.  The song also gets national play on Clear Channel, even though several words had to be censored, or "bleeped out" as we call it in the business.  And every one of the DJ's laughs at it, calling it "the best novelty songs in years" and praising my ability to sound so sincere while saying such "truly funny shit, I mean stuff."
    I write another angry letter, demanding royalties.
    Still, no response.
    A month later, however, I get a royalty check for "The Sad, Sad Songs of Isaac Mumphries," whatever that is, for much more money than any check before.
    What's happening?
    I go to the Pap's Vintage Records, and asked for a copy.
    "It's in the comedy section," says the store owner.
    I get the record and go to the desk.
    "Hey, you're Isaac Mumphries," he says, "Well, you know you're Isaac Mumphries, but, are you trying to be funny on that CD or are you, ya know..."
    "Fuck you, it's none of your business. Just give me my record, and I'll give you money."
    "Guess I know the answer to that question."
    He gives me my record and I give him money.
    I go home and listen to the CD. It starts of with that fucking knock knock song.  How can you start an album with a song suggesting that you restart the CD?
    The CD is full of my song-poems. My "novelty" hit, "No More Morning Wood," was the second song and the last song was "Isaac Mumphries' Saddest Song," Where they set my the two letters to Frank Sinatra-esque music and added the chorus:
This is my saddest song
It's nowhere near my baddest song
But I'm sure once I hear this song
It will be my lastest song

    And in the liner notes they tell the story of how "No More Morning Wood" became a hit. One of the pissed punks pick pocketed my driver's license, and did a quick internet search on my name and found out about  my songwriting career.
    Early the next day he found the single from a local record store, and shared it with his punk friends. One of his friends had a show on the local college station and all his DJ friends  made copies. Then the song became an underground local hit.
    After a freak occurrence of it getting on one of the local Clear Channel stations (the DJ was fired before his shift ended), the station got a lot of positive response, and it became a Clear Channel staple for a month or so.
    As soon as Starlight Hits Studios could get an album together, the indie label released a full length compilation of my songs, recording the new song based on my letters. Sony bought rights to the record and released the edition I bought.
    My phone ring.  It's Rolling Stone asking if they can do a story on me.
    "Fuck you it's none of your business."
    I hang up.
    I want to hurt people. Hurt people in the way they hurt me. I throw my table though the window.
    Apparently I want to hurt furniture, too.
    My wife comes in.  "Isaac, what has gotten into you?"
    "Everybody wants to laugh at me!!!"
    "You're really scaring me, Isacc."
    "Well, fuck you!  You know the only reason I married you is because I wanted to fuck a fat chick!"
    She slaps me and leaves the room.  I hear her say "come on, Joey, we're going on vacation.  Daddy's violent and hasn't gone to his job in three months."
    She and Joey pack up and slam the door.
    That didn't feel as good as I hoped it would.
   
    A week later, the royalty checks are bigger than ever, "my" record's gone gold, and the one and only quote I gave Rolling Stone is on the cover of the current issue, alongside a picture of me freaking out as I'm leaving Pap's Vintage Records. I'm summoned to court for divorce and a restraining order.  I don't really care that I couldn't make good case against either. I've hardly thought of my wife and Joey since that 13 dollar royalty check.
    But being in court did inspire me.  I could take them to court.  Sony, Rolling Stone, Starlight Hits Studios. All of them. I can sue every one of them.
    I call a lawyer and tell her my case. She pretends to not recognize my name. Says she'd make a few calls and less than an hour later calls me back.  She's read the contracts. Says I have no case.
    I list every possible way we might succeed. She shoots them all down. 
    "You can come get my copies of the contracts," she says, "take them to every lawyer in town.  They'll all say you have no case."
    I prove her right.
    Apparently my contract with Starlight says the studio was under no obligation to pay me, but Sony had to start paying me when they picked up the contract.
    The royalties Starlight had been paying me were just random amounts, designed to make me feel good about myself and keep the songs coming.
    Starlight's contract actually has a specific section saying I can't sue because of embarrassment.
    "All this was in Rolling Stone," says one smartass lawyer.
    "I guess it just sucks to be you," says another.
    I go down to the liquor store again. Drink. Vomit. Pass out. Drink. Vomit. Don't eat. Feel like a joke of a man. Drink. Ponder Suicide. Decide suicide would make the bastards who fucked me over richer. Vomit.
    "My" album has already gone gold, with my suicide it would go platinum, probably double platinum. A lot of sick fucks out there, and Rolling Stone would eat it up.
    But I'm not going to give them that. I may be a joke of a songwriter, But I'm no joke of a man.
    Well, right now I may be a joke of a man, what with quitting my job and scaring off my family over a collection of novelty songs. But I don't have to be. I have a college degree. I had my life together. I had a family, I had a six-figure job before that 13-dollar royalty check.
    I'm fucked now, but there's still time to start again.
    And just to spite the assholes at Starlight Hits, I write one more song. And it's damn good, beyond "novelty" good, way beyond "The Sad, Sad Songs of Isaac Mumphries."
    I mail it and 200 dollars to Starlight and wait for my career to redeem itself.