My compulsion became explicit and inescapable: I needed to stay up and play "The Boys Are Back in Town" as many times as I could. It was 3 AM on a recent Tuesday when, standing in the dark outside my train station, these truths reconciled themselves within me. I would enter the bar, queue up "The Boys Are Back in Town," slam beers until the jukebox arrived at my selection, then clap my hands, clutch them to my chest, and maybe recite a psalm from the mother tongue of my proud rural people (perhaps "oh, HELL yeah!!! HELL YEAH!!!," or "now THAT'S what I'm talking about!!!!") to the silence around me. That's the life I lived for several months. I am usually content to summon this song just once from the jukebox of the bar I do not particularly like, as even one play is a parade for the spirit. I am pulled back again and again into this bar I do not like by an uncontrollable and carnal drive: a loyalty to The Boys and a congenital love of hollering. The dog turns his furry brow to look into me and I know he respects me even more, for I have done as Messrs. I press my forehead to his flank and I whisper "the boys are back" over and over again. When my roommate leaves for work in the morning, I genuflect toward his wonderful dog, who respects me. My heart beats bwaa-da, bwaa-dadada DAAH dah to match Scott Gorham's guitar riff, and this leaves my physician furious and unable to speak. Let me make one thing excruciatingly clear: "The Boys Are Back in Town" is an incredible song and I love it.
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