Don't blame the millennials. We in Generation X embraced irony (as led by the boomers, don't forget) as a major mode of comedy and even of being--as a way of hiding feelings and refusing to be seen to care about anything too deeply (except for feeling smugly superior over the type of people who actually do express their true feelings). Think of any Bill Maher programme. Take a pro- anything position with fervour and get smacked down by snickerers. Because heaven forbid you say what you mean, mean what you say, and stand apart from the snottified cowards who aint never risked anything but their own souls.

The cure is mambo.

Mambo doesn't give a shit for your irony. Mambo doesn't say "It's my guilty pleasure." Mambo doesn't love you but refuse to hug you or even say hello at the mall, in the club, or during work. Mambo doesn't even need to say eff all that because mambo is too busy being supremely freaking mega-awesome. Mambo is now, in the moment, alive. It doesn't even sashay. It barely even struts. It freaking pounces.

If you've got a problem that can't be solved by listening to mambo or by becoming mambo, God help you.

And now, the King of Mambo, and quite possibly its inventor, the West African-Latin American genius Perez Prado with "Mambo No. 8."


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