Michael Buble is about two steps away from becoming my archnemesis.

Two of my roommates are going to see Michael Buble in concert in a few weeks, and I realized only this evening that I can't say his last name without laughing. Immature? Well, of course. Completely appropriate? Sort of.

This guy is the hottest ticket in town for the over sixty crowd (with the exception of my two roommates). And before I go on any further, I want to say right now that I have seen my roommates' iPods and I know that they have pretty good music taste - except for the Buble. I can't get behind this guys. I'm sorry.

So exactly who is the Buble? In short, the Buble rips off Frank Sinatra. The Buble appears in Starbucks commercials. The Buble is adored by millions of grandmas the world over. The Buble has the worst last name ever imagined. If the Buble was from Florida, he would be my archnemesis. Your Canadian birth saved you my friend. Otherwise, you would have been on the list, right behind General Electric.

And as I wrap up this post, I would like to end with a message to the Buble himself: I'm watching you Buble. You might be buttering up the grandparents of the world, but I've got my eyes on you. When the geriatrics rise up and attempt to take over with their slow walking, canes and prescription medicines, I'll still have my eyes on you. Nobody tries to sell me Starbucks via the television without raising my suspicions. NOBODY!