I have on my iPod more than 1,900 songs. Wait a minute.

I’m not sure I worded that sentence correctly.

Should it have been, “I have more than 1,900 songs on my iPod”?

I suppose both are OK depending on what you want to modify.

Myself, I speak “redneck-ese.” I write that way and I talk that way because I’m not one of those hoity-toity uppity

stuffed-shirt know-italls who’s all about verbsubject agreement and enunciation. Well la-deda da.

I’m not a know-it-all. If you’ve read this column previously, you know this because of the numerous references to almost blowing myself up, setting myself on fire, getting run over by trucks and nearly being drowned in a horrible inflatable pool accident. And that’s not even counting the time I came close to gassing myself into the Promised Land trying to make my own catfish stink bait.

But even rednecks like music, mostly redneck kinds of music.

So the other day I began to ponder the music thing. How did music start? I have heard mention of David playing a liar and I’m wondering who called him a liar, and …

… What’s that, you say. Oh, it’s lyre spelled L-Y-R-E.

Sorry.

I figure there must have been some musical instruments even before the lyre (by the way, lyres were commonly made from turtle shells, which is a fun fact I thought I should share with you in case it ever comes up in Final Jeopardy) was invented.

My theory is that music actually started back in the caveman days and thus I must once again refer to our old friend Og The Friendly But Often Confused Caveman.

Imagine if you will a chilly cave on a frosty winter’s morn as a new day breaks on Og and his caveman cavemate, Ug. Og notices Ug hasn’t gotten up yet so he wanders over to see what the problem is with his likewisefriendly but-often-confused comrade. “Eeee-ohhh-agg-aggunh,” Og says, which literally translated means, “Wake up, you deadbeat caveman,” to which there was no response.

So Og pushed Ug with his hand ever so gently but Ug still did not wake up. Then Og fetched a stick and poked Ug in the ear because the only thing Ug hates worse than that is a Wet Willie, but Ug still did not move.

Then suddenly it occurred to Og that Ug was dead.

Poor Ug.

Poor Og. He was so upset because he really loved Ug and as he sat there in the cold, now-lonely cave, he began to recall the many good times the two of them had experienced together, like the time they entered that fermented berry juice-drinking contest and neither of them won but they laughed and slapped each other on the back as they stayed up all night projectile-vomiting. Or the week they went on spring break, which was pretty strange because they weren’t even in college. As a matter of fact, college hadn’t even been invented yet.

Ah, good times.

As Og sat there replaying the memories, his stick inadvertently struck Ug’s forehead and made a not-thatunpleasant rapping sound.

Curious, Og again lightly tapped Ug’s skull with the stick to see if it would make the same sound again, and it did.

So Og tried two, and then three, raps to Ug’s head again and noticed the sounds made in succession was a very melodious experience.

And thus music was invented and after Og shared his discovery with his fellow cavepeople, they began to chase each other around with sticks trying to strike each other in the head to enjoy the melodious sounds and since the women often couldn’t run as fast as the men, they would get caught right away. You know those cartoons you used to see of a caveman hitting a cavewoman over the head with a club and dragging her back to his cave to marry her? Well, that had nothing to do with romance. The reason the cavemen were dragging them back to their caves was so they could play their skulls with a stick like a xylophone.

And music eventually progressed to what it is today. And now we even have rap music, which is named after the original sound made that day when Og first struck Ug’s dead skull.

And that’s today’s history lesson, boys and girls. Take care of yourself and go easy on the fermented berry juice.

No turtles were harmed in the writing of this column.

Klonie Jordan (editor@gaffneyledger.com) is executive editor of The Gaffney Ledger.