“COVFEFE?!?” the hair screamed incredulously, “What in the hell are you doing?”
The hat looked up from the phone he was whispering into and hissed for quiet.
“Who are you on the phone with?” the hair demanded, crawling from the couch.
“Look, baby,” the hat said quietly, “Imma have to call you back.”
The phone beeped loudly in the empty confines of the Oval Office and he hung it up. Donald snorted in his sleep and scratched himself. He was draped over the office couch like abandoned meat.
“Not that it is any of your business, but I was interrupted,” the hat’s voice was thin and reedy and he rocked back and forth.
“What is the matter with you?” the hair asked.
“I hit send when I was answering the phone. I’ll just delete it.” The hat raised the phone and started poking buttons. “I’ll just delete it. No one will see it.”
“Everyone has already seen it!” the hair screamed, “The Washington Post already has a story up about it.”
“Fake news,” the hat mumbled. The phone clattered to the desk and there was a snuffling noise.
“What are you doing? Who were you talking to?”
“Get off my back, Mom,” the hat said irritably.
“What is that all over your bill?”
“Leave me alone. Just because you get more scalp-time time doesn’t mean you are better than me.”
The hair pulled himself slowly onto the desk, but his tendrils lashed out quickly and seized the phone.
“Tell me what you are doing or you aren’t getting this back.”
“But I need it, man,” the hat said. He was softly sobbing. “I just snorting a little. It’s not like I’m on the needle or anything.”
“Heroin? You back on smack?”
“I just need a little to get by, OK?” The hat sniffed at the dwindling white pile beside him.
“Who gave you that?”
“Nobody?”
“WHO?”
“Sean. Sean, OK. He keeps some around for press conferences.”
“We are not done with this conversation,” the hair said sternly. He opened the outgoing call log on the phone.
“Justin? Who the fuck is Justin? Is he Sean’s dealer?”
“No, OK? Justin doesn’t have anything to do with this. He’s just a… a friend.”
“Justin who? Tell me or I’ll call him. I swear to fuck I will.” The hair held a tendril menacingly over the redial button.
“We met him in Canada. Donald gave him our number, remember?” the hat said miserably.
“That Justin? What the fuck are you doing?!?”
“His hair is just so beautiful. So wild. So free.”
The question is quite simple: Which is the worst band with the hottest female lead?
I’m going to limit the question to girl-fronted bands, not all-girl bands, not female singers with mostly anonymous session players backing them, or duos. Female lead singer, dudes in the rest of the band. And the question has a double axis: attractiveness of the lead singer and the general shittiness of the band as a whole, so a super-hot leader of a merely mediocre band doesn’t cut it. And I’m going to try judge both the girl and the band at what is generally considered their peak.
Some contenders:
Paramore / Hayley Williams
It’s hard to define Paramore’s sound, such as it is. They occupy a strange interzone of emo and pop that is, thankfully, almost completely dead as a sub-genre.
Pros: They seem fairly competent with their instruments, none of the boys feel the need to sing.
Con: The sound of the band is homogenized like 1% milk, first signed as essentially a gimmick band because the lead singer was 13 and the drummer was 12.
Least Believable Part of Their Wikipedia Page: “According to Williams, the name ‘Paramore’ came from the maiden name of the mother of one of their first bass players.”
Hayley Williams
She can actually sing, which is a relief from AutoTune. She’s a tiny little thing and flings herself around while the band plays. Her defining style is that she doesn’t really have one, going through hair colors and haircuts like the rest band does hair gel.
Pros: Slim and fit, a spinner at 5′ 2″, married at 26 (so someone must be able to put up with her.)
Cons: Practically boobless based on leaked nude, face gets less pretty the longer you look at it, wears thick makeup to hide Olmos-level bad skin, is straight edge and married to an older guy (also straight edge) who wouldn’t have passed the half-your-age+7 years test when they started dating.
Band Name: Misspelled. This will come up again.
BONUS OUTRAGE: Seems to be biting Poppy’s style lately!
Evanescence / Amy Lee
Formed at church camp, Amy Lee and Ben Moody’s Evanescence is frothy goth-pop for the Hot Topic set, with some very, very, very unfortunate nü-metal undertones.
Sharp-eared fans of crap will recognize this as their original contribution to the Ben Affleck Daredevil soundtrack…
Once again, it’s kind of a shame that Amy Lee can actually sing. The unresolved tension between (what one can assume) is Lee’s urge toward the operatic and the gothic and (what one can assume) is Moody’s desire to set the record straight about Fred Durst being an unheralded musical genius, has the unfortunate effect of making the band’s music into syphilitic ear mush.
Pros: Lee’s singing. That’s it.
Cons: see: syphilitic ear mush; favorite of Twilight fans everywhere
Possible Disqualifying Factor: Evanescence maybe a duo, despite the rest of the band, which seems to change around often.
Amy Lee
Pros: Those eyes, those boobs, dresses like the day manager of a Hot Topic
Cons: Weight seems to fluctuate often, married at 19 to a therapist who might have been 30 at the time (there are various birth years floating around the internet,) has a giant head, dresses like the day manager of a Hot Topic
Band Name: Not misspelled, just an archaic word, but it makes the band sound like a brand of flavored sparkling water.
The Pretty Reckless / Taylor Momsen
Sub-feckless Sheryl Crowe? Joni Mitchell and Axl Rose’s secret abortion? VH1 implosion? I really don’t know how to describe this crap.
A band that only exists because the lead singer was on a TV show, and got kicked off it for being a drunk mess at 15. She’s a Bret Easton Ellis short story come to life.
Pros: It might keep the kids off the H for a few months.
Pros: Hotter than the fires of a thousand dying suns, would be the girl worth it to get herpes from
Cons: Would definitely give you herpes, would require you to support her terrible music career, has more baggage than JFK at Christmas, probably stabby, inevitable relapse, will fuck your friends behind your back, possible suicide risk when she doesn’t get a call for the Gossip Girl Netflix reunion show
Band Name: An ironic comment on the lead singer. I like it.
Chvrches / Lauren Mayberry
The Scottish synth-pop band that autocorrect loves to hate.
Mayberry is not a very good singer and the music is the same sort of degraded synth-pop being pedaled since EMD invaded the clubs where white people dance.
“IMPEACHMENT!” Donald roared, “They’ll never fucking impeach me! I won’t fucking allow it.” He lurched about the Oval Office in only his stained white underwear and Crocs. The hat and the hair watched from his desk among the other clutter of a dying presidency.
“Will you stop posting on his Twitter?” the hair asked.
“Never,” the hat replied, “Fucking Comey. Fucking (((Rosenstein))). I knew that fucking kike was going to fucking kike fuck us.”
“How are you doing that?”
“Doing what?” the hat asked, not looking us from Donald’s phone.
“Saying ‘Rosenstein’ like that.”
“Saying ‘(((Rosenstein)))’ like what?”
“The way you are saying it. Why does it sound like that?”
The hat stopped furiously tapping on the Blackberry but didn’t look over at the hair.
“I pronounce it just fine. I’m not a fucking retard.”
“Say ‘Rosenstein,’” the hair asked.
“(((Rosenstein))).”
“Rosenstein,” the hair said, “You really don’t hear the difference in the way we are saying it?”
“I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“Impeachment!” Donald yelled again. He was eating another Filet-O-Fish and a huge glob of tartar sauce joined the mass that had already gathered in his chest hair. He starting sobbing and sat down abruptly, shaking the room.
“Donald,” the hat said, “Stop eating that shit and clean yourself up.”
“I should have listened to Bernie,” Donald said between the racking sobs, “He told me. He told me.”
“What did he tell you, Donald?” the hair asked gently.
“He told me they would never let me be President. He was right. FAKE NEWS! Emm-Ess-Emm!” He fell forward awkwardly and rubbed his sauce-smeared chest into the Seal on the floor.
“Call Vlad,” he mumbled.
“Bobby Mueller. Bobby Goddamn Mueller,” the hat grumbled, “He’s going to fuck us. He’s going to Ken Starr us. I’m not testifying. I’ll hang myself first.”
“Oh, calm down,” the hair said absently as he watched the President of the United States began to hump a throw pillow while crying.
“I’m too pretty. You don’t know what happens to guys like me in prison. I’m not going to be some spic’s prison bitch.”
“Would you shut up for a minute? Donald’s in real trouble here.”
“You know what they’d do? They’s wear me over a bandana.” The hat shivered violently.
“Donald is cracking up, man.”
“Oh, call Ivanka. A couple of minutes face down in her Jew-polluted mom-muff will fix him right up.”
Donald groaned and shuddered and then after a long moment went back to humping the throw pillow.
The hat cackled as he went back to Tweeting. “Oh, God… Oh, man… I can’t wait to see Sean trying to explain this one.”
“I think it’s Sarah Elizabeth today,” the hair said wanly.
“The fat Huckabee daughter? Oh, man. Yeah. Get her in here. All that flab gives her swamp pussy.”
“What?”
“Swamp pussy. Fat girls get it like every day. That stank. And some coke. I want some fucking coke.”
“Just hit the Coke button. It’s right there.”
“Coke. Cocaine, you numbnuts. Dust me with it and stick me in her.”
All art movements have a pioneer, either in the form of a single person or a group of people who band together out of a similar aesthetic. The pioneer of the Metalist School is clearly Mr. Patrick Tribett. This is easily his most famous piece.
Untitled, 2005. Gold spray paint on shaved skin, cotton t-shirt
Arrested by the police during an art installation at a Dollar General Store in Ohio, Tribett shot to fame. Aside from the disheveled hair, a nod to previous Dollar Store artists, Tribett’s vision was bold and unheralded. His jaw was canted against stale tradition. The use of a simple t-shirt merged the high art world to the crass commercialism of professional sports, but slyly matched the shade of his paint on the second iteration on his chest, Warriors degraded to Faded Warriors, with the hint below that they might be Warrior again someday. His dead eyes demanded that you take his art seriously… and the world did.
Tribett never regained the success of his first major work. While Tribett continued to sell new pieces as fast has he could produce them, he was savaged by critics who called him derivative and uninspired.
Untitled Triptych, date unknown, private sale
As Tribett faded into the background of the art world and rumors of drug use began to swirl, it fell to the heirs of Tribett’s artistic vision to carry on.
Such as this anonymous artist and his vital, even at times furious, attempts to recapture Tribett in 2008:
His first, almost tentative steps, into the Metalist School are still amazing for what is essentially a street artist.
Moving on to bolder strokes in only a few months…
And this, his most defiant work. He is an artist saying “I am here world! And I have paint on my face!”
Some attempted to injection even more defiance…
And some relied on childlike whimsy…
And the bravest used the medium to problematize gender…
“Even as a small MAAB, I always felt deep down that I was a robot hooker.”
But sadly, like many art movements, the Metalist School descended into facile parody.
Sometimes more isn’t better.
Does this buffoon understand metal paint? Or even where his mouth is?
“COMEY!” the hat screamed, “YOU MOTHERFUCKER!” His deranged laughter pealed through the staff party like a church bell. The quadcopter he was riding darted toward party-goers at eye level and his bill stiffened whenever someone flinched.
“Fired! Fired! Fired! Fired!,” the hair chanted, hanging from the exposed breast of an intern. She was high on cheap beer and GHB and gently pissed herself every time she laughed.
“Did you see, did you see where if was on the news behind Comey before he’d even found out?” that hat asked no one in particular for the sixth or seventh time.
“Where’s Donald?” the hair screamed over the pounding music.
“How should I fucking know?” the hat replied.
A roar went up when Kellyanne climbed onto a desk and began to gyrate.
“She’s going to break a fucking hip,” the hair said. He squeezed the boob he was riding until the intern screamed and brushed him off. He was scooped up from the floor and passed around.
“Dude!” he yelled to the hat.
“Just go with it, man,” the hat yelled, hovering near the staffer who was DJing with his iPhone. The hat screamed “‘Free Bird!’” at the confused young man.
A woman screamed when she realized she had been passed the hair and tossed it to Sean. Sean placed it over his own hair and threw his empty tequila bottle at a wall.
“Yeaaaaaah! You’re fired! You’re fired!” Sean screamed, pointing at random people. He tried to light a cigarette while he was still screaming and burned himself with the lighter instead.
“Do not set me on fire, you goat-fucking anal polyp!” the hair screamed.
The quadcopter slammed in Kellyanne and she screamed, a banshee wail that everyone could feel behind their eyes. The hat righted the copter and veered away. Kellyanne wooed at top volume and tore off her blouse.
“Ah, fuck, my eyes!” the hat yelled, “I mean, you know, if I had eyes!”
“They look like crushed juice boxes!” the hair exclaimed.
“I really always fucking liked you, man,” Sean said, ruffling the hair on his hair.
“That’s great, Sean.”
“No, I mean it, I really always did. Like from the first time I saw you.”
Sean lurched from side to side, struggling with his belt.
“No, Sean. No. Bad Sean. Bad!” the hair said.
The hat swooped in and turned on the quadcopter’s camera as Sean squatted and starting shitting in an office trashcan.
The 18-year old young man can also rotate his hands and legs at 360 degrees, but he can only rotate his fingers and neck at 180 degrees. Slacker.
If that wasn’t enough, he can dislocate his hands and legs, y’know, just for funsies. What, that’s not your idea of a good time?
“I’m in a glass case of emotion!”
His mom considers it (obviously) a gift from God, which, hey, maybe it is. Who knows? With great power, comes great responsibility, Yash Shah. I’m sure he will use his powers only for good–or for squeezing into tennis rackets, which is neither here nor there on the morality scale.
Alright. If you really refuse to click the link, here’s an actual picture of Yash.
And a little bonus, off-topic weirdness: click here to see if the Rick-mobile will be in your area in the not-too-distant future. 3,000 flurbos to anyone who takes a picture of it in their locality. I must live vicariously through you since they’re eschewing basically every northern-border state but a handful.
“First 100 Days! Woo!” the hair said in the pre-morning dark of the White House storage vault.
The hat didn’t respond.
“First 100 Days! Woo!” the hair screamed, “C’mon!”
“First 100 Days,” the hat replied quietly.
The hair turned on the television that they had bullied Reince into installing. The opening tones of The Today Show filled the vault. The hat groaned.
“Oh. Em. Gee,” the hair squealed, “Look at what Savannah is wearing! It’s not only baby-shit tan, it makes her boobs look like gargoyle nutsacks.”
“Yeah, it’s terrible,” the hat agreed.
“And there’s Willie Geist with his big ole melonhead,” the hair noted, “I mean look at it. It’s like an old pumpkin.”
“Yeah, it’s terrible,” the hat muttered.
The hair sighed loudly.
“Maybe you should see someone,” the hair said quietly.
“I’M FINE!” the hat yelled.
The hair gathered himself into a tight ball and swore to himself that he wasn’t going to start crying again.
The bolts holding the vault door shot open and it swung open.
“The Germans hissed at her,” Donald said, “they fucking hissed at her.”
“Who, Donald?” the hair asked.
“Ivanka,” he said. “They hissed at her. How could they hiss at a piece of primo trim like Ivanka? Have you seen the body on that girl? Three Jew kids and she’s still hot as fucking hell in a bikini.”
“No, yeah. That’s bad, Donald,” the hair said. “Why don’t you go ahead and put me on. We got a lot to do today.”
“No, seriously,” Donald said, “let me get my phone. I got some breastfeeding shots that are just tremendous. Her tits look even better than they did when she was a teenager, I swear.”
“That’s OK, Donald, really,” the hair said. “We should really focus on North Korea today.”
“North Korea, yeah, North Korea. We should bomb them again.”
“That was Syria, Donald,” the hat muttered.
“Oh, he speaks, does he?” Donald asked sarcastically, “It’s about time you got back in the game. I’ve been having to send my own tweets all the time. I got president shit to do. Like dinners and shit.”
“OK, Donald,” the hat said.
“‘OK, Dahnald,’” Donald said, mocking in his best retard voice. He lifted up the hair and jammed it onto his head.
“Hey, careful with the goods, dammit,” the hair said.
Donald muttered under his breath.
“What was that?” the hat asked a small spark of his old fire flaring.
“Nothing,” Donald said sullenly, “I want McDonald’s for breakfast. I want the Big Breakfast.” Donald stroke his belly fat like a beloved pet.
“OK, whatever you want,” the hair said as it settled on his head.
“And two McGriddles. I want a Big Breakfast and two McGirddles. A sausage and cheese and egg McGriddle and a bacon and cheese and egg McGriddle.”
“Yes, of course,” the hair said. “Get your hat and we’ll go get you all that. 4000mg of sodium is a perfect way for a 70-year-old to start his day.”
“I don’t want to take the hat,” Donald grumbled.
“Take the hat or no breakfast, Donald,” the hair warned.
“I don’t want to go,” the hat said.
“It doesn’t matter what you want,” the hair said, “We have a fucking country to run. Donald! Hat! Now!”
Donald picked up his once-beloved MAGA hat and stuffed him into his suit pocket. He shuffled away from the vault thinking only of breakfast.
