The pay sucked and I had a frightening suspicion that my boss had it in for me. I’d recently quite my job as a carpenter. “Well, you see, it was some time in the early or mid seventies when I left Chicago for a joy ride. He bent toward me and whispered, in an almost conspiratorial tone. He took a look to the left…then he took a look to the right…making sure no one would be able to hear him. “Well…uh…I suppose that IS a pretty good reason to show no love for the Piano Man. I mean, I can tell you exactly why I hate Billy Joel in five short words: ‘We Didn’t Start the Fire’. You’ve piqued my curiosity now, and I don’t intend to let you leave until you’ve spilled the beans. But there has to be a crazy explanation behind such malevolence. “It’s no big deal! I don’t think anyone here cares all that much. He turned to walk away, but I grabbed him by the sleeve of his jacket, pulling him back towards me before he had a chance to get even three steps. He shuffled and shirked, then tried to change the subject. When I asked him why he detested that particular band so much, he was hesitant with a reply. More than a Macintosh devotee hates a PC. More than a cook at McDonalds hates his job. One evening, while enjoying the company and hospitality of friends, I was introduced to an old man who claimed to loathe ZZ Top with a passion unrivaled.
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