The Lion King's "Hakuna Matata": Why This Song Sucks
[Editor's note: Why This Song Sucks determines why particular tracks blow using science. It appears on West Coast Sound every Wednesday.]
Song: The Lion King's "Hakuna Matata"
History: "Hakuna Matata" is from Disney's The Lion King. The first time I saw The Lion King was as a preteen with a childhood friend named Bobby. The night before, we spent a few hours hanging out at a convenience store near his apartment complex because his friend, likely at least 25 years older than both us, asked him to come keep him company. When we left, he paid us $10 and gave us a porno magazine. I'm only right now at this very second realizing how close I was to being molested in the back of a Stop n' Go.
Atmospherics: Relaxed and carefree x 1000; like the sneakiest scoundrel of all.
Scientific Analysis: "Hakuna Matata" is maybe the most dastardly and philosophically amoral song of the last 100 years, a fact made especially deplorable when you consider that it is aimed at the mushy innards of children's brains. It is cyanide lollipop, a glass-filled Snickers. To wit, the core premise:
"Hakuna matata. ...It means no worries for the rest of your days. It's our problem-free philosophy."
To sell "Hakuna Matata" to Simba, Timon and Pumba present some anecdotal evidence for its effectiveness. They present what we shall refer to as the Pumba's Nasty Butthole conundrum.
They merrily sing and sing and sing about the air expelled from Pumba's disgusting anus. They say that it preempted his alienation on the savannah; he realized he didn't want to be associated with those so profoundly offended by his olfactory malfeasance. So he left. And that's supposedly a great thing. But let us examine the other side of the equation.
While discussing the smell of Pumba's flatulence, it's revealed that it is so bad that by merely walking past them, Pumba killed five monkeys. FIVE.
That's five families destroyed, bro. Five poor little baby monkeys had to grow up sans a monkey parent. We're talking missed monkey birthdays, monkey Christmases, missed monkey t-ball games, missed monkey weddings, all that.
It seems reasonable to consider that in the years that followed Pumba's monkey butchering, some poor woman monkey was dancing with her monkey husband at their monkey wedding and somebody in the monkey crowd unknowingly asked, "Shouldn't she be dancing with her monkey dad right now?" and someone else had to go, "Shhhh. Don't mention it to her. He was killed by a stinky asshole 18 years ago. It's still a very emotional topic." And then that first monkey was like, "Oh. My bad. I had no idea." I'm saying, it was probably the worst monkey wedding of all.