Friday, March 09, 2007

They Say I'm Crazy

A couple weeks ago, Bobby Brown was thrown in jail for not paying child support. He’s been thrown in jail lots of times, for lots of reasons. Basically, he’s crazy. I know, after that reality show, it’s obvious Whitney was the real problem in that family, but Bobby married her. And only a crazy person marries a crackhead.

A couple weeks ago, Britney Spears went nuts, shaved her head, and did the rehab hokey pokey three times. Basically, she’s crazy, too. I know, after seeing Federline “dedicate this one to the haters” in one too many interviews, it’s obvious he’s a moron. But, Britney married him. And only a crazy person marries a backup dancer, with two kids, who releases a lead single called Popozao – which boasts the lyrics “I want to see your kitty, and a little bit of titty” (Disco D, producer of the track, recently killed himself…coincidence?).

What does this all mean? I’ll tell you. It means:


I don’t care if you’ve got a record deal, if you’re singing karaoke, or if you’re humming along to the muzak at your local CVS. The second those lyrics come out of your mouth, your life will take a giant shit. That song is cursed.

Picture Bobby Brown before that song…happy, smiling and affable. He was like the boy next door. After that song? Humpin’ Around, pissing in police cars, driving drunk, getting high, and doing jail time. If he wasn’t famous, he would be that uncle who “we don’t talk about.”

Britney covered the song for her Greatest Hits album. Soon after, she was getting sloppy drunk and flashing her snatch to every photographer she could. If she wasn’t famous, she’d be banging David Faustino right about now.

That song is evil.

Nothing says “Watch this, my life is about to get fucked up” like singing My Prerogative. It ruins everyone it touches. It’s like saying “Bloody Mary” in front of a darkened mirror. Every copy of that song should be thrown into a big pile and burned under the guidance of a Catholic priest. That’s the only way to break the curse.

Maybe we can convince Nickelback to cover it first.

Wednesday, March 07, 2007

They Can All Sleep Soundly

People everywhere need help. Right now. As you read this, there are people all over the country, desperate to improve some facet of their pathetic little lives. At least that’s the message you get if you watch as much TV as I do. It seems like 70% of television shows these days center around ambitious losers who are dying to turn their bad luck around. They all need something – a date, a new wardrobe, a makeover, a remodeled room, help raising children, a nicer car, bigger house, their dream job, fame and fortune.

And who holds the key to everyone’s happiness? Gay guys and British people. That’s right – gay guys and British people, roaming the countryside, building gazebos, fixing your hair, and telling you how to tango. Television is littered with show after show featuring carpenters, designers, nannies, life coaches, and talent scouts; experts in every field, trying desperately to scrape some of the shit off of what you've become.

I can’t flip through five channels without seeing some gay guy dolling out fashion advice or upholstering cushions to turn your boring garage into a Spicy Spanish Paradise. Nor can I flip through five channels without seeing some British dude giving a reality check to talentless dreamers who think the only requirement to singing and dancing well is the desire to do so.

Who’s behind all this? Probably Elton John, but that’s not even important.

What gets me about all these life-improvement shows is the bullshit affirmations the people give at the end - as though their lives have actually been positively altered by something as trivial as new drapes or cooking tips. I mean, if you’re on American Idol, okay fine, your dreams have just come true. Good for you. But, if the only thing that changed in your life was a gay guy showing you how to walk like a diva, stop smiling; you won’t be seeing a new tax bracket any time soon. You’d better try getting used to your shitty existence.

Of course, there are exceptions to every rule. Pimp My Ride lacks both gay guys and British people. But, it still has that horrible life-affirming moment at the end. There’s always some 20-year-old idiot in tattered jeans and a tight t-shirt saying, “I just got a disco ball in my Mazda. Now I can go to law school!” Only if it’s offered at DeVry.