Dude Looks Like a Lameass
by Dennis

“Just once,” Daria Morgendorffer said, irritation obvious in her voice, “I’d like someone to show up on time for one of these things.” They’d been auditioning bass players for their band, Girls Together Sarcastically, for about a month, and hadn’t come close to finding the right woman for the band in almost that long.

“Relax,” said Jane Lane, seated with Daria on the couch of Daria’s one-bedroom apartment. “I’m sure she’ll be here soon.”

“Yeah,” chimed in Daria’s sister Quinn, just returning from the kitchen with a can of diet coke in hand. “We go through this every time. You’d think you’d be used to it by now.”

“And every time, I say the same thing,” Daria said, seething. “None of us has the time to waste waiting for wannabes less interested in playing bass than in indulging in an almost Mystik Spiral–like devotion to redefining ‘on time’ as ‘whenever the hell I feel like showing up.'”

Jane laughed. “And every time, I tell you to relax. We’re holding auditions for a band, Daria, not performing brain surgery on the President.”

“If she’s late for an audition, what makes you think she won’t be late for a gig?” Daria countered.

“We haven’t gotten that far, Daria,” Quinn said. “Let’s worry about getting a bassist before we worry about blowing a gig.”

Before Daria could reply, the doorbell rang. “Finally,” she huffed as she rose to answer it.

With Daria out of the room, Jane and Quinn shared a look. “I hope we find a bassist soon,” Quinn finally said. “Otherwise, I think Daria’s going to snap.”

“Taking you with her?” Jane laughed. “Don’t worry, Quinn. You know being annoyed is like breathing for Daria. She can’t live without it.”

After a moment, a poker-faced Daria reappeared in the doorway. “Guys,” she said, her voice even more devoid of inflection than usual, “this is Michelle.” A redheaded figure, towering over Daria’s 5’ 2” by more than a head, appeared behind her in the doorway. “Michelle,” Daria added, with a slight stress on the name, “this is the rest of GTS. Jane Lane, the drummer—“ Jane inclined her head, smothering a laugh, “and my sister Quinn, the lead singer.” After a moment of shock, Quinn acknowledged Michelle, also with a nod.

“Shall we?” Daria said, walking through the living room toward the back stairs that led to their basement rehearsal space. As Michelle followed, Quinn hesitated, grabbing Jane by the arm. “Jane, isn’t that—”

Before she should finish, Jane interrupted. “Yup.”

“So why is Daria—”

Jane grinned. “You know Daria. If she’s letting this happen, she has her reasons. Now, come on. Let’s go have fun at someone else’s expense.”

With a shrug, Quinn followed Jane down the stairs.

Getting set up had long since become routine for the Girls; this wasn’t their first, or even fifth, audition, so Daria, Quinn, and Jane were ready to play within five minutes of Michelle’s arrival. This gave them ringside seats for Michelle’s increasingly ludicrous attempts to plug in.

“Wow,” Quinn said, “I wasn’t the best bassist in the world, but I never got tangled in my own input lead.”

Daria chuckled quietly, “Don’t think of it as clumsy, Quinn.”

“Think of it as killer performance art,” Jane finished.

The bandmates watched in amusement for another few minutes before Quinn offered Michelle help. The lanky redhead refused, finally managing to untangle storklike limbs from the offending lead cable.

“Okay,” said Daria. “We’ve established that you’re able to plug a bass into an amplifier.” She paused to share a sardonic look with Jane and Quinn, “if given enough time. Care to play?”

“That’s what I’m here to do,” said Michelle and struck a pose almost reminiscent of a bassist. Fingers flowed over bass strings, producing a wash of slightly discordant twanging.

“It also helps to turn on the amplifier,” Daria deadpanned, as Quinn and Jane struggled to hide their laughter.

With everyone finally in place, Daria regarded Michelle again. “Okay, we do a pop-punk thing, so there aren’t a lot of time shifts or complex meters. But we to play pretty fast, and you’ll have to play steady to help keep Jane in time.”

Brown eyes met Daria’s. “Sure thing. Steady as a rock.” To demonstrate, Michelle laid down a simple bass line, lasting almost three measures before flubbing.

“Sure. We’ll start with ‘Blitzkrieg Bop.’ I’ll call the time.” Daria did so, and Jane began the song’s famous drum intro. Even before Quinn’s cue, it was clear that Michelle was falling behind, playing only one in three notes, despite the look of intense concentration on the olive face. As the song limped to the finish, Daria sighed heavily. “Need some time to warm up?”

“No. I’m flying!” Michelle shouted, pumping a fist, before turning at a sudden sound behind her. “Anything the matter?” This to Jane, who had made the sound.

“Just something in my throat,” Jane said, features contorted with the attempt to stifle a guffaw. Quinn, meanwhile, put her head in her hands, shaking quietly.

“Shall we try another?” Daria asked, dry as ever. “’I Will Follow” this time?”

Michelle’s only answer was a ripple of bass strings, followed by a muffled, “Ouch!”

Again, Daria called the time, and again, the song limped along. Quinn was in fine voice, and Jane’s drumming had some of Larry Mullen’s whipcrack authority. Daria’s playing was clean and economical, but Michelle—head bobbing, neck protrusion almost bouncing with effort—hit only one note in four. As the song staggered to a finish, Michelle unwisely attempted a closing flourish.

“Daria, I’ve never seen someone get their fingers tangled in bass strings like that before,” Quinn whispered to her sister.

“Neither have I, Quinn.” Daria replied. “You know, the White Stripes don’t use a bass player.”

“The who?” Quinn asked.

“New band,” Daria said. “Never mind.”

Jane, meanwhile, was laughing so hard she’d fallen off the drum stool.

“So,” Michelle said, finally free of the bass, “what should we play next?”

“I thing we’ve seen all we need.” Daria said.

“So I’m in?” Michelle said, a smile forming.

This set Jane into fresh paroxysms of laughter, while Quinn struggled mightily to keep a straight face. Daria spared a look for both of them before responding. “Well, no. Actually, you’re not what we’re looking for.”

The smile died on Michelle’s face, replaced by an angry look. “What do you mean, I’m not what you’re looking for?”

“For starters,” Daria said, deadpan as ever, “this is an all-girl band, which means you lack an important qualification.”

“Which is?”

“You’re a guy.” At this, Quinn gave up the ghost and collapsed in hysterical laughter next to Jane.

“What the hell?! I’m a woman!” The outrage was clear on Michelle’s face.

“Yeah.” Daria said. “And I can tell by your Adam’s apple, which was bobbing the whole time you played.”

“That’s just the way my neck is shaped.”

“What about your coloring? Olive skin, brown eyes, and red hair means you’re either the love child of Don Corleone and Pippi Longstocking or you should have tried a better wig.”

“Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Michelle said, voice cracking between a falsetto and a much deeper tenor. “I’ve got boobs and everything.”

“No,” Daria said. “You may be a boob, but you don’t have them. Because one of them has given up the ghost and is currently in the vicinity of your waist.” She pointed to an odd bulge on Michelle’s right side. “Oranges, I assume? How cliché.”

“But you gotta let me play,” he said, speaking entirely in his normal tenor. “I’m a killer bassist and I’ll make you guys better.”

“Actually,” Daria said, “you’re bass skills are about on a par with your disguise skills.”

Jane recovered herself enough to chime in. “Yeah, Mike, you weren’t keeping up at all. I mean, you seem like a nice enough guy….”

“Well, actually,” Daria cut in, “you seem like a moron. How about we walk you upstairs, then you leave, and we all forget this ever happened.”

For a moment, it looked like he would lose his temper, but then his face crumbled, and he ran from the room, on the verge of tears, as Jane and Quinn gave in again to gales of laughter, joined this time by Daria.

After they’d gotten control of themselves again, Quinn regarded her sister. “I just have one question, Daria. Obviously, you knew he was a man right off.”

“Naturally,” Daria replied.

“Why didn’t you just send him right out? Why bother with the audition at all?”

“I wanted to see what would happen. If nothing else, I figured we’d get a good laugh out of it.” Daria gave Quinn a Mona Lisa smile. “Which we did.”

Jane started to chuckle again. “Don’t get me started. I think I’ve laughed enough for one day.” Standing up, she added, “At any rate, I think we can say we’ve seen the last of ‘Michelle.’”

“I’m not so sure, Jane,” Daria said, as she unplugged her guitar and returned it to the stand.

“Why?”

“When he ran out, he forgot his bass.”

The laughter started again as they headed up the stairs.

Author's Note:

This ficlet expands on a scene in the first GTS story, "Imperfect Circle." The title is taken, of course, from the Aerosmith song "Dude Looks A Lady."

Disclaimer: Daria and all characters are copyright MTV 1997–2002. I own nothing and am merely along for the ride.