I have a confession to make, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell my tailor: I have no idea what a “Bad Bunny” is. Until forty-eight hours ago, I assumed it was a particularly aggressive species of rabbit that had developed a taste for human flesh in the Puerto Rican rainforest. I have never heard his music. If he walked into my local mamak and ordered a teh tarik, I would likely ask him to move his flamboyant hat so I could see the cricket scores.

Yet, here I am, standing on the metaphorical barricades, waving a Puerto Rican flag and shouting “Viva El Conejo Malo!” at the top of my lungs. Why? Because the alternative—siding with the “Get Off My Lawn” brigade currently clutching their pearls across the Atlantic—is a fate worse than being forced to drive a Prius.

The Super Bowl happened this past Sunday. For those of you who spent the day doing something productive, like reorganizing your sock drawer or watching paint dry, it is a four-hour commercial break occasionally interrupted by men in crash helmets falling over each other. This year, the halftime show featured the aforementioned Bad Bunny. And the reaction from the “Traditionalists” (read: people who think “spicy” means putting an extra grain of salt on a potato) has been nothing short of a psychological meltdown.

“We can’t understand the lyrics!” they shrieked into the digital void. “This is America! We speak the King’s English here!”

First of all, no you don’t. You speak a dialect that involves calling a “boot” a “trunk” and thinking “aluminum” has three syllables. Secondly, since when did understanding the lyrics become a prerequisite for enjoying pop music? I’ve listened to Mick Jagger for forty years and I still have no idea what he’s saying; I just assume he’s asking for a sandwich.

The hypocrisy of the American “World Event” is staggering. They call the winner of a domestic league the “World Champion.” They claim the Super Bowl is a global phenomenon. But the moment a man stands on the 50-yard line and sings in a language that isn’t featured on a Denny’s menu, the “Global Village” suddenly develops a very tall, very orange fence.

If you want to claim your sport is a “World Event,” you have to accept that the world, quite inconveniently, contains people who aren’t from Ohio. The world is loud. The world is colorful. And the world, it turns out, speaks a hell of a lot of Spanish.

Watching the “Get Off My Lawn” crowd recoil in horror at Bad Bunny was like watching a Victorian grandmother accidentally wander into a rave. They claimed it was a “slap in the face.” To whom? To the ghost of Abraham Lincoln? To the sanctity of the hot dog? It was a man in a designer outfit singing songs that make people want to move their hips—an activity that half of the complaining demographic hasn’t attempted since the Ford administration for fear of shattering a pelvis.

The counter-programming was the real comedy, though. While Bad Bunny was commanding the attention of 135 million people, the “Patriots” were apparently off in a corner watching Kid Rock. Kid Rock! A man whose entire aesthetic is “I found this hat in a dumpster behind a Hooters.” Choosing Kid Rock over a global superstar is like choosing a rusty bicycle over a Ferrari because the Ferrari’s GPS speaks Italian. It’s not a political statement; it’s a cry for help.

I don’t need to hear Bad Bunny’s music to know he won. I know he won because the right people are angry. I know he won because he turned the most American patch of grass on earth into a Caribbean street party, and he did it while the “Traditionalists” were still trying to figure out how to use the “SAP” button on their remote controls.

America wants to be the centre of the world, but only if the world looks, acts, and sounds like a 1950s sitcom. Well, sorry, Brenda. The world has moved on. It’s vibrant, it’s confusing, and it’s currently dancing to a reggaeton beat you don’t understand. 

I might not know the lyrics, and I might still think his name sounds like a toddler’s imaginary friend, but I’ll take the Bad Bunny over the Boredom Brigade any day of the week. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go find out how to pronounce “Reggaeton” without sounding like a geography teacher.