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Fuck you, nu-metal. Fuck you, "modern rock." We're taking it back to when A&R agents got paid to watch David Yow knot up his weiner and I didn't know what a titty felt like.

Positive K: “I Got A Man”

This song engendered so much false bravado in my 10-year-old psyche. There I would be, in the privacy of my bedroom, this song playing back on a tape I had ordered from Columbia House not knowing that I’d actually have to, you know, eventually pay for it (Sorry, Mom), lip syncing this song and mean mugging the mirror. Having been moderately successful at getting girls to give me valentine’s up to that age, this felt like the natural next step for me: take girls away from other guys, and when the girls object, remind them that I am not trying to hear that. I knew my next move. I knew how to handle it. I got this, I thought.

When my training was complete, and the time to apply my new skills at recess arrived, I set my sights on Jackie, my longtime crush, and current girlfriend of Tyler, a friend of mine who I harbored an quiet rivalry with. He was a good guy. We both liked Notre Dame. But I was going to take his girlfriend away. Sorry, Tyler.

I approach. I clumsily recite lines from this song (“I tell ya now, I got eyes for youuuu.”). Tyler gives me a new nickname (“Zipperhead”), everyone hears it, laughs, and suddenly all that swagger from my bedroom sinks to the bottom of my Reeboks right there in the middle of the tether ball court.

I slump away +1 new nickname, and no new girlfriend.

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