chicating

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“Do you have any reason why I shouldn’t be?”
Without thinking, and not intending it as a taunt, Bunk began to hum “Hey, Nineteen,” under his breath. He never knew what would make him get these songs in his head: he could just be reading, or hearing something from the chat shows his wife watched, and it could be lodged there for hours. Given that he was murder police, he supposed he could get stuck with something more toxic, but that only made the habit slightly less annoying.
“Bunk,” Jimmy said, in that serious tone that Bunk knew was the first sign his friend and partner had had more than a few too many. “I’ll forgive you anything. Except Boz Skaggs.”