"She has buttock and tit, buttock and tit." For a moment I thought I had heard wrong. "Sofia, honey, what are you singing? What do you say she has? What and what else?" I asked ... naive of me. "Buttock and tit, mommy ... How that little girl moves it. Putting the dembow is that she throws away," he continued so pinchi without noticing my expression of horror.

"Where did that horror come from? Did you make it up? Where did you hear it? Oh, Sofia, love, you're eight years old ..." "Ya, mom, how heavy. Let everyone sing it! I look at it and it bounces, bounces, bounces, bounces. How that little girl moves it (What?)"

"What moves, Sofia? And, what is the 'dembow' that he puts in? Better not to keep digging. Total, it's just a song and maybe, if I don't give it more importance, it ends up forgetting her" , I thought. But, since that summer afternoon, the one that can't take off the disgusting "buttock and tet" from the mind ... it's me!

Call me Rottenmeier, carca, old-fashioned, retrograde, grandmother ... Tell me that I stink of mothballs, I'm out of date. Although a cold drop of epithets looms over me alluding to my status as a rancid mother (who has already fallen to me for getting into the Fortnite) brings me to the pairo. All this stinks.

It is to listen to regret and to feel how all I mourn to become that Irene Gutierrez Caba who so fiercely watched over national chastity in "History of Frivolity", the mythical program of Chico Ibáñez Serrador.

I can not help it. It unnerves me. It disgusts me. It makes me nauseous. And to God I put as a witness that it is not for a matter of mental narrowness. Not. It's just that it doesn't come to my mind that, in this era of female empowerment (horror of word) in which (although there is still a long way to go), the little ones no longer distinguish between things of boys or girls and in the one that until Real Madrid has decided (it was about time!) to bet on a women's team, it doesn't squeak us to hear a preteen sing: "Where are you that I send you a car? Get in the Uber and I make you the night. There, voa 'throw me in the mud. Give me your location and the car arrives ... "

Because to me, no matter how much they try to explain to me that what hooks up is the machacón rhythm and that the lyrics do not 'get in the way', I want to tell the maromo that he so gently offers to pay his young woman's car to 'make her the night ', why don't you try to ... Anyway, stop, I get lost.

I only have the consolation of clinging to the wise words of my admired Isabel Serrano-Rosa, psychologist of EnPositivoSí, and to think that the new generations have it so clear that the stunned machirulo message that oozes these songs enters them through one ear and leaves them for the other.

"She has buttocks and tits, buttocks and tits (She has, she has chichi)," says the poetic lyrics of this great summer hit that now ends. Call me Irene Gutiérrez Caba ...

NOTICE:

"The characters (not the facts, nor the lyrics of the songs) portrayed in this narration are completely fictional. Any resemblance to real people is pure coincidence."

According to the criteria of The Trust Project

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