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Godspeed, Kenny Chesney

It started like any other Monday on the ranch. I was minding my business, shoveling horse manure into a compact tractor’s loader, when, all of a sudden, I was transported to the center of a giant hedge maze. Some might call this abnormal occurrence a major inconvenience, but for me, anything was better than shoveling horse shit, so I gladly rolled with the change of scenery.

The hedges were viciously thorny and reached as high as the heavenly clouds above, making them impossible to scale. At first, I thought I was alone in the labyrinth. That’s when I heard the migraine-inducing strum of a banjo. It was coming from behind.

‘Who do I know who plays the banjo?’ I pondered. ‘I hope it’s Kermit the Frog. He seems like a good hang.’

I slowly turned towards the strumming, hoping to catch a glimpse of Kermit. Alas, it was country music superstar Kenny Chesney. Seeing Kenny stand before me sent my sympathetic nervous system into overdrive. Why, of all people, was he here? And why did he have a banjo?

‘Gawrsh darn, I ain’t never seen hedges this high!’ Kenny blabbered. ‘Golly gee whiz golly and a yeeeee-haaaaaw for good measure! I wish my cousin – aka my wife – were here to see this!’

His speech pattern was like a freight train without brakes barreling into the inner depths of hillbilly hell. As he babbled on, my heart rate escalated, and my muscles tensed. Suddenly, shoveling horse shit didn’t sound so bad.

Nearing the fight-or-flight threshold, I weighed my options.

Option One: Strangle Kenny and leave the maze on my own terms. Though tempting, the thought of having to face an angry mob of shit-faced, pitchfork-wielding Kenny Chesney fans kept me at bay.

Option Two: Run like hell in the opposite direction.

I chose Option Two.

I took off like a bat out of hell, swerving through the never-ending maze as Kenny pursued close behind with wolf-like stamina. Even mid-sprint, his blabbering continued. I could feel his cliched redneck anecdotes nipping at my heels.

After hours of running, I collapsed in exhaustion. A vigorous Kenny approached my hyperventilating ass, showing no signs of fatigue. He offered to play me a song he had written for his upcoming tour, titled Country Boy: A Very Chesney Kenny Chesney Tour #2026.

Too exhausted to flee, I sat helplessly as Kenny strummed his banjo. The song was titled ‘Country Boy,’ and the lyrics went a little something like this:

Got outta work, time to go fishin’
Grabbed a six-pack and some chew
Driving down a dirt road, it’s kinda bumpy
But that’s okay, cuz I drive a CHEVY SILVERADO
Just talked to the wife, who’s also the cousin
Convenient, no?
Don’t like the way I live?
Well, that’s too bad!
Cuz I’m a country boy
Ah-hyuck! Ah-hyuck-hyuck!
I’m a country boy
Ah-hyuck! Ah-hyuck-hyuck!

It felt as if life itself was being sucked out from within me. A tunnel of darkness began to overcome my surroundings. In the distance, a small, flickering light grew brighter and brighter with each passing lyric.

‘So, this is death,’ I lamented. ‘Oh well. At least I’ll finally be free from this hellhole.’

I relaxed my body for the sweet transition into freedom. Just as the light was about to engulf me, the tunnel of darkness collapsed, and reality rushed back into focus. The inescapable maze had been burnt to a crisp. All that remained of its lofty hedges were scattered ashes and charred soil.

Startled, I gazed up at Kenny, who helped me to my feet.

‘Mr. Chesney, what happened to the maze? Who set it aflame?’

‘I burnt the maze down, Torrey. By using the power of music.’

‘Mr. Chesney, that doesn’t make any sense. Music can’t produce fire.’

‘Ah, but country music can. You see, if you play country music loud enough, it can destroy things with fire.’

‘Wow,’ I marveled. ‘Hey, your voice isn’t all twangy anymore. What gives?’

‘I figured I’d drop the act and give your ears a break.’

‘Drop the act?’

‘Of course! ‘Kenny Chesney’ is just a persona I use to sell music. My real name is Bob Lewinsky, born and raised in Borough Park.’

‘So, your wife isn’t your cousin?’

Kenny chuckled.

‘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 music if you hate it?’

‘There’s a lot of inbreds in the world. They need someone to sing to them. Plus, it makes me tons of money.’

‘Word,’ I acknowledged.

Kenny straddled his banjo and levitated into the air.

‘Well, Torrey, I must be off. I have a tour to attend. Chesney AWAAAY!’

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

‘Godspeed, Kenny Chesney,’ I said with a smile.

ABOUT THE ARTIST

Torrey Kurtzner is an out-of-work writer and master of self-deprecation. Against the better judgment of his peers, he’s determined to pursue a career within the creative arts, even if it kills him. He’s on Instagram @atrulypatheticphotographer