Saturday, January 27, 2007
An open letter to Lil' Kim
Dear Lil' Kim,
Let me start off by saying that I have loved and admired you for well over a decade. Ever since I first heard your magnum opus Hard Core when I was a dewy-eyed radical feminist fresh on the campus of Smith College, and my dorm neighbor Ashley played your CD for me, you have brought me nothing but joy. I threw out my Birkenstock clog and fleece pullover collection partly because of your unabashed brand of slutty feminism. I've supported you through all your plastic surgeries, your less-than-spectacular musical projects shamelessly capitalizing on your past affair with the late Christopher Wallace (ie: The Notorious KIM), and your beef with Inga "Foxy Brown" Marchand. I defended your honor when you were in prison and haters decried you and maligned your character. I put up with your disparaging the integrity and mores of my boyfriend Curtis Jackson. I even dressed up as you this past Halloween, a tribute I reserve for the figures most sacred to me, placing you in the revered company of such luminaries as King Slut, a valkyrie, Britney Spears, Satan, Darryl Hannah from Clan of the Cave Bear, and the St. Pauli Girl. You are a beacon of hope and a font of inspiration to me, and I won't forget that.
However, that said, I was extraordinarily disappointed with what I saw the other day. Instead of doing something constructive, like working off that penitentiary weight with the exercise regimen you once touted (jog five miles a day then hit the sauna, rock Chanels and smoke mad marijuana), you went on TV and announced that are an integral part of what will undoubtedly be a very regrettable creative project. You are going to be a judge on the CW Network's new reality competition, "Pussycat Dolls Present: Search for the Next Doll." I am consoled only by the fact that you look as unhappy about this prospect as I am:
As if it weren't bad enough that you're doing this, Kim, I have to tell you that you aren't looking so hot these days. You should have spent your leisure time at the gym instead of getting your lips stuffed with Restalyne to the point where they're the size of Jay-Z's. Your wig looks like a hand-me-down from the closet at Whitney Houston's crackhouse, and I don't know what is going on with your left breast. It looks like you didn't get that leaking implant repaired. I would suggest shying away from shapeless blousey tops reminiscent of a flour sack in the future until you get your tits in order. The only thing that makes you look slightly appealing is the fact that you're sitting next to that stringy hooker Robin Antin, the choreographer who masterminded the Pussycat Dolls, and she looks like she rose from her grave, got some cheap extensions, and went looking for some brains to eat. It's not good that the best thing I can say about you is that at least you don't look like the tranny undead.
Are you that desperate for money, Kim? Because the only other explanation I can think of for why you would affiliate yourself with the Pussycat Dolls is that you read their name wrong and mistakenly thought they were called the Pussyeat Dolls. Being that I am very familiar with your music, I know that a prevalent theme of your music is the unending quest for receiving oral, and I can see how such a misinterpretation of the Pussycat Dolls' name could confuse and mislead you.
Also, why is another Pussycat Doll even needed? There are already six of them, and in my view that's six too many. They already have, from left to right, a chick who just came from an audition for "Red Shoe Diaries", a woman who appears not to have gotten over the fact that she isn't in junior high anymore, a wannabe goth vampire chick trying to look like the lead singer of Evanescence, an obvious fan of overusing self-tanner, a faux punk lesbian with entirely too much eye makeup, and an elderly M2F transgendered person. Is there some other variety of sorely needed costume-wearing slut that would truly improve this ensemble?
Furthermore, Kim, what are your qualifications for judging prospective Pussycat Dolls? Apart from your shared love for extraordinarily tacky, body-baring costumes and low budget hairpieces, you have little in common. Whereas you've directly addressed and revelled in your trampy ways, the Pussycat Dolls try to keep it under wraps. I went to their website today, and after the mind-numbingly painful experience of reading the girls' blogs, I realized that they are so concerned about avoiding profanity that they can't even write "grass", "competition", or "hello"without some well-placed asterisks to disguise the vulgarities within those seemingly innocuous words. They might include the odd sexual innuendo in their lyrics about pushing buttons and men looking at their "beeps", but I guarantee they never have and never will write shit like "somethin' I wanted, but I never was pushy, the motherfucker never ate my pussy", "I dug him, so I fucked him, it wasn't nothin'...he wanted me to suck him but I didn't, I ain't frontin," or "I ain't out shoppin' spendin' dudes' C-notes...I'm in the crib giving niggas deep throat." Your lyrical style is so inherently different that I can't see how you would possibly judge a Pussycat Dolls' song on the basis of lyrical content. Also, you are not the world's greatest singer. You are certainly capable of spitting lines concerning your "hard core flow that keep a nigga dick rock", but you can't carry a tune to save your life. God, there's one song on Hard Core where you can't even execute a sort-of singing imitation of Buddhist chanting. Although the existing Pussycat Dolls aren't exactly on par with, say the soprano performing in the Met's production of Die Walkure, they can at least butcher their bastardization of Sir Mix-a-Lot's classic "Swass" hook on key. What sort of experience (excluding that of the sexual variety) can you draw upon when selecting the next Pussycat Doll? It's not like you're Tommy Mottolla or Clive Davis or something. Christ, even when Diddy tried to do this the best he could produce was the caterwauling abortion known as Danity Kane. You're out of your league here, girl.
I know that you probably get letters such as this one regularly, so I'm sure this is not the first time a fan has questioned your career choices. Therefore I implore you to PLEASE drop out of this project immediately, hit the gym, cancel any appointments you might have with Michael Jackson's plastic surgeon (trust me, you DON'T need any more work done), get into the studio, and write more songs about your heroic quest for cunnilingus. If you insist on getting involved with a television project, then ask BET if they'll let you do another awesome reality show. RUN, don't walk away from anything having to do with these stank vagina-having drag queen whores. If you won't do it for yourself, do it for your fans, because it's going to be very difficult indeed to support you when you have a shitshow like this on your CV. I beg you to save yourself.
Skoal,
Razzy
Let me start off by saying that I have loved and admired you for well over a decade. Ever since I first heard your magnum opus Hard Core when I was a dewy-eyed radical feminist fresh on the campus of Smith College, and my dorm neighbor Ashley played your CD for me, you have brought me nothing but joy. I threw out my Birkenstock clog and fleece pullover collection partly because of your unabashed brand of slutty feminism. I've supported you through all your plastic surgeries, your less-than-spectacular musical projects shamelessly capitalizing on your past affair with the late Christopher Wallace (ie: The Notorious KIM), and your beef with Inga "Foxy Brown" Marchand. I defended your honor when you were in prison and haters decried you and maligned your character. I put up with your disparaging the integrity and mores of my boyfriend Curtis Jackson. I even dressed up as you this past Halloween, a tribute I reserve for the figures most sacred to me, placing you in the revered company of such luminaries as King Slut, a valkyrie, Britney Spears, Satan, Darryl Hannah from Clan of the Cave Bear, and the St. Pauli Girl. You are a beacon of hope and a font of inspiration to me, and I won't forget that.
However, that said, I was extraordinarily disappointed with what I saw the other day. Instead of doing something constructive, like working off that penitentiary weight with the exercise regimen you once touted (jog five miles a day then hit the sauna, rock Chanels and smoke mad marijuana), you went on TV and announced that are an integral part of what will undoubtedly be a very regrettable creative project. You are going to be a judge on the CW Network's new reality competition, "Pussycat Dolls Present: Search for the Next Doll." I am consoled only by the fact that you look as unhappy about this prospect as I am:
As if it weren't bad enough that you're doing this, Kim, I have to tell you that you aren't looking so hot these days. You should have spent your leisure time at the gym instead of getting your lips stuffed with Restalyne to the point where they're the size of Jay-Z's. Your wig looks like a hand-me-down from the closet at Whitney Houston's crackhouse, and I don't know what is going on with your left breast. It looks like you didn't get that leaking implant repaired. I would suggest shying away from shapeless blousey tops reminiscent of a flour sack in the future until you get your tits in order. The only thing that makes you look slightly appealing is the fact that you're sitting next to that stringy hooker Robin Antin, the choreographer who masterminded the Pussycat Dolls, and she looks like she rose from her grave, got some cheap extensions, and went looking for some brains to eat. It's not good that the best thing I can say about you is that at least you don't look like the tranny undead.
Are you that desperate for money, Kim? Because the only other explanation I can think of for why you would affiliate yourself with the Pussycat Dolls is that you read their name wrong and mistakenly thought they were called the Pussyeat Dolls. Being that I am very familiar with your music, I know that a prevalent theme of your music is the unending quest for receiving oral, and I can see how such a misinterpretation of the Pussycat Dolls' name could confuse and mislead you.
Also, why is another Pussycat Doll even needed? There are already six of them, and in my view that's six too many. They already have, from left to right, a chick who just came from an audition for "Red Shoe Diaries", a woman who appears not to have gotten over the fact that she isn't in junior high anymore, a wannabe goth vampire chick trying to look like the lead singer of Evanescence, an obvious fan of overusing self-tanner, a faux punk lesbian with entirely too much eye makeup, and an elderly M2F transgendered person. Is there some other variety of sorely needed costume-wearing slut that would truly improve this ensemble?
Furthermore, Kim, what are your qualifications for judging prospective Pussycat Dolls? Apart from your shared love for extraordinarily tacky, body-baring costumes and low budget hairpieces, you have little in common. Whereas you've directly addressed and revelled in your trampy ways, the Pussycat Dolls try to keep it under wraps. I went to their website today, and after the mind-numbingly painful experience of reading the girls' blogs, I realized that they are so concerned about avoiding profanity that they can't even write "grass", "competition", or "hello"without some well-placed asterisks to disguise the vulgarities within those seemingly innocuous words. They might include the odd sexual innuendo in their lyrics about pushing buttons and men looking at their "beeps", but I guarantee they never have and never will write shit like "somethin' I wanted, but I never was pushy, the motherfucker never ate my pussy", "I dug him, so I fucked him, it wasn't nothin'...he wanted me to suck him but I didn't, I ain't frontin," or "I ain't out shoppin' spendin' dudes' C-notes...I'm in the crib giving niggas deep throat." Your lyrical style is so inherently different that I can't see how you would possibly judge a Pussycat Dolls' song on the basis of lyrical content. Also, you are not the world's greatest singer. You are certainly capable of spitting lines concerning your "hard core flow that keep a nigga dick rock", but you can't carry a tune to save your life. God, there's one song on Hard Core where you can't even execute a sort-of singing imitation of Buddhist chanting. Although the existing Pussycat Dolls aren't exactly on par with, say the soprano performing in the Met's production of Die Walkure, they can at least butcher their bastardization of Sir Mix-a-Lot's classic "Swass" hook on key. What sort of experience (excluding that of the sexual variety) can you draw upon when selecting the next Pussycat Doll? It's not like you're Tommy Mottolla or Clive Davis or something. Christ, even when Diddy tried to do this the best he could produce was the caterwauling abortion known as Danity Kane. You're out of your league here, girl.
I know that you probably get letters such as this one regularly, so I'm sure this is not the first time a fan has questioned your career choices. Therefore I implore you to PLEASE drop out of this project immediately, hit the gym, cancel any appointments you might have with Michael Jackson's plastic surgeon (trust me, you DON'T need any more work done), get into the studio, and write more songs about your heroic quest for cunnilingus. If you insist on getting involved with a television project, then ask BET if they'll let you do another awesome reality show. RUN, don't walk away from anything having to do with these stank vagina-having drag queen whores. If you won't do it for yourself, do it for your fans, because it's going to be very difficult indeed to support you when you have a shitshow like this on your CV. I beg you to save yourself.
Skoal,
Razzy
Labels: celebrities, Lil' Kim, plastic surgery, rap, retard rage, ridiculous absurdity, TV, you're ugly
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