I have had an eight-year-old rap song stuck in my head for four days.
Curiously enough, neither this song nor any other manages to dislodge "Springtime for Hitler," which I have had stuck in my head for, no joke, ten years.* Stuck, as in my thoughts often naturally articulate themselves to the tune of the song. And have I mentioned that I hate The Producers?
I am looking forward to the prospect of being able to delete memories, Lacuna, Inc.-style, in large part for this reason.
* I blame the membership of the Harvey Mudd Objectivist Society, the officers of which loved Zero Mostel. (All girls, by the way.)