"Oh God," snarled Brigid. "Please. Seriously. Stop."
Greg frowned. "Now what?"
"Please. You, perfect in every way? Where do you come up with these things?"
"Neither am I a rambler, a gambler, and a long way from home," said Greg, "but that wouldn't stop me from singing about it. This may come as a surprise to you, my young prune, but I sing because I enjoy singing, not because I'm trying to send coded messages to the world."
"You don't really expect me to believe you enjoy singing bad country music, do you?"
"There's an interesting paradox there; what would you consider good country music?"
"Johnny Cash and Vaughn Monroe," Brigid said without hesitation.
"Oooh! Good choices. How about Buck Owens and Roy Clark?"
"Are you trying to make me shoot you?"
"I guess that's a 'no,' then. But however you may feel about Hee-Haw, Roy Clark has some pretty amazing guitar chops."
"Like I care about amazing guitar chops," said Brigid.
"Actually, 'The Amazing Guitar Chops' would be a good name for a ramblin' country band," Greg said.
"You are trying to make me shoot you," said Brigid. "I'm leaving before I get arrested."
Greg was singing "Momma Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys" before she reached her room.
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