I was taking a stroll along a pleasnt forest path and heard a steady "tap tap tap" coming from underneath large, flat rock near the base of an old ash tree.

I looked all around the rock, but couldn't find the source of the sound.

Conditioned as I am from such rambles with my sons, whose interest in wildlife echoes that of my own childhood, I bent down and lifted one end of the rock, hoping to catch a glimpse of some exotic creature or another: perhaps a delicate ring-necked snake, or a plasticky-looking red eft.

The rock came loose without too much effort and teetered on its broadest edge, but before I could let it flip to one side, I recoiled in horror: There, amid the millipedes and ant larvae, was Art Dudley, hunched over an old Underwood, typing a list of all the kinds of music he hates or finds offensive.

He hissed and spit so violently that his eyes bulged from their sockets, as spittle whipped from the ends of his repulsively long, red tongue. Though it was clear he was angry to see me, I couldn't tell if he was more vexed at being uncovered, or by the fact that he was caught under a rock so similar to the audiophile rock he had turned over in January, 2009.

He looked up at me and shook his tiny fist in rage, opining, "I hate satirical country music!"

I told him that Big and Rich had been doing it for years....and gently picked him up by the scruff of his neck and took him over to the "78 RPM Fanciers' Rock" and placed him underneath so he'd have some company.

May God forgive me.

Art has now officially joined the "under-the-rock" crowd.

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Happens to the best of 'em, Art.