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Thanks Netflix. Thanks to your streaming selection that resembles the non-new release section of a ’90s Blockbuster, “Jem” is now available for late-night guilty pleasure viewing.

That being said, I have come to the conclusion that the Misfits are the better band.

Hear me out.

Anyone who has ever seen “Jem” knows that much of the show’s conflict derives from the clash between the two bands. In terms of great musical feuds, the Misfits vs. the Holograms rivalry was up there with the real-world brawls of Neil Young vs. Lynyrd Skynyrd, or Flaming Lips vs. the Arcade Fire. But unlike their real-world counterparts, they spend a majority of their time singing about their next move rather than bad-mouthing each other to the press. And this where the Holograms fail miserably.

While Jem and her rag-tag team of goody two-shoes spend their time singing songs about the importance of believing in yourself, finding true love and inner beauty, all of the Misfits songs are about fucking up Jem.

That’s pretty punk rock.

And honestly, what would you rather do: Help Jerrica put on a fundraiser for orphans, or trash a mall with Pizzazz on minibikes?

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There is nothing like watching personal heroes beat the verbal crap out of each other like a couple of old timey Punch and Judy puppets. (Anyone? Anyone get that reference? Think “Time Bandits.”) It’s even better when, during the course of the fight, they sink down to levels only seen in “Yo Mama” skits from “In Living Color.”

Sometimes, my mom attempts to channel her creative side and comes up with new and exciting ways to focus her energy into money making endeavors, God bless her.

“I’m going to open a bed & breakfast.”

“I’m going start a dog walking business.”

“I’m going to open a beauty salon.”

After watching this video, I now know it is important to knock her down swiftly and with as much venom as possible. If I don’t break her spirit and reinforce the notion that she can never, ever accomplish anything she puts her mind to, she might end up singing in an abandoned classroom with a few of my cousins.

When I was eleven, I saved my allowance for three weeks so I could buy “License to Ill” from the scary adults who worked the MusicPlus on Fairfax. Twenty-five years and many pencil-winding “surgeries” later, it is one of the few cassettes I’ve bothered saving over the years despite the fact I no longer have a tape player. (Other tapes that survived the CD-MP3 transition are “Trapped in the Body of a White Girl” by Julie Brown and the “Rock n’ Roll High School” soundtrack). So, here is a little Beastie love. RIP MCA.