You see it everywhere. Whiny, upper-middle-class girly-boy freaks running around, complaining about their latest girl problem, how they can’t find their stuffed animal Snuggles, and how the reflection of the sun on their gerbil cage makes them contemplate the relative deprivation of society (ie., John got an oompa loompa, I feel worthless because I don’t personally possess one). This movement has rocked the times and has become a thriving subculture of de-masculinity and nasal, high-pitched voices. It is usually the band that puts candy-deprived children to shame with its crying that ends up with the highest record sales.

What happened to the Barry Whites, the Bell Atlantic phone guy/Darth Vader, and that deep-voiced, testosterone filled man/woman that works at the local mall? These people (whether or not we were sure of their genders) had gusto. They chopped wood, carried weapons, and killed furry animals with their bare hands! They were proud of their back hair, had light sabers, and were required to fill a daily grunting quota.

Now we are being taken over by prepubescent Lizzy McGuire-loving girly men that have nothing else to say except “my control top pantyhose do not control my emotions about you.” Throw that in with the soon-to-be hits “Ohhhh Ohh I Need a Band-Aid!” and “My Little Sister Hit Me.” It all makes me want to tie my ankles together with barbed wire and roll through a field of thorn bushes and razor blades.

Now don’t get me wrong…instrumental emo rocks! What sucks is people whining instead of venting. I have to hear enough of it from drama queens, that I do not want to spend my spare time empathizing with a screechy-voiced weakling. All I have to say is they better shape up…or I’ll steal their Lizzy McGuire posters.