I had to go to the mechanic’s shop the other day to get the Ravage Wagon fixed. I don’t like mechanics pretty much for the sole reason that I don’t trust them. They seem to “find” way too many problems with my vehicle every time I visit them, and my wallet always disagrees with their assessment. But I don’t know too much about cars other than they periodically need gas and it’s bad to wreck them, so I always end up paying the quoted price.

I discovered, though, that mechanics are relatively universal despite language barriers. When I pulled into the car repair shop, I was greeted by an overweight man in dingy coveralls. He looked at the Ravage Wagon, laughed derisively, and pulled her into the shop to begin making problems for me to pay for.

So as I sat in the waiting room flipping through magazines that I couldn’t read, I began to daydream. Soon enough, daydreams gave way to lucid dreams as I was rocked into the lulling comfort of a nap.

But then a radio cut on, and my sleep was cut short. A terrible screech filled the room, punctuated by a whine. Somebody had entered the shop from the back and put on the radio. And it was bad American emo music.

When I’m upset, I have a tendency to chew on things. Before I knew what was happening, I had glomped my hand into my mouth and was chewing away and the web of skin between my thumb and forefinger. My frustration intensified as the song reached a cacophony of self-pity, and I cursed at myself for having left my Zune on my desk. The man-child on the radio compared a lost love to a knife in his chest, and I tasted blood.

I wondered what kind of self-hatred somebody must have be the lead singer for an emo band. What possesses a man to wake up in the morning, look at himself in the mirror, and say, “today I will write a song about how I want to scream and nobody listens and my life is a dark and dreadful abyss?”

And then I realized: nobody. There is nobody in the world who could possibly have that much existential angst, especially if they’re selling records by the millions to emotionally stunted retards. What, then, drives the emo song writer?

The answer is simple: hemorrhoids.

Yes, friends, I have stumbled upon the secret. Hemorrhoids are the inspiration behind 90% of emo music.

Case in point: let’s analyze the lyrics to “How Could This Happen to Me” by Simple Plan:

“. . .
And I can't STAND the pain
And I can't make it go away
No I can't STAND the pain
How could this happen to me
I've made my mistakes
Got nowhere to run
The night goes on as I'm fading away
I'm sick of this life
I just wanna scream
How could this happen to me . . .”

Ah, yes. A song that you thought was about self-hatred and regret is instead turned into a song of a suffering man sitting on the can, his pants about his ankles as tears of pain—not loneliness—spill down his face. The mistake that he mentions in the song, you ask? Not getting enough fiber.

Or how about this? “Bite to Break Skin” by Senses Fail:

“ . . . (Each breath) is getting slower
(This war) is getting harder
To fight by myself
(Sick waves) of bitter fashion,
(Ripped down) the shield that I have
Tears rain from above . . .
Bite to break skin,
Don't give the secret,
My stoic face,
Beaten with passion
The phoenix will die
Inside the fire storm . . .”

Oh dear. Overt mentions of the ring of fire. This is not a song about suicide, friends. It is a song of bleeding out your ass.

“Your Sweet Six Six Six” by HIM seems to be more about constipation than anything else:

“There are things you should know
The distance between us seems to grow
But you're holding on strong
Oh how hard it's to let go, oh so hard to let go
I'm waiting for your call and I'm ready to take your
six six six in my heart
I'm longing for your touch and I welcome your sweet
six six six in my heart
I'm losing my faith in you
You don't want it to be true
But there's nothing you can do
There's nothing you can do - Yes, I've lost my faith in you”

And In Flames remembers poops of a better time with “The Quiet Place:”

Frightened by your own smell
Bitterness will run you through
Silent screaming
Turning, twisting the alphabet
Frantic eyes
Awaiting the answer
Splinters of a poem
Fragments of what you used to be
Habitual and gullible
Run-down memoirs is all that's left

And just to prove my point, I leave you with Atreyu’s “The Crimson:”

“I feel it welling up inside and Robert Smith lied
Boys do cry and with blood tears in my eyes
I'm an Anne Rice novel come to life
I can't hide the monster anymore
One can only feel desolate for so long”

This is not a song about losing your humanity; it is a song about open sores inside your colon.

I’ve reached an important conclusion. Emo music is a lot more fun when you imagine them singing about bowel movements. This is important. Tell this to the first emo kid you see. He’ll probably get offended, but the sooner he associates whiny-ass music with the mental image of Gerard Way singing on the shitter the better. His parents and girlfriend will thank you for making him stop being a selfish little punk-ass bitch, and you can live proud with the knowledge that you took a stand against stupid. And if he still persists in being a little dildo, crowbars and baseball bats are viable secondary solutions.