When a few seconds had passed and no one changed the track, the prude said, surprised, “Surely not this song?”

“Why ever not?”

“It’s in all the discs!”

The prude was baffled: “Have you listened to the lyrics?”

Comprehension. Affectionate exasperation. Uncertain silence while the voice from the speaker got louder.

“Well?” said the prude.

Now, some impatience.

“It’s just a few words…”

“It’s been number one, three weeks running.”

“I was reading somewhere, somebody saying it’s bad influence or something…”

“Oh please!”

“Was it you?”

“Censorship on songs?”

“That’ll just sell it better.”


“It’s not really a big deal, you know…”

“Of course not. It’s an effing song, not a guidebook.”

“I read a blog about the over-the-top political correctness obsessing people… images, films, videogames – everything’s being targeted.”

“This one’s probably going with some game… Princes of Pain, is it?”

“Is that the one where the girls – ?”

“It is, oh yes, it is!”

“Have you seen the girl in this video? Those have to be fake!”

“Hush, you dirty-minded people, you’re offending someone here!”

“Oh yes, we have a feminist in our midst! Don’t be shocked now, darling.”

“It’s not exactly by him, you know… the song… isn’t it his alter ego or something?”

“Never mind the lyrics, really, it doesn’t really mean anything…”

“Is the music anything to write home about?” murmured the prude.

The exasperation became more pronounced than the affection.

“I’m sorry I don’t have symphony effing orchestra.”

“Oh please!”

“Like I’d be here if you played that…”

“Can we please just listen to the song? Do turn it up.”

A hissing beat filled the space. From the speakers, the voice of the moment snarled: You Know She Wants It, The __


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