Thank You, Apple, for reawakening the chicken fat trauma!

My ears are bleeding and a terrible song is ringing in my ears. No, I don't know the name of it, or who sings it. All I hear is the demeaning refrain that demands, "go you chicken fat—go!"

All I can see is  a junior high school gymnasium, in East Brunswick, New Jersey, full of adolescent girls in ridiculous white "gym suits" that snap up the front and show the world every bit of patterned underwear that you wore by mistake because you forgot it was gym day.

All I can feel are the eyes of the gym teachers as they bark out corrections for the exercises we are stumbling through to the beat of that godawful chicken fat song! A song I had convinced myself was only the stuff of a junior high nightmare and not something that really ever existed.

But now, thanks to Apple digging up this monstrosity from the adolescent graveyard where it should have stayed, I run, cowering, from the room each time the commercial comes on. And, as for whatever great new apps and gadgets are being advertised, don't show them to me, don't tell me how wonderful they are; because in my mind they swim forever in a greasy nightmare of chicken fat.