A Scene
The pearly gates of heaven. Shimmering light. Angels blowing majestically on trumpets. Cumulus clouds stacked on each other as far as the eye can see. A general feeling of peace, all-abiding love, and infinite contentment. Basically, God's Crib as you've always imagined it.
PROCESSING OFFICER AT THE GATES OF HEAVEN: Next!
A CHILD OF THE 90s WHO DIED BEFORE HIS TIME: Hello!
PROCESSING OFFICER: ID please.
The CHILD OF THE 90s hands it over. The PROCESSING OFFICER checks it, pulls out a file, and digests the contents. She frowns.
PROCESSING OFFICER: Oh my.
CHILD OF THE 90s: What?
PROCESSING OFFICER: Oh sweet, crystalline nectar squeezed by Jesus Christ The Lord with his own two mitts.
CHILD OF THE 90s: What's!? I just died tragically...and everyone back on earth is mourning my loss!
PROCESSING OFFICER: We have problem here.
CHILD OF THE 90s: Problem? I freely declared all my sins! What is it? The time I wrapped the answers to a calculus test around my wrist like a quarterback in the Super Bowl? My tendency to stockpile incriminating pictures of girlfriends as "insurance" for the inevitable break up? The Oreo Cookie Incident?
PROCESSING OFFICER: The Oreo Cookie Incident?
CHILD OF THE 90s: When I was 13 I ate and replaced a boxful of Oreos when my parents were out at a movie.
PROCESSING OFFICER: I don't know how to say this...
CHILD OF THE 90s: Just tell me!
PROCESSING OFFICER: (singing lightly) To the tick tock ya don't stop...
CHILD OF THE 90s: Huh?
PROCESSING OFFICER: (singing) Come inside take off your coat, I'll make you feel at home. Now let's pour a glass of wine, cuz now we're all alone...
CHILD OF THE 90s: I don't...
PROCESSING OFFICER: (singing louder) I wanna love you down, I WANNA SEX YOU UP! All nite (you make me feel so good) I want to rub you down, I WANNA SEX YOU UP!
CHILD OF THE 90s: NO! I have nothing to do with Color Me Badd!
PROCESSING OFFICER: October 17th, 2007. You burned the Color Me Badd debut album C.M.B. to iTunes from your CD collection.
CHILD OF THE 90s: I burned all my CDs to iTunes! It's an obsessive compulsive thing. Or a cheapskate thing.
PROCESSING OFFICER: You didn't get enough value from the album during the 16 years you owned it?
CHILD OF THE 90s: Actually it's a pack-rat thing. I don't throw anything out. Nothing! Coffee filters, disposable razors, condoms. It's clearly a genetic predisposition that's no fault of my own. I haven't listened to that album in years!
PROCESSING OFFICER: "Bylaw 8 of The Paradise of Heaven, Rule 11, Section 12...The Word of God: None shall gain entrance to mine Kingdom if he hath partaken or disseminated filth that clogs the mind of his fellow man." Sweetie, Color Me Badd is the triple-epoxy super glue clogging our collective memory of the early 90s. The fact that you digitally recorded it for all posterity to your computer hard-drive is heinous. And damning."
CHILD OF THE 90s: It was in my CD book. I figured I might as well burn it since it had been sitting there all those years.
PROCESSING OFFICER: Let's take a look at how that came to pass. First, sometime in 1993 a man's soft falsetto caught your ear on the radio. Fair enough. But you had to take it a step further. You actively purchased the record. You listened to it countless times, singing along as you fantasized your own romancing of a sassy lass with poofy mall hair. To your credit, you stopped listening to the album and eventually renounced Color Me Badd all together, but you didn't get rid of the CD. Oh no, you hoarded it, letting it linger in your collection like a husband hiding his high-school girlfriend's yearbook photo in the back of his sock drawer. Why didn't you throw it out or sell it at a yard sale? Was it a family heirloom? A one-of-a-kind keepsake? Were you waiting for the tide to turn so it was finally acceptable for a grown man to wear a satiny lavender blouse, cut his hair into a swivel, and snicker like a chick while singing for the camera?
Silence
PROCESSING OFFICER: And then the final indignity. October 17th, 2007. You remove the Color Me Badd disc from you Case Logic and without remorse, place it into your laptop's CD drive. When iTunes asks "Would you like import the CD "C.M.B." into your iTunes library?" you click "Yes." With gusto I might add. As such, the abomination known as Color Me Badd lives on for another generation. The cycle of soft, mushy hip hop is perpetuated. Jesus wept.
The CHILD OF THE 90s goes white with terror.
CHILD OF THE 90S: Jesus wept...
The PROCESSING OFFICER looks at THE CHILD OF THE 90s and back at the stack of papers. She flips through them.
PROCESSING OFFICER: Oh heavenly host. Why didn't you say something!? July 8th, 2008. You burned P.M. Dawn's 1995 album Jesus Wept! You vagabond! You animal! Have you no musical decency? 16 years after the fact you still weren't able to turn away from the mellow quasi-spiritual crooning of P.M. Dawn? Have you no dignity?
The CHILD OF THE 90s begins to weep. The PROCESSING OFFICER notices something in his pocket. She motions to a GUARD.
PROCESSING OFFICER: What's that?
The GUARD removes the item from The CHILD OF THE 90s who doubles over with sobs.
GUARD: An Ace of Base album. The Sign.
CHILD OF THE 90s: (singing off-key, deliriously) ALL THAT SHE WANTS IS ANOTHER BABY, SHE'S GONE TOMORROW BOY...
PROCESSING OFFICER: Get him out of here! Now!
The GUARD drags him towards an ominous, smoky hole. A sign ("Hell Hole") is posted next to it with a downward pointing arrow. The CHILD OF THE 90s struggles briefly and then goes limp before shouting with delirious ecstasy:
CHILD OF THE 90s: ALL THAT SHE WANTS IS ANOTHER BABY, SHE'S GONE TOMORROW BOY, ALL THAT SHE WANTS IS ANOTHER BABY, SHE'S GONE TOMORROW BOY.
PROCESSING OFFICER: What does that even mean?
The GUARD heaves him into the hole. Those waiting in line shield their eyes. An elderly man leans on a companion and wretches. The PROCESSING OFFICER tosses the CHILD OF THE 90s file into the trash and cracks her knuckles.
PROCESSING OFFICER: Next!
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