Excuses are like martinis. There are lots of them — maybe too many. Some are good, some are bad, some are sweet, some are sour and there is always one for every occasion. But you never need an excuse to sip a martini.

A 25-year-old woman came up with an excuse that is worse than ordering a cocktail at a place that has Rubinoff on its top shelf. She dropped out of school, quit her job as a bank customer service rep and was no longer able to attend church because of (drum roll please ... ) Sean Paul. Yes, the rapping reggae artist who butchers the English language worse than President Bush, “We Be Burnin” anyone?

Whenever she was at the club and his dance hit “Temperature” came over the speakers, it would trigger a seizure. Funny, it’s only Sean Paul’s songs.

So why did this woman have to quit school and her job? Was she taking a class on the social impact of reggaeton in post-modern America? And even after spending 45 minutes waiting in a bank line every Friday afternoon, I have never once heard the soft Muzak bust into the beat of “Dutty Rock”.

This woman also had to give up her spot in the church choir due to Sean Paul. What church is that? I would love to ask Jesus to “jus gimme the light and pass the dro. Bust another bokkle of moe.”

I think this woman’s problem is that she was listening to Sean Paul in the first place or maybe she had one too many tinis in her day. That is not a jab, it could be true. Using the most important tool I learned for the $50,000 I spent on college, I Googled seizure triggers. In .0179 seconds I discovered that binge drinking can cause seizures. It can also result in a post last call McDonald’s feast that would put David Hasselhoff to shame and feelings of terrible regret when someone named “Hottie-Boom-Buddy” calls your cell the following afternoon. I think I would rather have the seizure.

I am not insensitive to people with an illness. I understand the plight of those who suffer from musicogenic epilepsy, yes that is the diagnosis. Music is dangerous — it can cause all kinds of maladies. Anytime I hear Akon’s “Don’t Matter,” I writhe in pain on the floor wishing someone would put me out of my misery. The last time I heard someone sing Rihanna’s “Umbrella” at karaoke, I asked them how people treat people with Tourette’s. I almost ended up in the emergency room that night. I blame Flo Rida and T-Pain for my migraine since I can’t get “She had them Apple Bottom jeans. Boots with the fur,” out of my head.

What is my cure? A dirty martini, no vermouth, splash of olive juice and extra olives. No doctors involved.

Send everything but excuses to lowellita@lowellsun.com.