Today's print version of the Midland Reporter-Telegram contained an AP article by Rachel Kipp titled "Researcher finds people worldwide share this: songs that get stuck in your brain". It's not available at the MRT online site, but here's a link to the article at another online source: Link. That one is titled "Killer earworm! You can't hide ...", but it's the same Associated Press article:
Unexpected and insidious, the earworm slinks its way into the brain and refuses to leave. Symptoms vary, although high levels of annoyance and frustration are common. There are numerous potential treatments, but no cure.
We've all probably experienced this. A co-worker once politely pointed out to me that the song I had been whistling all morning was the song from The Wizard of Oz titled "If I Only Had a Brain". Thanks. I was cured. (Oh drat. It's started up again!)
Actually, there's another cure, and that is to pass it on to someone else. Mark Twain wrote about this phenomenon in an article titled Punch, Brothers, Punch. Hit the link to read the whole thing, if you dare. It's a scary first hand account in which Mr. Twain tells of reading a short rhythmic verse that got into his head and would not give him peace. At the brink of insanity, he encountered a minister friend who wanted to help him. So, the minister had Mr. Twain recite the lines. The minister repeated them a few times until he could recite them without mistake.
The next time and the next he got them right. Now a great burden seemed to tumble from my shoulders. That torturing jingle departed out of my brain, and a grateful sense of rest and peace descended upon me. I was light-hearted enough to sing; and I did sing for half an hour, straight along, as we went jogging homeward. Then my freed tongue found blessed speech again, and the pent talk of many a weary hour began to gush and flow. It flowed on and on, joyously, jubilantly, until the fountain was empty and dry. As I wrung my friend's hand at parting, I said, --
"Haven't we had a royal good time! But now I remember, you haven't said a word for two hours. Come, come, out with something!"
The Rev. Mr. ------ turned a lack-lustre eye upon me, drew a deep sigh, and said, without animation, without apparent consciousness, --
Well, you get the picture. Mr. Twain was cured, but the Reverend was now afflicted, and it caused the poor man much grief. But, Mr. Twain was finally able to cure him:
How did I finally save him from the asylum? I took him to a neighboring university and made him discharge the burden of his persecuting rhymes into the eager ears of the poor, unthinking students. How is it with them, now? The result is too sad to tell. Why did I write this article? It was for a worthy, even a noble, purpose. It was to warn you, reader, if you should come across those merciless rhymes, to avoid them -- avoid them as you would a pestilence!
This item would not be complete without a recitation of the rhyme that nearly drove them crazy, so here it is:
"Conductor, when you receive a fare,
Punch in the presence of the passenjare!
A blue trip slip for an eight-cent fare,
A buff trip slip for a six-cent fare,
A pink trip slip for a three-cent fare,
Punch in the presence of the passenjare!
CHORUS.
Punch, brothers! punch with care!
Punch in the presence of the passenjare!"
So, there you have it. The disease and the cure in one neat package. Whistle while you work!