Nensha, bitches.

It’s a term I tangentially referred to in an earlier post this month, and a theory I’m frankly fascinated with.

Its essence is this: the human mind with all its untapped power has the ability to psychically impress or burn an image into our physical reality, and thus alter it irrevocably. Post-War Japanese researchers devoted much effort into proving its existence — it would later serve as the basis for the nation’s much-praised film Ringu and its equally effective American remake The Ring — but the doctrine was for decades deemed merely a The Men Who Stare At Goats-type of new age hokum. A flight of fantasy. A failure.

All that changed in 1999 when Nensha was revealed to be a wholly factual (and utterly terrifying) phenomenon brought about not to revolutionize telecommunications or create a super soldier, but from sheer corporate music industry greed and folly.

An affront to Nature of the highest order.

By the dawn of the New Millennium, the trend of hyper-manufactured Boy Bands had neared its saturation point. The record executives at Sony Records in Toronto were desperate to wring one last hit machine from a barren teat; they had already mined and co-opted black musical culture to the core, female pop star thrushes were going to seed as they aged in dog years, and every teenage boy in Orlando was already signed to a label. Thus, they turned to illegal biological research in order to genetically engineer a new breed of jazz-handed douchebag — one who could function without sleep, food, and love as it rose to musical superstardom.

By summer of that year, Sony had succeeded, and the pop trio B4-4 was unleashed upon the world.

Most presume the act’s moniker to be a clumsy pun of some sort, but in truth it was a covert reference to the cryptically-numbered lab located within a secure Berlin facility wherein the three young members had been bioengineered through the cross-breeding of gay Oompa Loompas with Jersey Shore Guido dickbags for maximum slickness and vivid orangeness.

The troika matured to pubescence at a meta-accelarted rate within a matter of three months, and newly-christened as Paul-Mitchell, Smooth T, and Juicebox — the latter two originating coincidentally-if-serendipitously from the same zygote — released their Autotuned, self-titled debut album in 2000.

Events bode well initially with the act testing well among the target demographic of teenage girls with no taste and intact hymens, but things soon went awry. Initially, the curious abilities the boys developed were written off as mere unanticipated-if-fortuitous biological adaptations. They possessed the amazing capability to suck their balls up into their body cavities in order to hit falsetto notes. They could alter the Dayglo colors of their Dragonball Z hair styles like so many chameleons. They could even bleach their own anuses at will by merely clenching.

Of concern was the visceral hatred the trio inspired in other sectors of the public. Some claimed they had to be the earthbound incarnations of Fire, Pestilence, and Plague visited upon humankind to punish us for our sins.

Others will attest that they were veritable Typhoid Marys who spread the douchebag pathogen that currently runs rampant, though that has yet to be scientifically substantiated. Still more contend that the combined viewing audiences for Gossip Girl and The Hills are directly attributable to the inception of B4-4.

A form of mass hysteria set in, with mental institutions inexplicably inundating with patients who had nervous breakdowns because they were convinced the members B4-4 were hiding under their beds, communicating dread impulses into their psyches through their videos, or sack-wrangling them while they slept. Shit got real fast.

The nerve-shattering truth was apparent: the three eugenically-created tools were psychopathic mutants with the adeptness of enacting Nensha through their visual medium. They had already turned upon their masters and assumed sway over their minds in order to assert creative control, the only reasonable way to account for the apocalypse of visual fromage they unleashed upon a world too fragile to endure them.

The boys were megalomanical in exhorting their will upon the masses: the desire to wear sleeveless Armani Exchange and distressed jeans, the frailty of intellect that succumbs to Flyspeak, the madness to partake in eyebrow sculpting…the craving to kill.

“Player” features their favorite acts of abominations, a barrage of soul-rending imagery including the wipes cheesily extending their hands imploringly toward the camera, the stalking of a sunbathing tranny, Juicebox teabagging a rottweiler, the group urinating on one another, and the attempted sexual assault of a slumbering elderly woman.

Their cover of The Jackson Five ’s “I’ll Be There” drove a fraternity in Colorado to enact the world’s longest fuck chain — boasting an astounding thirty players — after its collective viewing. Only five of them survived the ordeal, and today they still long for the oblivion that only the grave can offer.

It was the act’s eldritch “Get Down” — a subtle paean to oral sex crooned to a freaking child — that wrought the most devastating effects and is now the fodder of Internet infamy and legend. A gamut of ocular hemorrhaging, Genital Stigmata, sleep-deprived psychosis, acquaintance rapes, Pop and Lock maimings, and dildo-related fatalities ensued. Invariably, crime scenes were found to have the symbol “B4-4″ scrawled in blood, body bronzer, or guyliner on the wall.

The Canadian Government stepped in after much calamity and outcry. The boys were ambushed during the acceptance of a sham Juno award presented by Ashlee Simpson, her neural patterns functioning on a level so undetectable that even their superior intellects could not decipher any warning, her voice effectively disabling them into a fetal stupor.

After being treated with large doses of neural inhibitors, it was discovered that the boys were developing the aptitude to reproduce asexually. Paul-Mitchell, Smooth T, and Juicebox were humanely euthanized for the public good, their sophomore album featuring the singles “Sexting My Luv @U,” “Raincoats Off (Doin’ It Raw Cuz I Wanna),” and “We Will Gorge On The Blood of Your Children (The Dirty South Ass Blaster Remix)” remaining mercifully unreleased, their videos obliterated.

Or were they?

By 2004, rumors that footage from the act’s video output had resurfaced in the German snuff movie underground were confirmed, later finding its way into a series of Japanese Internet suicide cults. Footage subsequently appeared on YouTube and immediately went viral, the boys’ frightful and preternatual influence still potent long after their deaths. Attempts to contain it proved for naught. The video can self-replicate. Today, the act of forwarding a link to “Get Down” to the inbox of a despised rival — this has proven disturbingly common among junior high school girls — has become colloquially known as Douche-Rolling.

To date, no one on record is known to have attempted and survived a complete viewing of this footage with their sanity or hope in a benevolent cosmic order left intact.

Don’t believe me? Here’s YouTube’s 5 best caveats you need to read before you even contemplate pushing play.

1. “They show this video at ex-gay ministries, with electric shocks to the genitals..”

2. “Three orange aliens posing as humans, singing about going down…to a black boy… I lost all hope for the race.”

3. “This band… Well they beat the Bogeyman in scariness, then they raped the Bogeyman.”

4. “I watched this video. Then I bought a gun. The orange skinned invaders are attempting to lull us with what they perceive to be our major weaknesses; saccharine and banal turn-of-the-millennium pop tunes and interracial homosexual pedophilia. I won’t be fooled. If you value your freedom and not being forced into slave labor by alien overlords who smell like jaundice, you’ll arm yourselves as well.”

5. “Surely this level of mindless ignorance cannot exist. But I fear that my rationalizing it as brilliant satire is just me trying to desperately protect my faith in humanity. Sometimes something is so absurdly bad, that it becomes a commentary in itself. Trust you me, our days are numbered.”