Hey, bro. Let’s go to the bars tonight, maybe hit on some girls, pound beers, and listen to over-played pop music which society has told us to like.

When did the world get so fucking unoriginal?

So, I’m guzzling SoCo and lime shots at a local bar on Saturday when the deejay, a complete bozo with a shit-eating grin and an Abercrombie polo, announces he’ll be taking requests. Goddamnit, I say to no one in particular, grimacing as I realize the free Democratic vote has given us James Buchanan, Taylor Hicks, and laws against medical marijuana. Soon I’m berated with the same four pop songs no hard-drinking adult will ever be able to escape: “Thriller”, “Livin’ On A Prayer”, “Build Me Up Buttercup”, and “Ice Ice Baby.” Don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against those bazillion sellers, except “Livin’ On A Prayer” which is the shittiest song ever released by the shittiest band ever to sell a million records (including Great White), but I’m sick and tired of hearing them.

How did this happen? At what point did fifty million eighteen to twenty-nine year old alcoholics all get inseminated with an insatiable lusting for a mediocre Michael Jackson track? Naturally, I have a wild conspiracy theory lacking both plausibility and evidence.

I suspect there may have been a surreptitious get together around two thousand involving Carson Daly, J.K. Rowling, Dane Cook, and every other miserable asshole who has devoted his life to unleashing mediocrity upon this once proud home of Thomas Jefferson, John Lennon, and Andy Warhol, and this little meet-and-greet ended with all involved unanimously agreeing on a generic list of retro pop songs which every middle of the road wigger, hillbilly, slut, buffoon, bozo, johnny-come-lately, johnny-come-early, tramp, greaser, scallywag, and sorositute could derive an average amount of pleasure from hearing during the early morning hours post-Y2K, in this, the foul decade of our L. Ron Hubbard.

Scoff if you want, but I’m yet to hear anyone adequately explain how an entire generation suddenly decided those four cheeky melodies were above reproach. I initially suspected this epidemic on par with syphilis may have sprung out of man’s intense yearning for nostalgia while inebriated. This would, after all, make sense; so, I tried a little experiment. I asked the deejay to play “Lola” by The Kinks. His response? I don’t play that poppy shit. What about “Thriller?” Totally different. That’s a classic. Ohh. My mistake. I must have missed that handout lauding Vanilla Ice and giving the finger to Ray Davies.

Look: I like disposable pop music. A lot. Duran Duran, Modern English, The Monkees, Hanson, Christina Aguilera, Enrique Iglesias, The Temptations, Gloria Gaynor, I’ll get tipsy and belt out the lyrics. I’m not the guy asking for The Velvet Underground at Cheers. I’d much rather listen to The Foundations than Tupac. I love the fact deejays throw in tracks from yesteryear but for God’s sake, change up the fucking songs. There’s just no reason to play “Ice Ice Baby” more than once a month. I will give anyone a writing job right now who can plausibly explain to me why “Livin’ On A Prayer” deserves more airplay than Winger’s “Seventeen.” Anyone? That’s what I thought.

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