Predicting the hottest trends of 2014: Bouncy Castles, the Internet, and Miranda Cosgrove, oh my

With every new year comes new fashions and trends. Last year we had twerking, the Harlem Shake, Miley Cyrus, masturbating while crying, and Klondike® bars. What will be hip, hop, and happening in 2014? Our expert analysts have done some digging to find out.

1. Miranda Cosgrove

Some call her the “Next Miley Cyrus,” others say they knew her back when she was just that annoying girl from School of Rock (Summer Wheatley, Class Factotum). When she stars in the next Hunger Games movie, she will become the newest sensation, until things start to hit rock bottom when the fame gets to her head. Her heroin addiction, only discovered when she passes out from an overdose on her first nude photoshoot, will be what puts her firmly in the spotlight for the year.

A Comprehensive Timeline of DM Emotions

Oh my god yes! ANOTHER HARLEM SHAKE DANCE!!!

A couple things that I had working against me going into DM: I slept like 4 hours a night the week before, and I had 5 cups of coffee the day of (yes I KNOW that you weren’t supposed to do that). I’m also so caffeine dependent that I might as well just take it intravenously at this point. So, like, dsklgjsiojklcxmv nerjeoijwsak. I am one tired motherfucker.

Block 1: I look around the tent. 30 hours in this bad boy. The feeling of “what the fuck have I gotten myself into god I really hate myself sometimes” comes on with the ferocity of an orgo midterm. The music starts. I bob my head with tepid enthusiasm. I should probably conserve energy. After all, it’s 30 fucking hours. I dance awkwardly. I realize that I’m not used to dancing in situations other than The Keg. I hate myself. It’s been 30 minutes. I have completely exhausted all of my dance moves. Ooh snack time! “All dancers with nut allergies please exit the tent.” Awkward, that’s me. They start playing music that people can get into (MY LIFE. WOULD SUCK. WITHOUUUUUT YOUUUUU) and this DM thing is kind of fun.

The Road Not Taken: Other possible directions for One Direction

This is an insult to America and hoodies everywhere.

We all thought that the era of the boy band was over once New Kids on the Block released this soul-crushing monster of a video. After NKOTB, like many other depressing vestiges of our diaper years, started trying to capitalize on their adolescent success by filming yucky middle-aged versions of themselves hitting on scantily clad women in the early stages of a trophy wife wrinkly-tan, it seemed that the final page of the horrendous pulpy magazine of Boy Band Lore had finally been turned. I mean, no one likes greasy old men without recognizable talent (at least, no one without clinically diagnosable issues).

So the dust had nearly settled on the era of the Boy Band. For a few years there, I could’ve believed in Markwell (ohwaitnoicouldntomgwtfishedoing). One of the three genres of music that I absolutely hate had finally been starved of any sort of positive attention and seemed to be crumbling into a well-deserved oblivion.

BUT THEN.

THIS BULLSHIT.

One Direction is, inexplicably, making Boy Bands a thing again. I picture Dr. Frankenstein reinvigorating the entire sorry cadre of N*Sync (minus JT, who miraculously avoided death by bringing SexyBack) with a single jolt of candy-colored lightning from The Sky, aka the UK version of X-Factor. The “Igor” in this metaphor is some stupid fucking preteen who stopped vigorously masturbating to an Edward Cullen-inspired fantasy fiction blog for long enough to watch a YouTube clip her British cyberpal sent her.

Walking the red carpet to Douche Convention 2K12

So Who the fuck Is One Direction? You may be wondering, if you’re the type of person who has been living in a happy fantasyland matrix where Fleet Foxes string flowers and prayer flags across Pitchfork, Of Monsters and Men’s album has finally broken the top ten, and The boner-worthy Lollapalooza lineup is getting the acclaim that it deserves.

Until a few days ago, I was that person – a blissfully unaware hipster, tuned into my own Spotify and out of the pop culture loop. Now I’m Morpheus. And now that you’re reading this wake-up call you’re Neo.  And since we’re not in the Matrix anymore but rather in a media-saturated music-less wasteland, you should probably wake the fuck up.

One Direction is a British-Irish Boy Band that will probably dominate the cover of TigerBeat and consume the sexual fantasies of the “prepubescent girls with braces” demographic for the next few years. And they are SELLING MORE ALBUMS THAN MOST OTHER ONES RIGHT NOW. This is a travesty that must be halted. The UK has come up with a lot of good things – the Beatles, divorce, and Shakespeare come to mind – and a lot of bad things, like food made out of unappetizing organs and those curly wigs that judges wear. One Direction belongs to the latter category and must be stopped. How to stop them short of methods that would warrant my arrest, dear reader, is a mystery to me. In lieu of multiple-count homicide, I’ve brainstormed a short list of the “directions” I’d like One Direction to take. These choices all constitute satisfying ends for the band, namely, out of my radar, but remember: ultimately, there can only be One Direction for these pseudo-musical turds. Choose wisely.

Possible Direction 1: Into Japan
You may have heard the phrase “I’m big in Japan” from a witty friend as a sort of self-deprecating joke. Or maybe I’m weird and it’s more of an esoteric Tom Waits reference than anything else (THERE’S A T-SHIRT THOUGH GUYS IT’S TOTALLY A THING). Either way, the phrase references the fact that no one really knows what’s going on there, so if you’re big in Japan it doesn’t really matter to people in the USA. Mostly because we’re egocentric assholes, but also because styles like this one are big in Japan and, despite all of her efforts, Snooki hasn’t really reached that level yet. Plus, Japan is an island. And it has way too many people on it. If One Direction isn’t trampled in a freak-Tokyo-subway accident or killed in a haunted house a la The Grudge, at least its members will blend into the crowd of short skinny people in candy-colored clothing. Even if they don’t blend in, they’ll be Big in Japan – and therefore small in every other sense. Lolz.

Possible Direction 2: Down The Mariana Trench
At 6.78 miles below sea level, The Mariana Trench is the deepest place in the world. Nothing lives down there, especially melodic mediocrity and eunuchs with soft hands. I mean, there’s 15,570 pounds per square inch of pressure down in ol’ Mariana – that’s about 50 jumbo jets on the average-sized person, 100 on fatass Rush Limbaugh. The skinny little pricks that comprise One Direction would be boy pancakes. As pancakes, their stupid fucking vocal cords, shiny hairdos, and winning smiles would be incapable of making Simon Cowell gloat anymore. Just like their voices pre-autotune, the boyz of One Direction would be utterly, incomprehensibly flat.

Glad the puppies made it through Satan's anus alright.

Possible Direction 3: Through Satan’s Rectum
Does this last one really require an explanation? Although I am a pretty committed atheist, a girl can dream. And I dream of the possibility of One Direction’s ending as a piece of excrement being pushed through the colon of the Supreme Evil Being. You could say I’m a sentimental gal, I guess 😉

In sum: One Direction is pissing on music more blatantly than Brother Jürgen Taintsdorf pisses on the steps of tech after fratting it up on Friday nights. Heinousness to the heinous power.

West Coast Report: Straight Outta Compton, it’s the Kids’ Choice Awards!

Sources inform us that the orange carpet was specifically engineered to match Speaker Boehner’s skin.

Being a student at USC has some big perks; chief among them is being able to attend the orange carpet (see what they did there??) for the Nickelodeon Kids’ Choice Awards, that annual orgy of slime (or “undisclosed green liquid,” as subsequent research confirms it to be), aspiring basic-cable pop stars, and overly media-saturated tweens. Or, to put it more concisely, the cultural watershed of the year. Needless to say, I was front and center to live-tweet the shit out of the orange carpet scene and its pulsating star power.

“But I don’t follow @rkearney892 on Twitter!” you all may say.

To which I reply, “Fear not! The night’s events shall be recapped in article form lest you miss the chance to live vicariously through my celeb-filled existence!”

For those of you who have lost touch with the Nick universe as time passed (read: every one of you here), you may have a tough time adjusting to some of the changes that I discovered. For example, Rosie O’Donnell is no longer considered a kosher host for a children’s awards show! I know, right?! Also, the A-Teens were not nominated in a single category this year. Apparently kids have moved on. Go figure. You will be relieved to know, however, that the same sense of whimsy and vapid tweeny-bopper culture is as potent as ever. But I digress. Without further adieu, the play-by-play of the KCA2012 Orange Carpet:

The evening got off the ground on a fairly slow note, at least for the 19 year-old males in the crowd of gawkers (read: me and only me). While the kiddies around me chanted eagerly for BTR! BTR! (that’s Big Time Rush, a Nick-manufactured pop group) to arrive, they were temporarily satisfied by the presence of someone named “Ariana.” You may say to yourself, “who the fuck is Ariana and why is every girl shrieking ‘we love you Ariana!’” And I answer, not sure, but the Internets tell me that she is a cast member on the popular show Victorious, starring the very lovely Victoria Justice (more on her later). But then shit got real. Cody Simpson, that’s right, the Cody Simpson, AKA the Australian Bieber, graced the carpet, looking charming as ever. Swoon. With the frequency of obscure (or thrilling, depending on what millennium you were born in) Nick cast members arriving getting faster and faster, Phase Two of the orange carpet experience was ready to launch.

Sherman Ave couldn’t afford to send a photographer out to L.A., so a phone pic of One Direction will have to suffice

And what a violent phase it was! Like some Tea Party Patriots rockin’ their tri-corner hats and waving their oh-so-clever “Stop Obamunism” signs, these bitches were whipped into a frenzy. They booed the shit out of the riders the decrepit L.A. public school buses for blocking the view; they whipped out their totes adorbs homemade signs professing their love for [insert pop star here], blocking everyone’s views; and they started shrieking. Oh, did they start shrieking. By the time One Direction(look it up) showed up in their classy British car as if they were the Beatles’ grandkids, the fine line between rapture and riot was growing ever-fuzzier. What would happen with this rowdy bunch of tykes???

Thankfully, they got the worst out of their system following the big entrance of 1D (That’s One Direction, and not “Wendy,” as I initially thought they were chanting). And the arrivals just kept getting better. Miranda Cosgrove, surprisingly bashful! Jeanette McCurdy, taking pictures back at the audience! Victoria Justice, as classy and down-to-earth as you’ve no doubt assumed she’d be! And the show was even kind enough to invite Allyson Stoner, whose career peaked kissing baby Taylor Lautner in Cheaper by the Dozen 2, and Jesse McCartney, bless his heart, whose entrance may have been the finest example of *crickets chirping* in modern times. Poor guy. Jesse’s extinguished flame aside, though, things could not be going more perfectly at the orange carpet.

Then disaster struck.

Perhaps out of pity for my followers, God stepped in and sapped my phone of all power. That’s right, at the single most important live-tweeting moment of my career, I was rendered impotent. I mean, how could my awesome celeb sightings possibly be legitimate if they weren’t showed off to everyone I know?? They couldn’t.

Making the situation even more heinous (you’re welcome, Sherman Ave) was the sheer caliber of the stars that showed up while I was off the grid. Katy Perry in a shitty blue dye job! Heidi Klum, sans Seal! Josh Hutcherson, AKA Peeta from the Hunger Games, savoring the attention like a mofo! Nick Cannon and Chris Rock (da fuck?)! Emma Stone and Andrew Garfield, in an entrance that gave me a total Spidey-gasm! The spawn of Smith, Jaden and Willow, with the trademark family swag! And the High Priestesses of teendom themselves, Selena Muthafuckin Gomez and Ashley Tisdale, best friends as you always dreamed they’d be! How oh how could the world know that I saw all of these people??

The closest Brother Jürgen will ever get to Victoria Justice

Thankfully the good sirs at Sherman Avepicked up on my musings, and offered me the chance to share them with the whole Wildcat world. And you are all very lucky that they did. So that’s the story of my Kids’ Choice 2012 Orange Carpet excursion. You have now gotten to live the star-studded, slime-filled life vicariously through me. I would express my hope that this enhanced your KCA experience, but real talk, you’re all like 20 and it was a Saturday night. So I know weren’t watching. But thanks to me, you didn’t even have to!

And for that, you’re welcome.

–Ryan Kearney