For some reason, G and I have started listening to country music. Now, we don’t normally listen to country music—we’re poseurs. We’ve been listening to a lot of Johnny Cash but… well… it’s not really Johnny Cash. It’s Joaquin Phoenix posing as Johnny Cash. It’s completely pathetic, and I’m sure many diehard Cash fans would cringe just hearing it.

We also bought the latest Dixie Chicks CD… maybe more as a show of support than because we’re their #1 fans. We’re by no means political activists, but in my opinion, they deserve some support. I’ll do my small part. Whether you agree with them or not—the uproar was ridiculous.

The twins love listening to our latest country-phase-induced tunes. In the car, they make repeated requests for ‘Johnny Cash’ or Dixie Chicks. They know almost all of the words to Walk the Line, Ring of Fire, It Ain’t Me Babe, Jackson, and Not Ready to Make Nice.

Now, that alone just cracks us up. However, The Bean also emphasizes the lines that we should probably be censoring from her. I’m not talking about “Because you’re mine, I walk the line” (although she does sing that very well). Nope. She is starting to learn the lines for Folsom Prison Blues. However, she is drawn to the following two lines and when we get to this part, she calmly belts it out and then fades away to listen to the rest of the song:

“…But I shot a man in Reno
Just to watch him die.”

Oh shit.

She also sings with much conviction along with the Dixie Chicks:

“…SHUT up and sing or my life will be o-verrrr…”

Seriously. Too cute. But yes, I know—I better turn it off before they start understanding what they are saying. Still… is it wrong that I’m totally amused?

All in all, it makes for some immature entertainment around here (when I say immature, I mean G’s and my own). Their act is great for both friends and strangers alike and in heavy rotation when anyone dares step within a 20 foot radius of us. Tune up the banjo, Buddy! Get out that fiddle, Bean! Yee-haw!

And yet… I must add: no matter how hard I’m laughing, if you ever catch me forgetting underwear under my 3″ skirt, with a Marlboro Menthol (Gawd) dangling from my mouth, wearing severely horrendous bleached hair extensions, and driving around with my toddlers in my lap, I give you permission to throw my ass over to Child Services. …Or, better yet, Matt Lauer. “Glib… meet Country. Country, this here is Glib.”

After all, I’m Poseur-Country, not Britney-Country, darling.