First off, I like women. I'm the first to call someone — male or female — on making a statement that exhibits some kind of ingrained misogyny. I routinely end up formulating a feminist slant on all manner of pop culture obscurity. And most of the people I call friends happen to be female.
However, there's something in the DNA of those with the double-X chromosome that — godammit — makes them automatically thrust their hands into the hair during the chorus of Kelly Clarkson's "Since U Been Gone." I don't understand it. I can't explain it. And for the most part, I've kept my distance from the recordings of Kelly Clarkson as a result. However, being stuck tonight at a club that happened to be featuring a cover band that happened to play its versions of Top 40 hits made me and Kelly meet in a more physically intimate environment than I ever hoped to.
In short, I'm not the kind of guy who can readily identify the various radio hits that the majority of people my age seem to love. Standing in crowd before the band, I had no idea that it was playing "Since U Been Gone" until the all-to-familiar chorus. (The verses are utterly unremarkable.) Once the singer belted out that chorus, however, I knew I was in deep shit, as the female patrons of the bar started waving their hands in unison in a way that made me think I was at some kind of poppy Nazi rally. I tried to wait it out, hoping somehow that this band would pick something less physically motivating for their next cover, but when the chorus returned for a second go-around and the dress-clad starting with the arm-flailing and hopping-in-place such that the whole floor shook, my brain told me that I'd best back away from the stage and get another drink. I turned around just in time to have some drunken Kelly Clarkson fan — who, yes, was jumping and throwing her hands in the air — jam her ring finger directly up my nose.
I stopped walking. She stopped dancing. For a moment, we stood there, facing each other in horror as her digit probed the depths of my nasal cavity. I don't know what kind of facial expression I made, but hers read as that of a person who suddenly found their finger in something warm and moist when she didn't expect to do so. I put my hands up in a sort of "I surrender" pose, and she, looking more and more disgusted by the millisecond, decided to yank her finger out at an angle perpendicular to the direction my nostril runs. Essentially, she fishhooked me. It hurt like a motherfucker. I seriously hope she didn't bruise the fucking cartilage, because I haven't felt such a sharp, sudden pain like that since I prematurely pulled out a loose tooth.
I'm sure she felt as embarrassed as I did, though slightly less pained and slightly more mucous-y. Needless to say, what she did effectively ended my night — everyone standing behind us saw this disgraceful incident, you see — and I hightailed it to the back of the bar.
Kelly Clarkson, clearly, is to blame. She's the one who sang this terrible, text message-grammar-level song, and I hate her for it. My curse on her is this: May your every subsequent hit be a somber ballad, the likes of which motivate your fans to simply sway sympathetically and hug themselves in an effort to feel your pain.
And to the dumb girl who jammed her finger up my nose: Fuck you. In the first place, I don't know where your finger has been. Secondly, the fact that you love Kelly Clarkson does not give you the right to thrust parts of your body however and wherever you chose. I won't begrudge you the right to enjoy the music you love, but the minute your enjoyment infringes on my right not to be nasally violated, you've taken your music too damn far. My curse on you is this: I hope somebody yanks something out of one of your orifices at the wrong fucking angle…every day for the rest of your life.