Pop rocks. Except when it doesn't.

Don’t you know about the bird? Everybody knows that the bird is a word.

Those are lyrics from a terrible song called “Surfin’ Bird.” Released by The Trashmen in 1963, it’s been infiltrating people’s brains for decades, slowly driving them nuts with its repetitive and nonsensical chorus. I mean, technically they’re correct -- “bird” is, indeed, a word -- but so what? So are “cat,” “jiggle” and “lugubrious.” I blame that song on psychedelic drugs.

Not every bad song can be blamed on mind-altering substances. Some are simply designed to burrow into our subconscious and stealthily lay their eggs. These eggs then hatch when we’re driving with our windows down on a perfect day in late spring; you’re toolin’ along with your arm out the window when suddenly you hear it coming out of your mouth: “Backstreet’s back, ALRIGHT!”

Only no. No, it is not alright.

The songwriters and producers who stitch together these crummy tunes are downright insidious. Like, curly mustache and monocle insidious. There’s a rigorous set of assembly line instructions for crafting pop songs -- so many beats per minute, so many iterations of the word “baby” -- and these auditory confectioners follow them religiously. The results are songs that muckle onto our brains like barnacles but provide shockingly little sustenance. They’re empty calories, all sugar and no nutrition. Cheez-Its instead of cheese. If you want me to crack under intense interrogation, just play Taylor Swift’s “Welcome to New York” on a loop for about an hour and a half. I’ll give you anything you want: nuclear codes, locker combinations, grandma’s secret recipe for French onion soup. Just please, make the torture stop.

Because I’m a major nerd, there’s a band I listen to called Rush. Rush isn’t everybody’s cup of tea; the singer has a very high-pitched voice, like Mickey Mouse after a groin injury, and some people find it shrill and grating. That’s fine. But it’s indisputable that these guys are master instrumentalists, each a virtuoso on his respective instrument. Their arranging and songwriting skills are through the freakin’ roof. They’re just about the dorkiest band on the planet, but when I last saw them live in 2012, my head was filled for days with epic bass lines, dizzying drum fills and guitar licks that could skin a cat. It’s the kind of music I want stuck in my head, because there’s enough variation in the songs to keep them from becoming overly repetitive. Never once during that time did I want to take an electric drill to my head. That’s my musical litmus test: Not wanting to endanger my health with a rusty power tool.

Years later, I pine for the days when I could chew on a Rush song with luxury. After a back condition devolved into a full-blown medical headache, I became a regular at a local gym, with the goal of strengthening said back and allowing myself to do things like tie my shoes without calling in the National Guard. Every time I go in, they’re playing Top 40 pop. By the time I sit down at my desk at work, one of those gooey tunes has inevitably burrowed into my cranium, so instead of happily humming the lead lines in “La Villa Strangiato” or the bass gymnastics in “Digital Man,” I’ve got some dope in my head crooning on about a woman he saw dancing at a club. Well you know what? I don’t go to clubs. I eat clubs. I douse clubs in mustard and then I eat them. I don’t care about you and your dance-floor Venus, you saccharine-sweet nincompoop. Oy gevalt.

And I’ve only mentioned lyrics obliquely. That’s another aspect of pop music that could use an overhaul, if for no other reason than to benefit the teens and pre-teens who comprise its core audience. Data analysis company Seatsmart conducted a study a couple of years ago, finding that lyrics to the typical pop song land at about a third-grade reading level. Third grade. No joke. Unfortunately that’s not entirely surprising, considering some of the IQ-draining banality that’s flooding the radio waves. Check out some of the lyrics to a song called “Give Me Everything” by the rapper Pitbull:

“"Me not working hard? / Yea, right! / Picture that with a Kodak / And, better yet, go to Times Square / Take a picture of me with a Kodak."

Uh, what?

First of all, this is a relatively modern song, so there’s a good chance the 13-year-olds listening to it won’t even know what the hell a Kodak is. Nice up-to-date reference, Pitbull. What’s worse, though, is that he rhymes Kodak with Kodak.Granted, there aren’t a lot of rhymes for Kodak -- Go back? Yo, Jack? -- but that just solidifies the case for not using the word in the first place. It doesn’t even make contextual sense. The lyrics probably would have been more coherent if they’d been written by an actual pitbull.

Here’s an even worse lyric, this time from “So Yesterday” by Hilary Duff:

"If the light is off, then it isn't on."

Glad you were able to work that one out, Hilary.

I suppose this is me in full-blown crotchety-old-man mode, and I’m fine with that. Disdaining popular music is one of adulthood’s great rites of passage; with that out of the way, I’m ready for other watershed life moments, like discovering my nose hair now grows like weeds. I’m one man shouting into the cacophony, so I don’t expect Taylor Swift and Jay-Z to take notice and re-tool their musical output, but it would be nice to hear literate lyrics, interesting compositions and some all-around thought put into these songs for once.

Have you heard? “Rush” is a word. It’s true. I looked it up.