I was driving the other day when suddenly my iPod transmitter broke. As a result, I was forced to listen to the radio — you know, that ancient thing on your dashboard with all the knobs. Halfway home, I noticed my ears were bleeding. Excessively.

I detoured to a nearby hospital, and as I stepped out of the car, the bleeding ceased. Strange, I thought to myself. I got back into my vehicle.

With the radio back on, the blood again started to spurt like a fountain. “Enough is enough!” I declared and stormed into the sliding doors of the hospital entrance.

I lost another pint of blood before making it to the sign-in desk, for playing over the loudspeaker was some brain cell-destroying Ke$ha song about glitter and oral sex.

I then realized the bleeding was not due to the brain hemorrhage I suffered as a result of being dropped on my head as a child; rather, modern music was the culprit.

I used to only have groups like *NSYNC and Nickelback to complain about. I now find myself longing to hear a group of whiney guys bemoan their torn heart or a constipated tool tell me to look at some stupid photograph.

Now, I’m a firm believer in not judging other people by their preferred choice of music, and Lord knows I listen to some wacky, out-there material. After all, I am the guy who suggested his high school marching band learn “Squeeze Me Macaroni” by Mr. Bungle. Though full of innuendo in its own right, however, it’s rather tame compared to the straight up vulgarity of today’s song titles (take, for instance, Rihanna’s “S&M”).

That being said, Top 40 is nothing more than a repugnant cesspool of terrible performances courtesy of mindless drones.

It’s so easy to create a pop hit these days: A thumping bass line, a decent hook and a dance beat is all that’s required. I could burp and fart into a microphone and, so long as I drown it in Auto-Tune, it would go triple platinum — if only in illegal downloads, but still.

Recently, A top 10 list in Rolling Stone magazine had this gem listed as the number three track: “Tonight (I’m F***ing You)” by Enrique Iglesias. How romantic.

What has the world come to? It seems making music is now just a competition of who can contract more sexually transmitted diseases in a weeks’ worth of airplay.

I already have a batch of potential song titles for my first hit single. It’s a three-way tie between “Shut Up (Let My Body do the Talking),” “Calling All Whores (To the Dance Floor)” and “This Song (Uses Parentheses (With Absolute Disregard [Brackets Welcome])).”

Part of the problem is the age of these modern artists. Parents sign off on their kids’ careers while they’re still warm from the womb. And, disgustingly, the droll songs pumped out these days offer little more than a tempo to gyrate in time with.

People wonder why shows like Teen Mom rule the television — on MTV nonetheless. The M no longer stands for Music, but for Mind-rotting.

The incentives for making this music continue when we shower them in grandeur and accolades: Grammys for nothing and MTV Video Music Award moon men statues, albeit the latter is the equivalent of giving someone freshly used toilet paper.

Every generation endures a wave of some terrible music style, but this cycle is a tsunami of pure garbage.

As long as we the consumer continue to gobble up these terrible tunes, Lady Gaga will continue to write songs about getting Four Loko-style drunk and urinating in public, and the Black Eyed Peas will keep destroying remixes during the Super Bowl halftime show.