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Entirely written by Landon9000 in MS Paint, then copy-pasted here.
The cliché "five years from now, she sits at home, feeding the baby she's all alone", which originated in the 2002 song "Sk8er Boi" (performed by Avril Lavigne), is a tired trope that deserves robust criticism. It’s a narrative that traps women in a seemingly inescapable destiny of domesticity, devoid of personal agency and ambition. This portrayal perpetuates harmful stereotypes, reducing women to caregivers and suggesting that their lives are inherently defined by motherhood, even if that motherhood is solitary.
The cliché ignores the myriad of choices and paths women can and do take. It dismisses the possibility of fulfilling careers, thriving partnerships, personal growth and diverse family structures. By presenting a single, bleak outcome, it negates the resilience, strength and multifaceted nature of women. This narrative can be particularly damaging to young women, as it can foster a sense of fatalism, implying that their potential is limited by their gender and the societal expectations that come with it.
This imagery also fails to acknowledge the complexity of single parenthood. While it is undoubtedly challenging, it is not inherently a state of despair or isolation. Many single mothers build strong support networks, find immense joy in their children and lead fulfilling lives. The cliché, by framing it as a solitary and pitiable existence, disrespects these realities and the strength that comes from navigating such a path.
Furthermore, the cliché often carries an unspoken judgment, implying that a woman alone with a child is a failure or has made poor choices. This is a deeply unfair and judgmental perspective that overlooks the circumstances that may lead to single parenthood, such as loss, difficult relationships, or personal decisions about family planning.
The persistent use of this cliché needs to be challenged. We should be celebrating narratives that showcase women's diverse ambitions, their resilience in the face of adversity and their ability to forge their own paths, whether that path includes motherhood, partnership or neither. It's time to move beyond this limited and disheartening portrayal and embrace a more nuanced and empowering understanding of women's lives and futures. The future for women is not a predetermined, solitary scene of domesticity; it is a vast, unwritten landscape of possibility.
The cliché, in context, was likely intended to be a commentary on the unexpected turns life can take for young women, particularly in the aftermath of rejection, breakups or a seemingly carefree youth. It was probably intended to evoke a sense of consequence, a quiet reality check against youthful bravado. However, like a fashion trend that outstays its welcome, this specific narrative arc has ossified into the aforementioned trope that fails to acknowledge the vast spectrum of possibilities and experiences available to young women.
"Sk8er Boi" and "Complicated" are both fucking horrible songs, and you suck for liking them. Wanna know why? I just fucking expalined why. The insidious nature of this cliché lies in its singular focus on isolation and a perceived failure, with "all alone" being the operative phrase, implying a lack of support, a societal judgment and a personal setback. This narrative that conveniently bypasses the myriad of other paths for women to take. Assholes...
Keeping Up with Susie
Pilot: Susie from Deltarune plans a grand anniversary for Noelle Holiday. The premise itself is ripe for examination: a meticulously planned public display of familial affection. While the ostensible goal is celebration, the underlying current is undoubtedly about maintaining the carefully curated image of the two as the ultimtate "perfect" blended partners. The episode juxtaposes this staged celebration with her burgeoning career as a punk pop/post-grunge artist, her appearance serving as a pivotal moment in her ascent from reality star to global brand. The interview is a performance itself, meticulously rehearsed and designed to elicit a specific public reaction. Meanwhile, Noelle navigates "relationship drama", a perennial narrative device that injects manufactured conflict and emotional stakes, often revolving around perceived slights or misunderstandings that feel both staged and oddly detached from genuine interpersonal growth. The pilot embodies the show's core tension: the constant interplay between manufactured reality and aspirational aspiration, where genuine emotional depth is often sacrificed for polished presentation.
Susie spends the rest of the show complaining about how she's single now, and how she has to take care of an infant, and unable to get laid, and has been broken up with too many of her boyfriends and whatever. The "punk dinosaur", who once scorned boys, is depicted as having a life that has utterly crumbled. The Lightner's supposed glamorous past–implied by her ability to reject a suitor–has dissolved into a cycle of romantic failures and overwhelming responsibility. She's no longer the cool, desirable girl; she's the cautionary tale. Her lament isn't about a missed opportunity for genuine connection or a life lesson learned about judging others. Instead, it's a litany of superficial woes: she's single, she has an infant to care for (a detail that feels more like a plot device for her misery than a nuanced portrayal of motherhood) and she can't get laid. She's been dumped by too many boyfriends, a victim of her own supposed past arrogance.
This isn't an anthem of self-discovery or a nuanced exploration of consequence. It's a rather mean-spirited punchline. The song essentially revels in the downfall of this woman, framing her current struggles as a direct and deserved punishment for her youthful indiscretion. The guy, meanwhile, has presumably ascended to rockstar fame more than she has and is happily with someone else, the one who did see his potential. The song offers no sympathy, no "what if", just a gleeful schadenfreude directed squarely at the woman who made the "wrong" choice.
Because that's what "Sk8er Boi" is. The premise itself, a girl who dismisses a "skater boy" for being "too different" and then, years later, finds herself in a state of bitter regret, is a well-worn trope. And it's the nature of her regret that truly grinds gears.
1. Talc
Easy listening
Ambient
Sunshine pop
Space music
Exotica
Lounge music
Quiet storm
Baroque pop
Country (without a significant rock influence)
2. Gypsum
Eurobeat
Happy hardcore
Trance
3. Calcite
Pop punk
Hip-hop
Synth-pop
Folk music
Disco
New wave
4. Rock Salt
Neo-soul
Surf rock
Lighter post-grunge
Psychedelic rock
5. Apatite
Alternative R&B
R&B with experimental edge
Written entirely by Landon9000 in MS Paint, then copy-pasted here.
The scent of ozone, hot metal, and singed wiring was the perfume of Bunnie Rabbot's sanctuary. In her workshop, amidst the scattered schematics and meticulously organized tool racks, there was an order that the war-torn world outside rarely afforded. It was a place of purpose, of creation and repair. And today, that sanctuary was being violated by a tinny, over-compressed guitar riff pouring from a salvaged boombox Tails had just finished rewiring.
"Almost got it!" the young fox chirped, twisting a dial. "The reception out here is spotty, but I found a '2000s Throwback' station!"
Daughtry - It's Not Over (2006) [Post-grunge, pop rock]
The riff solidified into the opening chords of Daughtry's "It's Not Over". Bunnie, who had been carefully calibrating the articulated joints of her robotic leg, froze. Her ear twitched, analyzing the sound with cold, unforgiving precision.
"Turn it off, Tails," she said, her voice a low growl that vibrated with her Southern drawl.
"But it's a classic!"
"Honey-chile, that ain't a classic. That's a symptom," she retorted, placing a wrench down with a deliberate clank. "That's the sound of every focus-grouped, market-tested, creatively bankrupt decision made by a room full of suits. That's the sound of terrestrial radio's death rattle. Fuck their bullshit, and while we're at it, SiriusXM sucks too. It's all just pre-packaged noise designed to be inoffensive."
Good Charlotte - The Anthem (2003) [Punk pop, emo pop]
Tails, taken aback by the sudden vehemence, fumbled with the dial. The station scanned, landing on another track, this one with a nasally male vocalist wailing over a chugging guitar. "This is the anthem, throw all your hands up..."
Bunnie's organic eye narrowed. "Good Charlotte. Sweet mercy. The official soundtrack for every teenager who thought buyin' a studded belt at the mall made 'em a rebel. They ain't punks; they're poseurs playin' dress-up. That song ain't an anthem; it's a marketing slogan for teen angst."
Tails quickly spun the dial again, hoping for safer harbor. He landed on a frantic, theatrical intro. "Oh, well, imagine! As I'm pacing the pews in a church corridor..."
"Oh, for cryin' out loud," Bunnie groaned, rubbing her temples. "Panic! at the Disco. Gettin' Fall Out Boy spun off into this band was never a good idea. Pop punk was barely even tolerable to begin with, so what's the point of drownin' it in a vat of Vaudeville schmaltz and eyeliner? It's not clever; it’s just exhausting."
"But... the lyrics are creative!" Tails offered weakly.
"No, they're just wordy. There's a difference." She gestured with her wrench. "Real punk should have some grit, some honesty. This? This is just a drama club set to a dance rhythm. You want psychotic lyrics that are at least tryin' to pretend they're not? Find me that Avril Lavigne song."
Avril Lavigne - Complicated (2002) [Pop rock]
As if on cue, the radio skipped again, and the iconic, jangly guitar of "Complicated" filled the workshop.
Bunnie let out a humorless laugh. "There it is. 'You’re tryin' to be cool, you look like a fool to me.' The irony is richer than one of Robotnik's oil baths. This whole 'I'm so real, you're all fakes' routine from a girl styled by Antonio L.A. Reid, the executive producer and manager of Boyz II Men, Justin Bieber, Rihanna and Pink. It's not deep; it's the ramblings of a paranoid narcissist who thinks everyone else's life is a performance."
Simple Plan - Untitled (How Could This Happen to Me?) (2005) [Emo pop, adult contemporary, pop rock]
Desperate, Tails tried a different station. A mournful piano melody began. "I open my eyes, I try to see but I'm blinded by the white light..."
Bunnie's face fell into a mask of pure agony. "Simple Plan. The single whiniest band in existence. Every song is a different flavor of 'poor me', set to the most plodding, predictable chord progression imaginable. This isn't music; it's an audio sympathy card. I've had plasma cannons melt through my arm with less melodrama."
The radio, seemingly possessed by a demon of mediocrity, shifted to a powerful female voice backed by a country twang. "Right now, he's probably slow dancin' with a bleached-blond tramp..."
"Nope," Bunnie declared, standing up so fast her stool scraped against the concrete floor. "Carrie Underwood. Who in their right mind wants to listen to a screechy, ignorant, flag-waving Stepford housewife singin' about felony property damage? It's not empowering; it's trashy. It celebrates bein' petty and destructive instead of just leavin' the sorry sack of potatoes who cheated on ya."
Uncle Kracker - Follow Me (2000) [Adult contemporary, pop rock, soft rock]
She stalked over to the boombox herself, grabbing the dial. As she turned it, she caught snippets. A lazy, folksy strum... "I'm not worried 'bout the ring in your hair, 'cause as long as no one knows, then nobody can care..."
"Uncle Kracker," she spat. "A cliched party song from a man who looks like he's permanently sticky. Music is serious business, dammit! It's about soul, struggle and truth! Not about getting drunk on a pontoon boat."
Another snippet. A slick, Auto-Tuned voice over a hip-hop beat and a banjo... "Baby, you a song, you make me wanna roll my windows down and cruise..."
"Florida Georgia Line. Immature lyrics written by thirty-year-old men who still think shotgunnin' a beer is a personality trait. Pass."
She kept turning, the dial a blur of noise until a booming, grandiose power ballad erupted. Scott Stapp's iconic baritone filled the air. "With arms wide open..."
Bunnie slammed her robotic hand down next to the radio, making Tails jump. "Creed. The absolute zenith. The very definition of generic radio rock. It's the beige of music. The unseasoned chicken breast of sound. It's what happens when you feed a thousand hours of Pearl Jam to a mechanical typewriter and ask it to write a song for a Hallmark card. It's ARENA ROCK scrubbed of all danger, all sex, all anything that makes rock and roll matter."
Natasha Bedingfield - Unwritten (2004) [Pop, sunshine pop, soft rock]
A bright, optimistic acoustic guitar strummed, followed by a breezy female voice singing about an open book and the rain on your skin.
"Ugh," Bunnie grunted, her humming ceasing abruptly.
Tails looked up. "Don't like Natasha Bedingfield? She's a classic!"
"Sugah, that ain’t a classic," she retorted, her Southern drawl sharp as a tack. "That's Muzak. It's what they play in the dentist's office right before they tell you that you need a root canal. It's the sound of beige."
Avril Lavigne - Sk8er Boi (2002) [Punk pop, pop rock]
The station's algorithm, sensing a mood, shifted gears. A punchy glam metal riff kicked in. "He was a boy, she was a girl, can I make it any more obvious?"
Tails grinned. "Alright, now we're talking! Avril Lavigne!"
Bunnie's organic ear twitched in irritation. "This is even worse. At least the other one knew what it was. This here is a betrayal. This is what happens when you take the righteous anger of punk rock, sand down all the edges, run it through a focus group and slap a Hot Topic-approved tie on it. It’s a weird, unnatural turn, movin' pop punk away from radio-friendly pop rock or somethin' else with a little bite, to just... borderline pop with a leather bracelet. It's a poseur anthem."
Alanis Morisette - Ironic (1996) [Pop rock, post-grunge]
As if to test her very soul, the station then offered up Alanis Morissette. The jangling, almost country-esque chords of "Ironic" filled the room.
Bunnie's head snapped up. Her cybernetic eye glowed with a faint, dangerous red. "Oh no. Not this. Not this sanctimonious, pseudo-intellectual drivel."
"What's wrong with 'Ironic'?” Tails asked, genuinely curious now.
"What's wrong with it?" Bunnie stood up, pacing. "That shit exists to exploit and comfort people who are goin' through real, gut-wrenchin' trauma, which this song is apparently supposed to be about. This song is not about any particular situation; all Morisette does is describe a bunch of bummers she considers 'inconvinent', 'frustrating' and 'disappointing'. In other words, she takes the ugliest, most painful parts of life and wraps them in a tidy little package with a catchy chorus and a music video. Not a single damn thing in the lyrics is actually ironic! It's emotional manipulation of the highest order, pretendin' to be profound."
Alanis Morisette - You Oughta Know (1995) [Post-grunge, pop rock]
Her rant was cut short as the song ended and another began—a snarling bassline and Morissette's raw, furious voice screaming, “And I'm here to remind you..."
"Generic infidelity song," said Bunnie, throwing her hands up in the air. "The vocals are shit. The lyrics are shit. The instrumentals are pure Nickelbackian shit. The topics she sings about are shit. This is the other side of the same cheap coin! More whiny, dreary self-absorption with tinny beats made on a cheap sequencer and processed vocals just to add to the bleedin' misery. It's not righteous anger; it's a temper tantrum recorded in a studio with a producer who kept sayin', 'More angst, Alanis! The kids love angst!'"
The Wubbulous World of Dr. Seuss - Come On Along (1998) [Children's music, piano rock, jazz pop, traditional pop]
Tails, now genuinely terrified of the radio, noticed a dusty cassette tape on the bench. He figured it had to be one of Bunnie's. It was just labeled "Wubbulous". Hoping to calm her down with something familiar, he popped it in. A bouncy, cheerful and painfully simplistic theme song began. "Come on along, get up and let's shout 'hooray' now!"
Bunnie's expression curdled. She stared at the boombox as if it had personally insulted her ancestors. “The Wubbulous World of Dr. Seuss,” she said, her voice dangerously quiet. "How childish."
She ejected the tape, snapped it in half with her metal fingers, and dropped the pieces into a waste bin. The sudden silence was deafening.
“So,” Tails finally squeaked, “what… what do you actually like, Bunnie-rab?”
A slow smile finally spread across her face. It was the first genuine one she’d had all afternoon. She walked over to an old, battle-scarred turntable in the corner and pulled a thick vinyl record from its sleeve. She placed it down with reverence, the needle hissing before a thunderous, raw, blues-drenched guitar riff exploded from the speakers—Led Zeppelin. It was heavy, complex, and filled with a swagger that felt earned.
“I like music with scars, sugar,” she said, her voice full of warmth again as the sound of Bonham’s drums rattled the tools on the walls. "I like music that feels like it was forged, not manufactured. Something with soul, with a story. Somethin' that ain't JUST A STRAIGHTFORWARD POP SONG WITH POP PUNK ELEMENTS, but a real, bleedin', sweat-soaked piece of a person's heart. Now this," she said, leaning back against her workbench, a queen on her throne, "Is music."
The radio, as if possessed by a demon of mediocrity, followed it up with the incomprehensible shouting and scratching of Kid Rock’s "Bawitdaba".
Bunnie just stared at the speaker, speechless for a moment. “My God. It somehow became a hit on the charts although it has no redeeming value whatsoever and does not stand the test of time. It’s the musical equivalent of a monster truck rally colliding with a meth lab. It's just noise, a cultural dead end.”
Then came the opening riff of "Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous".
A dark expression crossed Bunnie’s face. She muttered something under her breath.
“What was that, sugah?” Sonic asked, unable to hear her over the pop punk chorus.
Bunnie's voice cut through the music, cold and sharp. "What a bunch of Nazis."
The room went dead silent. Sonic's smirk vanished. Tails dropped his soldering iron with a clatter. Sally's expression hardened. Antoine, woken by the sudden silence, sat bolt upright.
“Bunnie,” Sally said, her tone leaving no room for argument. "That language is not acceptable here."
Bunnie flinched, the fury in her eyes replaced by a flash of shame. She looked at her friends’ shocked faces and slumped back into her chair. Her bionic hand clenched and unclenched.
“You’re right, Sal. I... I apologize. That was ugly. It’s not what I meant to… It’s just..." she stammered, searching for the words. “It’s the hypocrisy of it all. They’re sittin’ there, millionaires in their fancy studios, cryin’ about how hard it is to be rich and famous, sellin’ fake rebellion to kids who’ll never see that kind of money in their lives. It’s dishonest. And that dishonesty… it just gets my oil boilin’.”
As if on cue, the station offered its final insult. A yodeling, doo-wop-inspired beat started up, with Gwen Stefani’s voice cooing about a sweet escape.
Bunnie Rabbot leaned back, closed her eyes, and spoke to the ceiling in a voice of pure, unadulterated defeat.
“Kill me now, God, please.”
Antoine was by her side in an instant, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Mon chéri, it is alright. Ze terrible noise, it is over.” He marched over to the satellite radio and, with a flourish of dramatic indignation, switched it off. He then slotted in a dusty cassette tape.
The warm, soulful wail of a slide guitar filled the silence, followed by the foot-stomping rhythm of a classic Delta blues track. It was music with dirt under its fingernails, music that had lived a life of hardship and triumph.
Bunnie opened her eyes. A small, genuine smile touched her lips for the first time that afternoon. “Now that,” she said, her voice softening, “is music with a soul.”
The cliché "five years from now, she sits at home, feeding the baby she's all alone", which originated in the 2002 song "Sk8er Boi" (performed by Avril Lavigne), is a tired trope that deserves robust criticism. It’s a narrative that traps women in a seemingly inescapable destiny of domesticity, devoid of personal agency and ambition. This portrayal perpetuates harmful stereotypes, reducing women to caregivers and suggesting that their lives are inherently defined by motherhood, even if that motherhood is solitary.
The cliché ignores the myriad of choices and paths women can and do take. It dismisses the possibility of fulfilling careers, thriving partnerships, personal growth and diverse family structures. By presenting a single, bleak outcome, it negates the resilience, strength and multifaceted nature of women. This narrative can be particularly damaging to young women, as it can foster a sense of fatalism, implying that their potential is limited by their gender and the societal expectations that come with it.
This imagery also fails to acknowledge the complexity of single parenthood. While it is undoubtedly challenging, it is not inherently a state of despair or isolation. Many single mothers build strong support networks, find immense joy in their children and lead fulfilling lives. The cliché, by framing it as a solitary and pitiable existence, disrespects these realities and the strength that comes from navigating such a path.
Furthermore, the cliché often carries an unspoken judgment, implying that a woman alone with a child is a failure or has made poor choices. This is a deeply unfair and judgmental perspective that overlooks the circumstances that may lead to single parenthood, such as loss, difficult relationships, or personal decisions about family planning.
The persistent use of this cliché needs to be challenged. We should be celebrating narratives that showcase women's diverse ambitions, their resilience in the face of adversity and their ability to forge their own paths, whether that path includes motherhood, partnership or neither. It's time to move beyond this limited and disheartening portrayal and embrace a more nuanced and empowering understanding of women's lives and futures. The future for women is not a predetermined, solitary scene of domesticity; it is a vast, unwritten landscape of possibility.
The cliché, in context, was likely intended to be a commentary on the unexpected turns life can take for young women, particularly in the aftermath of rejection, breakups or a seemingly carefree youth. It was probably intended to evoke a sense of consequence, a quiet reality check against youthful bravado. However, like a fashion trend that outstays its welcome, this specific narrative arc has ossified into the aforementioned trope that fails to acknowledge the vast spectrum of possibilities and experiences available to young women.
"Sk8er Boi" and "Complicated" are both fucking horrible songs, and you suck for liking them. Wanna know why? I just fucking expalined why. The insidious nature of this cliché lies in its singular focus on isolation and a perceived failure, with "all alone" being the operative phrase, implying a lack of support, a societal judgment and a personal setback. This narrative that conveniently bypasses the myriad of other paths for women to take. Assholes...
Keeping Up with Susie
Pilot: Susie from Deltarune plans a grand anniversary for Noelle Holiday. The premise itself is ripe for examination: a meticulously planned public display of familial affection. While the ostensible goal is celebration, the underlying current is undoubtedly about maintaining the carefully curated image of the two as the ultimtate "perfect" blended partners. The episode juxtaposes this staged celebration with her burgeoning career as a punk pop/post-grunge artist, her appearance serving as a pivotal moment in her ascent from reality star to global brand. The interview is a performance itself, meticulously rehearsed and designed to elicit a specific public reaction. Meanwhile, Noelle navigates "relationship drama", a perennial narrative device that injects manufactured conflict and emotional stakes, often revolving around perceived slights or misunderstandings that feel both staged and oddly detached from genuine interpersonal growth. The pilot embodies the show's core tension: the constant interplay between manufactured reality and aspirational aspiration, where genuine emotional depth is often sacrificed for polished presentation.
Susie spends the rest of the show complaining about how she's single now, and how she has to take care of an infant, and unable to get laid, and has been broken up with too many of her boyfriends and whatever. The "punk dinosaur", who once scorned boys, is depicted as having a life that has utterly crumbled. The Lightner's supposed glamorous past–implied by her ability to reject a suitor–has dissolved into a cycle of romantic failures and overwhelming responsibility. She's no longer the cool, desirable girl; she's the cautionary tale. Her lament isn't about a missed opportunity for genuine connection or a life lesson learned about judging others. Instead, it's a litany of superficial woes: she's single, she has an infant to care for (a detail that feels more like a plot device for her misery than a nuanced portrayal of motherhood) and she can't get laid. She's been dumped by too many boyfriends, a victim of her own supposed past arrogance.
This isn't an anthem of self-discovery or a nuanced exploration of consequence. It's a rather mean-spirited punchline. The song essentially revels in the downfall of this woman, framing her current struggles as a direct and deserved punishment for her youthful indiscretion. The guy, meanwhile, has presumably ascended to rockstar fame more than she has and is happily with someone else, the one who did see his potential. The song offers no sympathy, no "what if", just a gleeful schadenfreude directed squarely at the woman who made the "wrong" choice.
Because that's what "Sk8er Boi" is. The premise itself, a girl who dismisses a "skater boy" for being "too different" and then, years later, finds herself in a state of bitter regret, is a well-worn trope. And it's the nature of her regret that truly grinds gears.
1. Talc
Easy listening
Ambient
Sunshine pop
Space music
Exotica
Lounge music
Quiet storm
Baroque pop
Country (without a significant rock influence)
2. Gypsum
Eurobeat
Happy hardcore
Trance
3. Calcite
Pop punk
Hip-hop
Synth-pop
Folk music
Disco
New wave
4. Rock Salt
Neo-soul
Surf rock
Lighter post-grunge
Psychedelic rock
5. Apatite
Alternative R&B
R&B with experimental edge
Written entirely by Landon9000 in MS Paint, then copy-pasted here.
The scent of ozone, hot metal, and singed wiring was the perfume of Bunnie Rabbot's sanctuary. In her workshop, amidst the scattered schematics and meticulously organized tool racks, there was an order that the war-torn world outside rarely afforded. It was a place of purpose, of creation and repair. And today, that sanctuary was being violated by a tinny, over-compressed guitar riff pouring from a salvaged boombox Tails had just finished rewiring.
"Almost got it!" the young fox chirped, twisting a dial. "The reception out here is spotty, but I found a '2000s Throwback' station!"
Daughtry - It's Not Over (2006) [Post-grunge, pop rock]
The riff solidified into the opening chords of Daughtry's "It's Not Over". Bunnie, who had been carefully calibrating the articulated joints of her robotic leg, froze. Her ear twitched, analyzing the sound with cold, unforgiving precision.
"Turn it off, Tails," she said, her voice a low growl that vibrated with her Southern drawl.
"But it's a classic!"
"Honey-chile, that ain't a classic. That's a symptom," she retorted, placing a wrench down with a deliberate clank. "That's the sound of every focus-grouped, market-tested, creatively bankrupt decision made by a room full of suits. That's the sound of terrestrial radio's death rattle. Fuck their bullshit, and while we're at it, SiriusXM sucks too. It's all just pre-packaged noise designed to be inoffensive."
Good Charlotte - The Anthem (2003) [Punk pop, emo pop]
Tails, taken aback by the sudden vehemence, fumbled with the dial. The station scanned, landing on another track, this one with a nasally male vocalist wailing over a chugging guitar. "This is the anthem, throw all your hands up..."
Bunnie's organic eye narrowed. "Good Charlotte. Sweet mercy. The official soundtrack for every teenager who thought buyin' a studded belt at the mall made 'em a rebel. They ain't punks; they're poseurs playin' dress-up. That song ain't an anthem; it's a marketing slogan for teen angst."
Tails quickly spun the dial again, hoping for safer harbor. He landed on a frantic, theatrical intro. "Oh, well, imagine! As I'm pacing the pews in a church corridor..."
"Oh, for cryin' out loud," Bunnie groaned, rubbing her temples. "Panic! at the Disco. Gettin' Fall Out Boy spun off into this band was never a good idea. Pop punk was barely even tolerable to begin with, so what's the point of drownin' it in a vat of Vaudeville schmaltz and eyeliner? It's not clever; it’s just exhausting."
"But... the lyrics are creative!" Tails offered weakly.
"No, they're just wordy. There's a difference." She gestured with her wrench. "Real punk should have some grit, some honesty. This? This is just a drama club set to a dance rhythm. You want psychotic lyrics that are at least tryin' to pretend they're not? Find me that Avril Lavigne song."
Avril Lavigne - Complicated (2002) [Pop rock]
As if on cue, the radio skipped again, and the iconic, jangly guitar of "Complicated" filled the workshop.
Bunnie let out a humorless laugh. "There it is. 'You’re tryin' to be cool, you look like a fool to me.' The irony is richer than one of Robotnik's oil baths. This whole 'I'm so real, you're all fakes' routine from a girl styled by Antonio L.A. Reid, the executive producer and manager of Boyz II Men, Justin Bieber, Rihanna and Pink. It's not deep; it's the ramblings of a paranoid narcissist who thinks everyone else's life is a performance."
Simple Plan - Untitled (How Could This Happen to Me?) (2005) [Emo pop, adult contemporary, pop rock]
Desperate, Tails tried a different station. A mournful piano melody began. "I open my eyes, I try to see but I'm blinded by the white light..."
Bunnie's face fell into a mask of pure agony. "Simple Plan. The single whiniest band in existence. Every song is a different flavor of 'poor me', set to the most plodding, predictable chord progression imaginable. This isn't music; it's an audio sympathy card. I've had plasma cannons melt through my arm with less melodrama."
The radio, seemingly possessed by a demon of mediocrity, shifted to a powerful female voice backed by a country twang. "Right now, he's probably slow dancin' with a bleached-blond tramp..."
"Nope," Bunnie declared, standing up so fast her stool scraped against the concrete floor. "Carrie Underwood. Who in their right mind wants to listen to a screechy, ignorant, flag-waving Stepford housewife singin' about felony property damage? It's not empowering; it's trashy. It celebrates bein' petty and destructive instead of just leavin' the sorry sack of potatoes who cheated on ya."
Uncle Kracker - Follow Me (2000) [Adult contemporary, pop rock, soft rock]
She stalked over to the boombox herself, grabbing the dial. As she turned it, she caught snippets. A lazy, folksy strum... "I'm not worried 'bout the ring in your hair, 'cause as long as no one knows, then nobody can care..."
"Uncle Kracker," she spat. "A cliched party song from a man who looks like he's permanently sticky. Music is serious business, dammit! It's about soul, struggle and truth! Not about getting drunk on a pontoon boat."
Another snippet. A slick, Auto-Tuned voice over a hip-hop beat and a banjo... "Baby, you a song, you make me wanna roll my windows down and cruise..."
"Florida Georgia Line. Immature lyrics written by thirty-year-old men who still think shotgunnin' a beer is a personality trait. Pass."
She kept turning, the dial a blur of noise until a booming, grandiose power ballad erupted. Scott Stapp's iconic baritone filled the air. "With arms wide open..."
Bunnie slammed her robotic hand down next to the radio, making Tails jump. "Creed. The absolute zenith. The very definition of generic radio rock. It's the beige of music. The unseasoned chicken breast of sound. It's what happens when you feed a thousand hours of Pearl Jam to a mechanical typewriter and ask it to write a song for a Hallmark card. It's ARENA ROCK scrubbed of all danger, all sex, all anything that makes rock and roll matter."
Natasha Bedingfield - Unwritten (2004) [Pop, sunshine pop, soft rock]
A bright, optimistic acoustic guitar strummed, followed by a breezy female voice singing about an open book and the rain on your skin.
"Ugh," Bunnie grunted, her humming ceasing abruptly.
Tails looked up. "Don't like Natasha Bedingfield? She's a classic!"
"Sugah, that ain’t a classic," she retorted, her Southern drawl sharp as a tack. "That's Muzak. It's what they play in the dentist's office right before they tell you that you need a root canal. It's the sound of beige."
Avril Lavigne - Sk8er Boi (2002) [Punk pop, pop rock]
The station's algorithm, sensing a mood, shifted gears. A punchy glam metal riff kicked in. "He was a boy, she was a girl, can I make it any more obvious?"
Tails grinned. "Alright, now we're talking! Avril Lavigne!"
Bunnie's organic ear twitched in irritation. "This is even worse. At least the other one knew what it was. This here is a betrayal. This is what happens when you take the righteous anger of punk rock, sand down all the edges, run it through a focus group and slap a Hot Topic-approved tie on it. It’s a weird, unnatural turn, movin' pop punk away from radio-friendly pop rock or somethin' else with a little bite, to just... borderline pop with a leather bracelet. It's a poseur anthem."
Alanis Morisette - Ironic (1996) [Pop rock, post-grunge]
As if to test her very soul, the station then offered up Alanis Morissette. The jangling, almost country-esque chords of "Ironic" filled the room.
Bunnie's head snapped up. Her cybernetic eye glowed with a faint, dangerous red. "Oh no. Not this. Not this sanctimonious, pseudo-intellectual drivel."
"What's wrong with 'Ironic'?” Tails asked, genuinely curious now.
"What's wrong with it?" Bunnie stood up, pacing. "That shit exists to exploit and comfort people who are goin' through real, gut-wrenchin' trauma, which this song is apparently supposed to be about. This song is not about any particular situation; all Morisette does is describe a bunch of bummers she considers 'inconvinent', 'frustrating' and 'disappointing'. In other words, she takes the ugliest, most painful parts of life and wraps them in a tidy little package with a catchy chorus and a music video. Not a single damn thing in the lyrics is actually ironic! It's emotional manipulation of the highest order, pretendin' to be profound."
Alanis Morisette - You Oughta Know (1995) [Post-grunge, pop rock]
Her rant was cut short as the song ended and another began—a snarling bassline and Morissette's raw, furious voice screaming, “And I'm here to remind you..."
"Generic infidelity song," said Bunnie, throwing her hands up in the air. "The vocals are shit. The lyrics are shit. The instrumentals are pure Nickelbackian shit. The topics she sings about are shit. This is the other side of the same cheap coin! More whiny, dreary self-absorption with tinny beats made on a cheap sequencer and processed vocals just to add to the bleedin' misery. It's not righteous anger; it's a temper tantrum recorded in a studio with a producer who kept sayin', 'More angst, Alanis! The kids love angst!'"
The Wubbulous World of Dr. Seuss - Come On Along (1998) [Children's music, piano rock, jazz pop, traditional pop]
Tails, now genuinely terrified of the radio, noticed a dusty cassette tape on the bench. He figured it had to be one of Bunnie's. It was just labeled "Wubbulous". Hoping to calm her down with something familiar, he popped it in. A bouncy, cheerful and painfully simplistic theme song began. "Come on along, get up and let's shout 'hooray' now!"
Bunnie's expression curdled. She stared at the boombox as if it had personally insulted her ancestors. “The Wubbulous World of Dr. Seuss,” she said, her voice dangerously quiet. "How childish."
She ejected the tape, snapped it in half with her metal fingers, and dropped the pieces into a waste bin. The sudden silence was deafening.
“So,” Tails finally squeaked, “what… what do you actually like, Bunnie-rab?”
A slow smile finally spread across her face. It was the first genuine one she’d had all afternoon. She walked over to an old, battle-scarred turntable in the corner and pulled a thick vinyl record from its sleeve. She placed it down with reverence, the needle hissing before a thunderous, raw, blues-drenched guitar riff exploded from the speakers—Led Zeppelin. It was heavy, complex, and filled with a swagger that felt earned.
“I like music with scars, sugar,” she said, her voice full of warmth again as the sound of Bonham’s drums rattled the tools on the walls. "I like music that feels like it was forged, not manufactured. Something with soul, with a story. Somethin' that ain't JUST A STRAIGHTFORWARD POP SONG WITH POP PUNK ELEMENTS, but a real, bleedin', sweat-soaked piece of a person's heart. Now this," she said, leaning back against her workbench, a queen on her throne, "Is music."
The radio, as if possessed by a demon of mediocrity, followed it up with the incomprehensible shouting and scratching of Kid Rock’s "Bawitdaba".
Bunnie just stared at the speaker, speechless for a moment. “My God. It somehow became a hit on the charts although it has no redeeming value whatsoever and does not stand the test of time. It’s the musical equivalent of a monster truck rally colliding with a meth lab. It's just noise, a cultural dead end.”
Then came the opening riff of "Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous".
A dark expression crossed Bunnie’s face. She muttered something under her breath.
“What was that, sugah?” Sonic asked, unable to hear her over the pop punk chorus.
Bunnie's voice cut through the music, cold and sharp. "What a bunch of Nazis."
The room went dead silent. Sonic's smirk vanished. Tails dropped his soldering iron with a clatter. Sally's expression hardened. Antoine, woken by the sudden silence, sat bolt upright.
“Bunnie,” Sally said, her tone leaving no room for argument. "That language is not acceptable here."
Bunnie flinched, the fury in her eyes replaced by a flash of shame. She looked at her friends’ shocked faces and slumped back into her chair. Her bionic hand clenched and unclenched.
“You’re right, Sal. I... I apologize. That was ugly. It’s not what I meant to… It’s just..." she stammered, searching for the words. “It’s the hypocrisy of it all. They’re sittin’ there, millionaires in their fancy studios, cryin’ about how hard it is to be rich and famous, sellin’ fake rebellion to kids who’ll never see that kind of money in their lives. It’s dishonest. And that dishonesty… it just gets my oil boilin’.”
As if on cue, the station offered its final insult. A yodeling, doo-wop-inspired beat started up, with Gwen Stefani’s voice cooing about a sweet escape.
Bunnie Rabbot leaned back, closed her eyes, and spoke to the ceiling in a voice of pure, unadulterated defeat.
“Kill me now, God, please.”
Antoine was by her side in an instant, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Mon chéri, it is alright. Ze terrible noise, it is over.” He marched over to the satellite radio and, with a flourish of dramatic indignation, switched it off. He then slotted in a dusty cassette tape.
The warm, soulful wail of a slide guitar filled the silence, followed by the foot-stomping rhythm of a classic Delta blues track. It was music with dirt under its fingernails, music that had lived a life of hardship and triumph.
Bunnie opened her eyes. A small, genuine smile touched her lips for the first time that afternoon. “Now that,” she said, her voice softening, “is music with a soul.”
Category Story / Pop
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