This very evening, in the dead of night, when there will be no one around to see, I am going to sneak stealthily into Ricky Martin's house and garrotte him with a guitar string.
You might think this a touch harsh given that the man's livelihood is derived from twizzling his bottom about. You may wonder what it is precisely that he could have done. I mean, what else can he do?
Some people are born to cure diseases, some build mighty cities... others twizzle their bottoms.
Yes, I admit that he's hardly a criminal mastermind. The poor dumb lunk probably doesn't - if you're going to get technical - deserve it, but he's going to get it anyway.
You want to know why?
Cup of Life.
Yeah, that's right.
That awful song they attached to the World Cup back in '98.
Yes, I know it was energetic and catchy, and the gay community was probably thrilled to have a soccer song they could call their own (and by Ricky's bottom twizzling) but now I can't get it out of my head! And I am sick to the teeth of the looks I get when I realise that I've just 'ole ole ole'd in public.
It might not be fair, it might not be just, it might not even work, but one way or another, Ricky Martin dies tonight!
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