Ringside

Fred Durst walks into a bar. He walks up the open mic, letting several loud boos slide off in smugness before introducing his friend Scott Thomas to the stage. He pretends to decline but quickly, brandishing a guitar he’d brought with him, rushes to the stage. He immediately introduces a friend of his, Balthazar Getty, who, in turn, brings a clumsy sampler with him on stage. The two introduce themselves as "the band Ringside” as Durst exits the stage in an excited prance. Not a second later they break into the first of a series of mid-tempo electro-rock/pop bombs, each worse than the one before it: random grunts, stale hooks, "I’m on my knees, babe/Halfway to heaven” lyrics — one cliché after another. Between each song is a courteous but impatient round of pity-applause, the unwilling audience audibly bored with yet another below-mediocre "beats and guitars” rock band without hooks or a point. But Ringside look completely unfazed as they walk off stage; clearly they feel confident that they have created something interesting and are oblivious to the fact that the only person who could possibly enjoy their set would be an artist who’d created much worse. Meanwhile, Fred Durst smiles and cheers wildly from the corner, having loved every second.