The Independent Voice of Southern Methodist University Since 1915

The Daily Campus

The Daily Campus

The Independent Voice of Southern Methodist University Since 1915

The Daily Campus

The Independent Voice of Southern Methodist University Since 1915

The Daily Campus


Bad Press

Fairy Tale Edition

Here at The Daily Campus, we receive a plethora of free stuff from record labels eager for some good reviews. Sometimes, it’s little more than a sampler of a group’s latest efforts, sometimes it’s a full album. For the longest time, this mountain of music has remained untouched for fear of what lies beneath its shrink-wrapped surface of bad cover art and exclamation mark-laden cover letters. After all, if a record label has resorted to sending full albums to a college newspaper, they must be desperate.

But no longer — I have taken it upon myself to dive headfirst into this stagnant pool of mediocrity and bring to the surface the very worst that music has to offer. You may not agree, you may think I’m too harsh, but that’s the nature of this business. This is Bad Press.


To keep things fresh, today’s installment of Bad Press has been written in a fairy tale format.

Once upon a time, there was a quiet little village by a lake where nothing terribly interesting happened. As far back as anyone in the village could remember, nothing interesting had ever happened. They liked it this way, and they were happy.

Then one day, a terrible dragon moved into a mountain on the village’s border. The dragon’s name was Critt Ik, and it was a name that quickly became feared in the quiet little village. The dragon descended upon the village like a cloud of locusts upon a field of wheat. The crops and livestock that the dragon didn’t eat, he burned up with his fiery breath. Dragons were known to do this sort of thing because dragons are nature’s cruelest creatures, and they find it incredibly funny to burn things up.

Word spread of the terrible dragon, and many brave knights rode out to the quiet little village to do battle with the beast. The dragon saw the knights approach, and he flew out to meet them. He spread his wings and roared, “I am the great dragon Critt Ik! Only a knight with a pure soul and a catchy sound can defeat me! Let him step forward and if he be a knight of quality, I will leave these lands forever.”

“I am that knight!” a voice rang out. It was Sir Bobby Helms and his squire, Johnny Paycheck from the land of A Little Darlin’ Christmas. They approached the dragon, their heads held high, and their hearts filled with half-hearted covers of Christmas tunes that weren’t all that great to begin with. Johnny Paycheck hummed a redneck version of “Jingle Bells” under his breath as the dragon regarded the pair.

The dragon began to laugh. “This is too easy! I mean really, you practically fry yourselves!” And with that, he engulfed the two in a jet of fire. “I wanna go to Santa Claus land tonight!” Bobby Helms screamed as the flames consumed him. A few moments later, there was nothing but two small piles of ash and the smell of fried chicken.

The knights looked nervously at each other. Who would be brave enough to face such a horrible creature?

Another knight stepped forward. He gulped and then said, “I am Sir Cledus T. Judd of Bake Me a Country Ham. I —” The knight was cut off as he, too, was swiftly devoured by a fountain of draconian fire.

“Anyone named Cledus,” the dragon said as he wiped his mouth, “deserves to be roasted until golden brown and crispy.” A few knights nodded their heads in agreement. “Who’s next?”

A brooding young knight stepped forward. “Behold, beast, for I, Sir Crossfade of… Crossfade… will tear you asunder with my vorpal axe!” He raised his vicious gleaming axe and grimaced menacingly. “Looking back at me I see that I never really got it right, but I’m right about you going down, lizard breath!”

The dragon recoiled. “I recognize that axe! ‘Tis ‘Cold,’ the hit single with heavy radio rotation! Truly a threat to my very life!”

“Die, dragon!” Sir Crossfade cried as he charged the dragon. He swung the axe with all his strength at the dragon’s heart. The axe struck the dragon in the chest and shattered into a thousand pieces. The knight stood dumbfounded with shards of wood in his hand and an angry dragon towering above him.

“Heh,” the dragon chuckled, “you thought ‘Cold’ would be enough to slay me? A good single does not a good album make! If your handle is made of rotting driftwood, even the sharpest blade will not save you!” And with that, he engulfed the knight in fire.

“I never meant to be so cold!” Sir Crossfade sobbed as he burned to a crisp.

“Enough, creature!” a voice shouted. The dragon snapped to attention as if he had been slapped.

“That voice…” the dragon said. “It can’t be…”

“Reise, Reise,” the knight said as he stepped forward. The dragon hissed at the sight of Duke Rammstein.

“You! Rammstein! And you’re as strong as ever! I… am no match for the likes of you.”

“Ja,” the burly warrior said, “I have brought my brutal guitar riffs and growling German vocals all the way from my homeland to show you the true power of rock. Face me, creature, and despair.”

The dragon, without a moment’s hesitation, covered the warrior in fire, burning him alive.

“But…” the other knights said, “You said that you’d leave if you met your match!”

“I’m a f***ing dragon, you idiots,” the dragon Critt Ik said. “I leave no one alive.” He burned the rest of the knights and went home. His sleep that night was quiet and peaceful.

And he lived happily ever after.

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