Come ‘ere, precious. No, seriously, get over here. ::grabs, roughly:: This shall not stand. I’m so dead serious right now, this is ludicrous, it’s borderline offensive and you *must* have known as you were dressing these little unfortunates up like preteen hipsters and feeding them lyrics so shoddy and trite that they actually insert breaks to pretend there’s a sustained pentameter happening that this was hot-tarded. NO.
::slaps One Direction::
I hate to be that person who got to enjoy something and now must decree that the time for it has passed but COME ON. Seriously, were you not even gonna try harder than this?
It’s not that you’re a boy band, it’s not the over-the-top-coolness and running around London being “cute” and “laid back” with your hair doing LORD knows what. It’s that this is garbage and I feel I must slap you across the face with a white glove that we both understand to indicate we will draw pistols at dawn. Of course, I have every intention of turning early and just shooting you in the back because – who are we kidding – there’s no honor at stake here. None. And I demand satisfaction.
(Seriously, it’s gotta be the worst song ever written in bubble-bath-safe crayola.)