Music has tremendous power over the emotions, not least of all love, and sometimes the right song can lead our hearts to unexpected places. This was certainly the case four times Mom and Dad fucked like wild animals because “Hey Ya!” came on in a commercial.
Our parents have never been very outwardly affectionate people. They’ll hold hands on a walk, sure, but otherwise, they’ve got that old New England Puritan in them. And yet—one afternoon, watching the Pats-Steelers game a few years back, something happened. The broadcast was on a commercial break, Dad had excused himself to the bathroom, and it could have been a day like any other until an ad for Dr. Scholl’s shoe inserts came on playing Outkast’s hit 2003 single “Hey Ya!”
Suddenly, Mom began to writhe uncontrollably, doubling over and clutching herself as though suffering a massive heart attack in her crotch. She panted heavily, eyes unfocused in a deep libidinal fugue, and from the bathroom, Dad bellowed “OH SHIT, IS THAT ‘HEY YA!?’” With a splintering crash, he tackled the door from its hinges, his senses too choked with lust to register pain, and seemed to be pulled penis-first toward Mom by some great invisible winch. He barreled pantsless to the sofa, erection batting aside obstacles like the cowcatcher of a runaway freight train, and when at last he and Mom collided, they fucked at the very limits of human survival.
Dad’s undulating pelvis made his body a perfect sine wave, slamming PLAP PLAP PLAP against Mom’s gelatinous thighs while paid actors danced to “Hey Ya!” on the TV to show how well Dr. Scholl’s inserts supported their arches. The air grew hot, then humid. It felt like a rainforest. Our parents snarled and hooted and knocked things over. A wave of destruction radiated out from their fuck like a kind of sexual Tunguska event. Finally, the commercial ended, and they passed out on the floor from exhaustion. They were fine after rehydrating, but the couch was soaked beyond recovery.
We were driving up to Vermont with just Dad a few weeks later, and despite our newfound concerns a commercial might play “Hey Ya!”, he turned on the radio to hear the traffic report. As if on cue, André 3000 counted off “One, two, three, uh!” at the top of an ad for Red Lobster. Dad’s eyes rolled back in his head, his horniness unmistakable, but for a fleeting moment, we held out hope that Mom’s absence might prevent the situation from escalating. Alas, a sudden revving from behind us shattered that delusion: Mom’s orange MINI Cooper was steadily gaining on our vehicle, with Mom inside fully naked and attempting to kick out the windshield. She must have been listening to the same station. She gestured emphatically at her pussy and mouthed “Hey Ya!” Dad nodded back at the rearview mirror, seeming to agree.
Dad’s upper lip curled back to expose his teeth as he inhaled sharply. Then he flipped on cruise control and shot up through the sunroof, eagerly casting his clothing overboard while powerful winds flung his scrotum this way and that. “ALRIGHT ALRIGHT ALRIGHT ALRIGHT,” he yelled, even though the ad wasn’t playing that part of the song and was instead listing special prices for several kinds of shrimp. He swan dived backward off the roof just as Mom knocked her windshield free, and all at once they were yet again fucking to ‘Hey Ya!’ like stray dogs berserk on amphetamines. “Hey Ya!” they grunted in unison, Dad’s ass rhythmically blaring the horn on every frenzied backstroke. “Hey Ya!” We managed to steer Dad’s now driverless Honda safely to the shoulder as our inhumanly horny parents sped off over the horizon, the Doppler effect pitching down their moans of “Hey Ya!” into a strange, low warble. They lived, though we still can’t imagine how.
You have to know what you’re looking for, but if you pause the movie right around the 1:49:34 mark, you can just barely spot Dad pile-driving Mom’s bare ass into the sidewalk because they walked past someone whose phone was playing an Oreos ad with “Hey Ya!” in it.
We were having a nice time at the zoo last week, and Dad suggested checking out the new zebra enclosure they’d just opened. When we got there, two of the zebras happened to be mounted and having sex. Mom turned beet red and stared at the ground, while Dad mumbled “Oh gosh” and made a big show of holding a hand in front of his eyes. They were just deciding whether they should tell a staff member what was happening when a TV in the gift shop behind us played a Toyota commercial featuring the chorus of “Hey Ya!”
Our reserved, soft-spoken parents vanished. In their place, two living avatars of carnal desire threw themselves at each other’s genitals with such force that they formed a sort of human wheel that tumbled around the pavilion as if in crude parody of the Toyotas elegantly gliding around onscreen. They came to a stop at the zebra enclosure’s fence, which Mom excitedly braced up against for support. The zebras looked over at our parents, watching Dad clap Mom’s cheeks so rapidly that an observer could only perceive stuttering frames of motion amid the blur. It sounded like a round of applause at a Yo-Yo Ma concert. The male zebra dismounted and hung his head. The lady zebra threw up some grass. Their disgust was palpable. Somehow, our parents had managed to fuck so nasty that they taught these actual wild animals shame.
A zookeeper came out to tranq them so they wouldn’t upset the zebras any further, but he was surprisingly understanding about the whole thing. He said he honestly thought “Hey Ya!” was a pretty sexy song himself, and as much as we wish Mom and Dad could control themselves better when it comes on in a commercial, it’s not like we can really disagree.
