Trapped in a maze with arch nemesis Kenny Chesney, what will become of Torrey Kurtzner? Don’t care? Well, here it is anyway.

About the Artist:  Torrey Kurtzner (Undeclared, Class of 2018) writes mostly satirical humor pieces, inspired throughout his life by television shows like The Simpsons, Seinfeld and It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia.  In the future he would love to write comedic screenplays for movies, sketches or television shows.  One of his biggest dreams is to both write and adapt a sketch for Saturday Night Live (SNL).

Warning: This piece contains explicit content (swearing, satirical references to incest) and may not be suitable for all audiences.

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Godspeed Kenny Chesney

By Torrey Kurtzner

A few hours ago I was working on the farm, shoveling horse manure into a John Deere tractor. Then all of a sudden, through some miracle of science, I was transported into a hedge maze. Some might label this bizarre occurrence as a major inconvenience, but to me, anything was better than shoveling horse shit, so I gladly rolled with the change of location.

The hedges rose high into the hovering clouds above. Within these hedges were vicious thorns that appeared pointy, and would probably hurt quite a good bit if touched… I didn’t touch them though, so I’m merely assuming that they would hurt. I apologize for my brash assumptions.

At first, I believed to be alone in the maze. However, the migraine inducing strumming of a banjo told me otherwise. It was coming from behind. I thought to myself:

“Who do I know plays the banjo?”

Perhaps it was Kermit the Frog from the Muppet Show. I turned in slow motion, hoping to see Kermit, but my instincts dashed my hopes. Then again, if it weren’t Kermit the Frog, who else could it be?

Why, it was none other than country music inbred superstar, Kenny Chesney. I hate country music. Thus, I hate Kenny Chesney. His presence gave me an instant feeling of dread. Why was he here? And why did he have a banjo?

At this point, Kenny began to blabber something vile.

“Garsh darn, never seen hedges this high, golly gee whiz golly, yeeehaaaa, I wish my sister – AKA my wife – was here to see this!”

His speech pattern was like that of a freight train without brakes going into the inner depths of hillbilly Hell. If he were to continue any further, I knew I’d eventually go insane. Suddenly, shoveling horse shit didn’t sound so bad.

Frankly, I wanted to kill Kenny Chesney and leave the maze on my own terms. However, I knew in doing so, hundreds and thousands of loyal Kenny Chesney fans would come at me with their pitchforks as soon as I got out. I had to carry the responsibility of not snapping. But how on earth would we escape with our lives?

After hours of attempting to find an exit to the maze, I collapsed in frustration. Kenny could tell my spirits were down. He offered to play me a song he had written for his upcoming tour titled: Country Boy: A Very Chesney Kenny Chesney Tour #2015. Normally when offered the chance to listen to country music, I jump at the opportunity to abandon the situation, but today, I didn’t possess such strength. I sat helplessly as Kenny began to tune his banjo. The track was titled: “Country Boy,” and the starting lyrics went a little something like so:

Got outta work, time to go fishin’

Grabbed a six pack, and some crack

Driving down a dirt road, it’s kinda bumpy

But that’s ok, cuz I drive a Chevy Silverado

Just talked to the wife, also the sister

Convenient, no?

Don’t like the way I live? Well that’s Okay

Cuz I’m a country boy

It felt as if life itself was being sucked out from within me. Darkness began to overcome my surroundings. In the distance, I could see a small, flickering light get brighter and brighter as Kenny continued to play.

So this is death.

I convinced myself I was ready to be taken away from that hellhole of a maze, and relaxed my body for the sweet transition into freedom.

Just as I was about to be engulfed by the light, the world around me came rushing back into fruition. The maze that once surrounded Kenny Chesney and I had been terminated. All that remained of the hedges were scattered ashes of what once stood tall and proud.

I turned my attention to Kenny Chesney, who extended his hand to help me up from the ground. I was startled.

“Mr. Chesney, what happened to the maze? Who set it afire?”

“I burnt the maze down, Torrey. By using the power of country.”

“But Mr. Chesney, that doesn’t make any sense! Music can’t produce fire…”

“But country music can, Torrey. If you play loud enough, you can destroy things… with fire.”

“Wow. But hey wait, your voice isn’t all… twangy anymore. What gives?

“Kenny Chesney is just a persona I use to sell ‘music,’ Torrey. My real name is Bob Lewinsky.”

“So… your wife isn’t your sister?”

“No, Torrey. I’m not really an inbred. That’s just my target audience. In reality, I hate country music.”

“But Mr. Lewinsky, why write and perform country if you hate it?”

“There’s a lot of inbreds in the world, Torrey. They need someone to sing to them… Plus, it makes me a lot of money.”

There was a brief pause of silence between us.

“Well Torrey, I must be off. I have a tour to attend.”

Kenny then hopped on his banjo with a mannerism like that of a witch riding a broomstick.

“Chesney AWAY!” he screamed.

And with that, Kenny Chesney – AKA Bob Lewinsky – flew off into the clouds.

Godspeed, Kenny Chesney.
 
 
Copyright © 2015 Torrey Kurtzner All Rights Reserved.