The bottom line is men disgust me With their foolish scoffs and backwards glances Impotent retentive sticklers Excessive punching Looking for the perfect match I'd found myself Fumbling in a backseat with some effeminate anarcho-rocker Until I found I was allergic to his lipstick But by that time he had let me know that I was too macho for him anyway There's no such creature as the so-called '90s man It's a myth, a lie, an utter fabrication Every beach boy's waking dream is pornographic gluttony No holds barred, seven a start Well hung, well hung