MickeyThomas1977The Song: “I Fooled Around and Fell in Love.”
1975 tune by the otherwise respectable ElvinBishop (as sung by Mickey Thomas, the man who built a city on rock and roll, regrettably).

The Culprit.
I must have been through about a million girls.”

Crowing about one’s conquests is nothing new—Guillaume IX, the earliest troubadour whose work has survived, was a notorious seducer and deceiver of 11th century women—but even the most egregious lech usually confines himself to a dozen, perhaps a hundred. Hell, Casanova only made it to 146. But a million?  Come on, Mickey.

Let’s do the math.
Mickey was 26 when he sang this song: Assuming he started having sex at 16, that’s 100,000 women a year, 270 women a day, or a different woman every 5 minutes. That’s assuming he never sleeps and gets fed while he’s on the job, as it were (and let us not admit entry to the thought of defecatory patterns and how they may be performed in such a demanding regimen).

But the sheer unlikelihood of these numbers is just the beginning. When did he find time to record the song?  We can only assume he is crooning to us in coitu; God knows what his band is up to during all this, but one wonders if there might not have been trepidation at the mention of the guitarist’s ‘solo’.

Let’s face it, 5 minutes is pretty unspectacular even by the most premature of ejaculator’s modest standards. Furthermore, you’ve got to figure that at least some of that time is spent getting her in the mood, which brings us to another dilemma.

Here’s Mickey; sweating, covered in lipstick, hasn’t had time for a shower in years and with a number of suspicious looking buckets lurking around the bed, and she’s supposed to go from zero to 100 in 5 minutes? Please. Under such conditions it would take a woman hours to get to the finish line, if at all.

The only sane conclusion one can draw is that outside his room there is a long line of women fudding themselves in advance (this is based on the shaky premise that any of Mickey’s sordid and exhausting predilection is about their satisfaction).

Say you don’t know me, or recognize my face…
Since he’s essentially immobilized, he’s got to be in a city with at least a million women… say, every woman in a city the size of Chicago between the ages of 18 and dead. Mothers, daughters, aunts and sisters all lining up next to each other for this weirdo in his iniquitous den? I think not. Too creepy. Tres creepamondo, as the Frenchitalians say.

No, it would have to be a city large enough to prevent awkward familial contact in the queue, which really only leaves places like Beijing, Cairo and Karachi… not exactly hotbeds of liberal-minded sexual freedom, let alone the sort of perverted hijinks that Thomas is into.

What do the men of this megalopolis think about Mickey dipping his wickey in their womenfolk? One can easily imagine another line, comprised of muttering men with sleeves rolled up and murder on their minds. Mickey can’t hide from these outraged menfolk…even the most unobservant mouth-breather is going to have little trouble in following the hordes of women with their hands in their pants.

So, he must have a large security force on 24-hour patrol, liaising with police and other government bodies (besides those of the female civil servants) so that he might fulfill his extravagant boast. My question is this: At what cost to the taxpayer, Mr. Thomas?

What about her?
Presumably these women have jobs to go to, lives to conduct beyond this detour into inexplicable perversion. Is it a bizarre penance, a sexual jury duty one must endure if living in the vicinity of Mickey Thomas and his indefatigable John Thomas? Surely, though, once you knew the details of his squalid little transaction you’d wise up and hit the road for another, Thomas-less town?

So perhaps he’s bussing them in from other cities. This implies a level of sophistication and forethought that is both chilling and strangely plausible (provided one accepts the admittedly rickety premise that Mickey’s got any organisational ability whatsoever, having spent a decade in orgiastic mayhem).

Mickey, you blow my mind…
What does he do for money? How does he pay the rent, let alone what must be heroic outgoings on contraception and—one would hope—some form of professional cleaning service? The only logical conclusion is that the women are paying him to perpetrate—and perpetuate—his sleazy fetish.

It’s here we reach the outer limits of believability, especially when one considers what kind of guy they’re paying for. Five minutes with a filthy yeti (when is he gonna shave, I mean really?) after punching the squirrel in a long queue, with little prospect of satisfaction and the very real prospect of communicable disease. On top of this—not the happiest turn of phrase, admittedly—they have to pay him for the indisputably low honour of being #465,772.

Frankly, I don’t think Mickey is up to it. I don’t think any sane woman would be up for it, and therefore we can safely say: Lyricbusted!


freelance writer, Benjamin is also an audio engineer with 20 years of knob-twiddling experience. He harbors a deep affection for hyperbolic lyrics and has written more than his fair share of them over the years, alongside other curious species of wordsmithery.

Image: “MickeyThomas1977” by Carl Lender. Licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0 via Wikimedia Commons – http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:MickeyThomas1977.jpg#mediaviewer/File:MickeyThomas1977.jpg