(ship horn blasts)
- Say good-bye to your loved ones,
write your Last Will and Testament,
and shuffle politely off this mortal coil.
Welcome to Hellscape, I'm Heather Duke.
Westerburg has descended into mass chaos
and warring tribes have broken out
to pillage and plunder
what last remaining goods remain.
No one is safe.
Jocks, nerds, theater trash, ugly people,
hot people, poor, rich, dumb.
All scrambling for resources.
All heading towards certain doom.
Nothing means anything and chaos reigns supreme.
Oh, and someone blew up JD's Porsche
in the school parking lot.
Who would have the temerity to
detonate the daddy issues mobile?
Or did JD's car just blow up on his own
out of sheer exhaustion from carrying around
this self-satisfied teen?
Hot Take!
JD's Porsche became yet another victim
of Westerburg's sentient decorative throw, Pauline Fleming.
It's no secret that Pauline is
a fierce defender of her beliefs
and gauche displays of her own
convictions in those beliefs.
God, it's exhausting to even speak about her.
So it stands to reason that Ms. Fleming decided
to make an example of JD's diesel-guzzling,
German engineered cry for attention.
Will Ms. Fleming ever accept responsibility
for her unslakable thirst for relevance?
(coughs)
Not since her divorce, she won't.
(crowd ooohhs)
Bam.
Well I appreciate your contribution
to unraveling JD's aesthetic of Caucasian nausea Pauline,
kindly go back to writing long Facebook statuses
for your lonely childless friends
and stop suggesting Westerburg
to your eco-terrorist agenda.
Blind item.
(opossum hisses)
Ding-dong, the witch is dead.
I'd sing it but we don't have the rights.
(whip crack)
And by dead, I mean expelled from Westerburg
for carrying around a loaded gun.
(gasps)
That's right.
After a precipitous rise to power,
Lizzy Jackson was caught trying to smuggle
a handgun into school in a bouquet of roses.
(whip crack)
I love the symbolism Liz, but
(sniffs)
maybe skip the metal detectors next time
you're plotting a murder spree?
Okay.
That's save the last dance 101.
Until then, I hope whatever juvenile delinquency center
takes Lizzy in has a musical program
and a wardrobe person because she has
no idea what she's doing.
Ow, now that is an edible arrangement.
I won't throw these.
I'm a great friend.
(happy music plays)
And now it's time for Westerburg Exposed.
(electronic music)
Westerburg's human LaGuarida Airport,
Dylen Lutz, has apparently been telling
everyone that he wants to get a thigh gap
in time for prom.
Um, I'm sorry, but no!
No!
Uh no!
A brief history of the thigh gap.
The thigh gap was invented 50 years ago in 2013.
Since then, the thigh gap has mothered
all manner of arbitrary goals
like the box gap, the visible ribcage,
and the bikini bridge.
All unattainable to everyone other than
a few skinny bitches who are already
hot and just didn't have names
for their visible bones.
Dylen Lutz's sad campaign to get a gap
is not only irrelevant, it's offensive bitch.
You're not hot enough for anyone
to care whether your thighs touch Dylen.
Stop appropriating women's self-loathing
and go work at a movie theater or something.
(chuckles)
I'm Heather Duke, this is Hellscape,
and remember, everyone's wrong but you.
See you next week.
(gasp)