Review Summary: Gender-bending g-units gargle gothically through garburators.37 of 37 thought this review was well written
I'd like to tell you a story. A story of dreams, horror, madness, and regret (in that order): the story of a boy who decided to review Blood on the Dance Floor, and their apocalyptically poorly-named album, EPIC.
It was a night like any other. I sat before a flickering screen, dimly pondering what to review. Then, a flash of inspiration: I would review the very worst music I could find without putting any serious effort into the search. I brightly began my search, starting on this very site, in fact. Searching through the archives, I lit upon a true beacon of atrocity: Blood on the Dance Floor. It was perfect: a universal rating of 1.8, songs titled in the style of Mad Libs: Alcohol and Regrets Edition, a poorly-worded review, and 4 fans. The best was yet to come: after silent contemplation and several occult consultations, I had absolutely no idea whether the band members were male, female, or enormous hairy insects. Finally, I had found it: the album which very nearly beamed with Crimes Against God and Man. I had found the largest target in history, and it was beautiful.
I was glowing with success, on a natural high surpassed only by the permanent high Andrew WK has achieved through Buddha-like meditation of when one should, and should not party. (The answer: man is only separated from heaven by that which he will not party for.) I needed now to choose an album to review. Like a Craigslist ad written by an idiot, the one titled in all caps stuck out the most: the one named EPIC. Moving on to Youtube, I discovered an album preview with over 150,000 hits. I presumed that much of that traffic was spillover from the people who find meaning in videos titled "EPIC WoW FAIL TRAMPOLINE MUDKIPS", but was reassured nonetheless: I would not be the first to subject myself to this.
However, I was the first to survive. Clicking the link with all the naivety of a person who believes politics results in positive outcomes, I opened the video and began to listen. At that same moment, I began, too, to lose my mind. The noise I heard was a metaphorical wasteland, a barren land razed clean of any semblance of rhythm or rhyme by the merciless forces of Autotune, Benefactor of the Brainless and Antagonist of the Artist. I was rooted to my seat, unable to move, unable to scream, as the death of all things holy echoed in my ears and the screen zoomed slowly on the genderless band mates. I slowly began to understand: this was not a band. This was an omen.
The music stopped. Regaining control of my senses, I clumsily shifted my mouse towards a corner of my screen. Salvation lay there. A small red block with an x in the center lay there. But it was not to be. I had been foolish. I had thought my torment complete.
It began again, as the uncaring machine at my feet continued the video. I had not reached the end, I had reached a pause: a calculated break in sight and sound before the preview of the next track began. I heard screaming all around me. I knew it was the music; sound which was once a human's voice distorted beyond all possible recognition. However, I also knew the others in the house were screaming. I knew I was screaming. I knew that at that moment, the universe screamed with one voice, cursing whatever power permitted such things to exist. Off-key instrumentals and the howling of these androgynous demons filled my mind and tore it apart, and all hope faded from the world.
I've made mistakes. No fewer than the norm, I'll admit. Once I even attempted to fill an entire review with wordplay based around light, foolish as it may seem. But this... this was not a mistake. It was not a lapse in judgment from which I would recover. What I had done was subject myself to the inane ramblings of sexless children with hair resembling rats covered in polycarbonate. I had done exactly what I wanted to do: review the worst music in all the known multiverse.