I'm not one to make wild accusations, but I would like to formally accuse all musicians and anyone who has ever whistled or hummed of attempting to destroy the fabric of human social order.
This may seem self-evident, but I'll explain just for the humor hypothetical dissent. See, a lot of music sucks. This is because microphones are becoming more fashion accessories than instruments, as the recent string of actresses cocooning into singers proves. Mark my words: There will be a Paris Hilton album coming out shortly to promote her latest "accidental" video release.
(At the time I wrote this, this Paris Hilton album nonsense was a joke. Since then I've found out that she really, really is. Either I'm psychic or the world is sad, and either way none of you are ever allowed to doubt me again. We now return you to your regularly scheduled article.)
Let's begin with the lifecycle of a song. Songs start out as the germ of an idea in the mind of a musician. When the song becomes "catchy," the germ spreads through radio waves, whistle waves and jaunty waves.
The only cure is to listen to the song 30 or 40 times. Finding this many repetitions on regular radio can take upwards of five minutes, and there's a slight chance they might play an entirely different song, leading to a new infection.
If you don't have this kind of time, the most common solution is to buy the album and listen to it until you hate it. This is fine if you're made of money, or have a money tree, or a really nice scanner. But if you don't have a green thumb, either from gardening or high-quality fake ink, you might be out of luck.
Let's look at how They (corporations/illuminati/Holland) design the song disease. First, you'll need a theme popular with the target. Teens and angst are a popular choice, as the hormones have already made their mental immune systems weak and ready for sweet musical garbage.
Next, you'll need a rhyme scheme so terrible that the only way to survive hearing it is to tell yourself it was actually very good. Let me show you how this works.
I'm a pretty girl but I'm sad,
But your love, it makes me glad,
And sometimes I pretend that I'm bad,
So buy my CD or I'll kill your dad.
You can almost picture the music video. When she says "sad," the pop-disease-diva would stare right into the camera through her bangs. Her pupils would be the size of wading pools, to indicate she's so sad that she's mutating into an anime character. Her badness would be confirmed with a new, "messy" style hair.
It seems wrong to pay money to a music store just to remove this calculated intrusion from my head. But it also is wrong, so I've been told, to go out and just steal stuff. The only obvious solution is one that's been in the works for decades — ban music.
Don't get me wrong, I like some music. I'm also partial to certain diseases. Itching made chickenpox a hoot and a half.
So, in order to finally eliminate music, I say we all gather together someplace, and burn as many CDs as possible.
Johnathan Kastner is a junior English major. His columns run every Thursday in the Dish.