WE'VE always known that New Kids teen idol Donnie Wahlberg is a grimy sleazeball who can't sing or dance to save his nose ring. We've known that he is a deluded egomaniac who told a fluff biographer that 1969 would be remembered in history as the year Donnie Wahlberg was born. (Wasn't there some inconsequential tidbit about a man on the moon that year, too?) We've known that he is a temperamental prima donna who allegedly attacked some Georgia Tech students whose frisbee had the audacity to land near his motorcycle.

Until last week, we never really cared. If the New Kids' "music" was a discordant juxtaposition of bad Air Supply and the Bee Gees on speed, that was their business. If picking up prepubescent groupies and siccing bodyguards on bar patrons seemed to be their idea of a social life, we figured that was a matter for the judicial system, not The Harvard Crimson Moral Police. And if they wanted to project a hypocritical holier-than-thou, just-say-no, nice-boy-next-door image to their adoring cult of 12-year-old girls, we weren't going to blow their cover.

But now, the New Jerks--specifically Wahlberg--have gone too far. They've messed with one of us.

CRIMSON editor Benjamin Dattner '92 described the scene: He was relaxing on a Delta Airlines flight to Atlanta when Wahlberg accosted him. "Yo, man, you're in my seat," Wahlberg growled. When Dattner asked to see his ticket, Wahlberg rammed his fingers into Dattner's eyes, scratching his cornea. Then Wahlberg's bodyguards pinned Dattner to his seat while Donnie whaled away. The New Kids and their attorneys have yet to challenge Dattner's story.

Clearly, these estrogen monsters seem to have some problems with concepts of mine and thine. I want that seat--therefore, it's mine. You don't want me to have that seat--therefore, you will be moved out of the way by goons. If you don't like it, tough. I'm a New Kid.

Memo to the New Losers: you may have your own line of dolls, T-shirts, throw pillows, action figures, shoelaces, lunchboxes and trashy TV commercials, but you can't push us around. This means war.

We're not quite Neanderthal enough to challenge you posers to a rumble, so we'll settle for the next best thing: a softball game. The Fab Five plus a few of their squealing fans versus Cambridge's oldest breakfast table daily. Proceeds go to the Jimmy Fund. Bodyguards not invited. Anytime. We'll be waiting.

Or are you too chicken?

P.S. You couldn't lick the dirt off the Beatles' shoes.