Cry Me A River...

My nephew is an international musical superstar. I would reveal his name but out of fear of my being kidnapped and held for ransom, it’s just not safe for me to do so.

Sadly, I’m unsure of just how much of his many millions he would part with to save me anyway. 

Enough for some vending machine snacks but probably not enough for the bad guys to drop me off back home other than in a rolled up oriental rug.

But it was great to have a discussion with such a music “insider”. He asked: “Who cries more, Garth Brooks or Vince Gill?

Apparently both have a designated “crying time” clause in their contracts, allotting water-works for every interview and all spoken time onstage.

As they approach the later stages of their respective careers, the buzz is that they plan to branch out with a joint venture of their own, a service company.

“Cry Me a River” provides grief or joy facilitators for a wide variety of events. Professional criers enhance the experience at weddings and funerals, retirement parties and homecomings. From “Dad’s got cancer of the gizzard and only hours to live, to Betty Jo’s new baby looks fairly normal!” These facilitators can cry in a heartbeat…out of sorrow or joy.

Pricing is the same either way.

It’s an all-male company based on the belief in this country that men don’t cry. The thinking is that something must really be serious if a man in the crowd is sobbing uncontrollably. Others join in automatically.

Crying is contagious.

It’s like one person barfing in a group, the people around him look at it, think about it, smell it, and barf uncontrollably. Everyone joins in, floors get slippery.

That’s an additional service offered by the boys from Nashville.

Projectile vomiting on demand is a great way to clear a room... or maybe a Trump rally.

Then everyone can have a nice cathartic cry afterward.