Stuff That Makes You Want To Die: Nightcore

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Set your suicide machines to maximum.

Welcome to a new and terrible feature where we’ll be taking a look at the absolute worst of the worst. However, this goes beyond the misguided awfulness of a band’s visual output as seen in the brilliant Shirt Stains and Video Breakdowns. Oh no, friends… this is going to get bad. This is not merely something you can flush and walk away from. This is the black, light-trapping fuzzy scum growing around the base of the toilet itself, right on the fucking floor so you can’t bleach it away unless you get down on your hands & knees and place your head perilously close to the swirling germ-maelstrom of the porcelain bowl and risk breathing in its hellish vapor of tepid water and human undercarriage.

Today we’ll be looking at something called “nightcore.” Right off the bat, the “-core” suffix indicates the shit barometer has already cracked from the stress of trying to measure so much awful shittiness. Don’t worry: it gets much worse.

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A coworker I told about nightcore; he said he found the gun at Ruby Tuesday

Like an ancient Greek chimera composed entirely of stuff that sucks ass, the process for creating nightcore appears to be thus: make a normally shitty song hyper shitty by speeding up the tempo, adding crappy Fruity Loops beats and fwooshy electronic garbage sounds, then pitch-shifting the vocals to sound like squealing chipmunks.

The fermented shit cherry on top of this oozing shit cake is the omnipresence of anime waifs in each video, because of course anime has to be involved somehow. Of course. Fuck. The result is the equivalent of a burning landfill scow colliding with a smoldering fertilizer barge that covers your world in a cloud of musical poop-garbage-smoke and even makes Steel Panther sound like Mozart.

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I walked up behind this guy staring at a gray wall and told him about nightcore; not sure if he went to Ruby Tuesday also

Go ahead, take a listen and hate yourself forever.

Holy fucking christ. On a scale of 1-10 for how much this makes you want to die, this rates a “forget the 1-10 scale entirely and just lay down in heavy traffic.” Preferably during a snowstorm in a major southern US city where people freak out on the roads, and your bones will be slooowly and inefficiently scraped of your flesh by a rusty snow plow driven by a man named Boone G. Judson.

Oh fucking hell… this particular one makes you want to die by ingesting something. Options: drain cleaner, liquid hot magma, nuclear reactor water, pumice/sulfur smoothie, mercury, etc. You’ll want to savor the nuanced notes of toxic poisons as they break down the cellular structure of your esophagus and seep directly into your bloodstream, causing immense pain and suffering, but which is still preferable to the above video. Also WHY DO THESE HAVE SO MANY GODDAMNED VIEWS.

Pure and utter torture. Right now you’re considering a spontaneous road trip to the mountains, a long, invigorating hike to a high and beautiful peak, a satisfying picnic lunch with an expensive bottle of wine or scotch, an enthusiastic farewell to the world and a running jump off said peak to cleanse the memory of this shit from your mind by violently dashing it on the jagged rocks below. Bonus points if your corpse is urinated upon by a goat.

GAAAAAAHHHH OH FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD NO NO NO NO NO WHY DID I DO THIS IT WAS A TERRIBLE IDEA I TAKE IT BACK PLEASE OH HOLY FUCK I WANT TO LIVE AS I ONCE DID PLEASE RID MY BRAIN OF THIS FOREVER GGEETT OOUUTT OOFF MMYY MMIINNDD!!!!

… nah, that’s it for me. This really did make me want to die. Mission accomplished, nightcore. I’ve had a good run, I suppose. I didn’t quite get to do everything I wanted to in life but I had fun nonetheless.

*changes into funeral formalwear*

I’m actually okay with this, we’re always talking about the blackness of the void and whatnot, so now I’ll get to see it firsthand! Cool!

*steps into freshly-dug grave*

My old band buddies can split my gear between them, my family can have the rest of my stuff. One of you guys can have my sweet bike if you want it.

*scoops dirt over self*

Someone else can take the next entry, but you’ll probably lose another writer. It’s up to you guys. I’m off to meet the sweet, cold embrace of death. Hasta la vista!

*smooths dirt over grave with one hand, pats it down like a cartoon*

*pulls remaining hand into earth forever*

*dies*

*is relieved*

(images via via via)

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