Oh great, now I'm having flashbacks to my freshman college roommate (Melissa Hartlust)(no really, that was her name) who used to play that damn song all the time. So I'd play Dead Kennedys just to balance things out.

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Stereo Wars! Always a favorite pastime.

My freshman roommate listened to a walkman, thankfully, but he was a drummer so he'd drum along or, even funnier, silently mouth along to the songs. So all of a sudden he'd be listening to Evita and go "OH MY INSECTICIIIIIDE"

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I didn't know it was possible to hate Billy Ray Cyrus even more.

(I accidentally spammed the crap out of your LJ trying to make this comment! I'm so sorry! After all the hubbub the comment itself feels a little anticlimactic.)

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Well, what with the crazy-ass comment problems, it was okay.

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"I bet he's been waiting ALL WEEK to say that."

You think? I would have guessed he'd been refusing to say something like that ("my oeuvre cannot be triviliazed!") but the producers had been goading him into saying it every waking moment and he finally relented.

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"Now, look, Billy Ray--"
"It's William Raymond now."
"Fine, fine, whatever, look, William Raymond, you know and I know that you've transcended that one hit of yours, that your new work with Brian Eno and the tribute to John Cage you produced was the artistic hit of the season, but William Raymond... you've got to think of your fans. You owe it to them, don't you?"
"I care not a whit for those fans who can't see past that tired, hackneyed repetitive drivel that once permeated the airwaves like so much musical smog."
"Or we'll just vote you off next week."
"MAH GOD, AH'M SURE GLAD AH DIDN'T WEAR NO ACHY BREAKY TAP SHOES OUT THAR!"

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