It was Friday night, when I jumped the Green Line on my way home from Park Street. The train was loaded with the usual drunken co-eds screeching “Oh my God, I’m wicked smashed,” and dolled-up pre-teens fresh from the Ashlee Simpson concert at the Orpheum Theatre.

However, the group of four friends who sat to my left were particularly loud and obnoxious, as well as homely. All this aside, they were, above all else, definitely not cool. From Boylston to Fenway, they proceeded to, non-stop, recite quotes from the film “Napoleon Dynamite.”

There was once a time when I might have found this bearable, perhaps even a little amusing, but now? Now I did all I could to keep from bashing my head into the pole beside me.

I’m human, I liked “Napoleon Dynamite.” I might even still let out a few “dang quesa-dilluhs,” when the mood strikes me. But I can’t help but shudder when I walk down the street and some guy with greasy hair and cammo pants starts talking about how he’s “training to be a cage fighter.”

It’s almost the same reaction I have when I hear someone respond to “What kind of music do you like?” with “The Postal Service” before adjusting his Wrangler jeans and “Rent” T-shirt.

When television shows become pass