Dub-step away from me with that noise, man

Pop duo Zager and Evans may have predicted most of the future, but they couldn’t predict this.

I’m sometimes accused of being “behind the times.” Classmates criticize the shows I watch, or the music I listen to. Why, they even poke fun at my hair! Yes, I know, how anybody could think that a luxuriant mullet such as mine is out of style is simply unfathomable. Sometimes I think they might be right. But then, as the first wavering strains of the most obnoxious music extant drift into my eardrums, leering like the sullen youth whose iPods they dwell in, I snap back to reality. It’s no use being “of the times” or “current”, because today is horrible. And I’ll tell you why.

Dubstep, ladies and gentlemen, is why. Well, it’s one of 61,700 reasons why, but it’s the easiest to mock, so I’ll take it. For those of you who may not know (truly, a blessing), “dubstep” is what the kids of today call a microphone in an industrial tumble dryer. It’s a so-called genre of “music” that defies all standards music should be held to; it is abrasive to the ear, it is purveyed by people whose hairstyles are even worse than mine, and holy crabnuggets is it popular. Waaay too popular for what amounts to the sound of transformers doing the horizontal tango over the remains of Skrillex’s parents’ respect for him.

Too mean-spirited, you say? No. For this musical plague has infected the world. Everywhere your ears turn there will be dubstep. Game trailers? Bingo. Movie trailers? Of course! Hollywood will follow anything like a blind dog searching for snausages. Your nightmares?

Maybe. Mine, at least. I can’t tell you how well it goes with the sound of the earth burning as it’s swallowed by the sun. Big brother is watching, many say in response to the government’s increasingly privacy-invasive approach to the internet. But they’re wrong. Big brother is too busy listening to “Bangarang” for the 68-millionth time. Perhaps I should be grateful; the thought of a grizzled FBI man sitting in front of his computer and watching me type this is unsettling.

On second thought, I shouldn’t really. After all, I must maintain this vitriol in order to defend against the White Walkers in the snow, i.e. Skrillex during winter. (Zing!) I will stem this tide of “wubs” and “wobs” and “BWUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUZZZZZFGNDGFXFHXJKKXHCKCHJVJGJKUes” and other inane noises with my equally inane tide of screaming guitars and bands who don’t know what an acronym is. The music war has just begun. Guitars vs. Laptops, Pianos vs. “The bass”, and me vs. that guy who won’t turn his iPod down on the bus.

Unfortunately, I can already see the outcome. It isn’t good. Dub-bots roam the shattered wastes of once great cities, blasting those who resist with their music until they either give up and join the rest in quiet suffering, or their eardrums explode in protest. Dub-cops sit in their patrol cars, silently rueing their ridiculous name as well as their early-onset diabetes. Sheena Easton is back from the dead (I’m assuming she’ll be dead in 2062), and recording a dubstep cover of “For Your Eyes Only.”

We’re all doomed.