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Why Can’t I Squee You?

(Secondhand SCIENCE, baby — catch the fever!

Well, don’t actually catch a fever. That would be uncomfortable. But swing over and see this week’s science-down, all about viroids. Which could give you a fever — but probably only if you’re a potato. Check it out.)

Since it’s not remotely what I’m supposed to be working on right now, this is clearly the only project I’m able to focus on: a modernized parody version of this 35-year-old song by the Cure:

I’d be a great poster child for Ritalin — if I were still a child, and if I ever looked good on a poster. Anyway, Cure this, if you can:

BOYS DON’T SQUEE

I would say, “my bad, wow”
If I sensed that you would stay with me.
But I see you mad now;
You are all scrunched up,
Like, O-M-G.

I try to say, “whatevs, girl”,
Don’t want to call you a B.
How can I say, “whatevs, girl”
When you keep callin’ me “twee”?
‘Cause boys don’t squee.
Boys don’t squee.

Yeah, I broke down in your crib
When you brought out your
Bichon frise.
He was so cute in his bib,
I couldn’t hold my gleeful squees.

So now your friends laugh about it,
Throwing shade till my ears bleed.
Even you laugh about it,
That noise I totes do not need.
‘Cause boys don’t squee.
Boys don’t squee.

I would tell you that I’ll sack up;
Be the man that you prefer.
But my voice will climb back up
Next time I peep your ball of fur.

I get excited,
not like a BOSS;
If I could fight it,
Everything would be awesomesauce.

Now I don’t know what it would take
For us to repair our “we”.
How can I keep from breaking?
You’re twice as manly as me.
‘Cause boys don’t squee.

Boys don’t squee.
Boys. Don’t. Squee.