I’m a pop culture illiterate, so it doesn’t surprise me that I’ve never heard of Michelle Branch or her music. That notwithstanding, Diablo from Pussy Ranch made me howl with laughter when she wrote:

This month’s Maxim cover features a half-naked Michelle Branch shielding her tender young breasts from a Photoshopped pillar of leaping flames. “Barbecutie!” the cover cleverly blares. I’ll bet earnest little Michelle Branch never thought she’d be likened to a McRib on the cover of a lad mag. She can strum a D chord, after all! She’s better than this, ostensibly! She wrote the theme song to Sorority Life, not that I pay attention to such things!
…
However, either Michelle’s asscrack has been airbrushed into nonexistence by Maxim’s art department, or she is, in fact, lacking a cleft between her buttocks. If the latter scenario is true, then we can assume that Michelle Branch cannot pass solid waste. That’s sad. Imagine you’re in the studio, recording your latest opus, and those knob-twiddlers from Maverick are pestering you. And all you can think is: I need to crap so bad. I wish I hadn’t loaned my colostomy bag to Madonna.

I suppose it’s that kind of urgency that creates truly exquisite, D chord-driven albums.