A Beautiful Gown

We were discussing Lil' Kim's infamous glittery purple dress that didn't quite cover everything up. Jessica recalled that Kim's boobs were small (wrong) and saggy (wrong), so we looked up a picture on the internet.



But Paul recalled it even worse than Jessica, apparently. Taking one look at the photo, he sincerely stated, "I didn't remember it being so tacky."

This is my new favorite quote ever.

What's Your Favorite Ethnicity?

Go, Ricki!

This clip is quintessential 90s.



I used to watch Ricki Lake after elementary school every day. It's amazing that I'm not trashier than I already am.

For the record, I wouldn't have sex with any of them: fat or skinny.

Commercials

I watched a lot of TV yesterday. It sounds sad, but it was actually social, as I had a couple of friends watching rugby/Olympics with me. If I had just been watching television by myself, I'd call that a weekday. I don't have too much to say about the sports (shut up), but three commercials did catch my eye.


Does no one else find this obscene? This is obscene! THESE ARE BEARS WITH TOILET PAPER STUCK TO THEIR BUTTS. How does this get past the censors? Someone told me that Charmin has used this campaign "for years," but I don't know how I've missed this.

Plus, is this a real life problem? For people, I mean. I've bought some cheap toilet paper in my day, and none has ever gotten stuck to my butt. (I might have to ask someone to peek to confirm.) If this is something that happens to you, let me know, but let me know anonymously so that I don't judge you.

Am I sending a letter of complaint? Does a bear shit in the woods? APPARENTLY.


This ad is kind of cute; pointing out that everyone drinks cola is a nice way of stopping short of "ALL YOUR BASE ARE BELONG TO US." Still, I find it funny that "BFFs" can be the same bottles of coke...

"Frienemies" can be the same bottles of coke...

But then they go out of their way to make "Lovers" be two different types of bottles.

Coke hates gay people. I'm not saying, I'm just saying. Memba I toldja.


Pets are the new Somalian children.

I know a lot of people (read: lesbians) are excited for the Lilith Fair reunion, but I'm pretty sure it's going to be fucking depressing.

Friend: "$18 a month? Can I find someone to pay me $18 a month not to beat my dog?"

Better than an Indian Graveyard?

While driving through Nowhere, Indiana (population 7... and 5 of those were the people passing through in my car), I saw a sign and demanded that we pull over so I could take a photo. It required me stepping in some sludgy mess, but it seemed worth it. It's good advice, even if I don't know the context.


In addition to suggesting that I not buy a house atop a sewer, remind me not to wear that color combination again; I look like an ear of corn. Granted, in Indiana, that's equivalent to camouflage, BUT STILL.

A Big Night of Television

Last night was a big night for me!
And by a big night, I mean that I watched a lot of television.

First of all, Lost was on, and I found myself really caring finally. They brought the numbers back! Who knew I would be this excited to finally get an answer?! Or, well, a semi-answer shrouded in more mystery, but I'll take it! I made the following comic in honor of what should have happened last night:



I'm kidding, I love Rose. But if body-snatched Locke were also alternative universe Locke, he would have had more choice words rather than an epiphany.

Then there was men's figure skating. Katie, bless her heart, asked when one guy started his performance: "Is he the flamboyant one?" "Odds are..." I responded. She must not be too familiar with the sport.

Meanwhile, after seeing a commercial during Lost, I stayed up to watch Jimmy Kimmel for the first time in my life to watch Sade perform. I was hoping for an interview too, but no dice. I can't get over how sexy Sade's voice is, and I really enjoy her new song, "Soldier of Love."



Sexy, huh? I was only half kidding when I tweeted this recently:


Oh, yeah, I broke down and joined Twitter. Follow me if you're so inclined. More importantly, follow Sade. She is heaven-sent.

Book Idea

Does Artie Lange have a book deal? I'd like to ghostwrite Take My Knife, Please!: Memoirs of a Suicidal Comedian.

Presidents' Day

It's not President's Day, it's Presidents' Day. We've had more than one, so mind your apostrophe!

In honor of the holiday, I'd like to name my favorite president: auraLay anderaSkay ombleyTray.

No, she's never been the commander-in-chief of the United States, but she is the President of my undergrad college. (The president of my grad college? Klitgaard. Pronounced Clit Guard. I think that's what female athletes use to protect their junk, kind of like a cup for women.) Also, I put auraLay's name in Pig Latin because I just know she googles her name on a daily basis.

Back in the day, we called her Baberaham Lincoln because she was hot. Maybe not supermodel hot, but as far as college presidents - who tend to be fat, wrinkly, old white men - go, auraLay was indeed a babe. Just look at the picture of her with fellow babe Robert Redford. (They totes boned.)

About a month into school, my friend circle invented a game that mandated you having to hit on the president each time you interacted with her. When you go to a private liberal arts school with less than 1,000 students that prides itself on being accessible at all levels, these encounters are more frequent than you might think. If you failed to adequately hit on her, you had to take a shot of alcohol. In retrospect, the punishment was pretty stupid - what college student minds taking shots? Still, it was the thrill of the challenge.

Since no one wanted to be straight up pervvy, our pick-up lines had to be carefully crafted so that they would have an element of "Is he hitting on me?" while still maintaining plausible deniability. Because she gave lectures in Connecticut frequently, I once told her to make sure she told me the next time she was in my home state. Another time I complimented her brief introduction of a guest speaker as if it were some speech of Gettysburg Address-importance. Most people participating in the game would compliment her newest pantsuit or invite her to some club meeting in some over-the-top manner.

One time I was in the art gallery when I noticed the President walking outside in the garden, talking to someone significant like a donor or trustee. Feeling obliged to the play the game, I decided to put my face against the window and exaggeratedly wink and make kissy faces in her direction. Even if she didn't notice (which I was hoping for), at least I could say I tried.

Thankfully, the President never looked at the window. Unfortunately, a nearby custodian did. He was weeding the garden and clearly noticed me before I noticed him given his prolonged, disturbed expression. Once we made eye contact, he made another face at me as if to indicate I was some sort of gross, idiotic perv.

For the record, I am only two of those things. But at least I didn't have to take a shot!

Barnyard Love

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Mona Lisa: It's a Man, Baby!

Have you heard the latest about the inexplicably iconic painting and inspiration to some Julia Roberts film I didn't see, the Mona Lisa? A newer theory is that the Mona Lisa is a self-portrait, meaning that Leonardo Da Vinci painted himself in drag. Now historians want to raid Da Vinci's grave to see if they can find evidence to confirm this theory.

This whole "Let's dig him up to see if he made himself into a lady!" business is ridiculous. It sounds like one big gay witch hunt where people want to exhume him just to call him a queer and kill him again. To be clear, being homosexual and cross-dressing are two different things, but the general public will probably refuse to let dead Da Vinci serve in the military, have the painting reappraised at half its value, and call in bomb threats to the Louvre. "I always knew something was off about those artist types."

So the plan is to take his skull and see if it makes a similar smile. Isn't the point of the Mona Lisa that she's not exactly smiling? Are they also going to be able to make a skull semi-smile? Or is that just how Da Vinci always smiled - and if so, wouldn't there be some historical letters found that said, "Gee, that Leonardo sure always smiles like a shmuck"? Is this the Da Vinci code that Dan Brown should have been solving?

Snuggle Bear

There’s something off about the Snuggle Bear, no? Aside from being gayer than the average bear, even.

Shhh, the coast is clear!


He’s a bear who likes to hide in your home, sniff your clothes, then touch/cuddle you when you least expect it. Last I checked, there are laws against this.

Does anyone really want to swim in a tub of Snuggle’s “crème”?

That woman is about to get the surprise of her life. While she has her eyes closed, Snuggle hangs a “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door and gives us a knowing wink. He can use “snuggle” as a euphemism, but that doesn’t make it less of a rape.

When I was a kid, my first teddy bear was actually a Snuggle Bear. No kid should have a sex offender as a toy, but at least Snuggle seemed to have a taste for unsuspecting housewives rather than pedophilia.

Ohmguh, stay away from that baby, Snuggle! I suspect that some therapy sessions might help recover some sordid memories.

Morning Wood

Sometimes the least likely people are a wealth of sexual knowledge. Take my former minister's son, Josh, for example. When we were on church overnight retreats, he would talk a big game in the male sleeping quarters.

One night before bed, Josh told us that the most comfortable way to sleep is on your stomach. I liked stomach-sleeping, so I nodded in agreement. He then added that girls can't sleep that way because they have boobs and laying on top of them hurts. Though I had never considered this before, it seemed like a logical conclusion. Given my limited knowledge of breasts, I relished having a new fact about them, no matter how unsexy.

The guy talk didn't stop at boobs. Josh started complaining about often having something called "morning wood." Although I had never heard the expression before, I learned that it was the state of waking up with an erection. While I had noticed that my penis was often larger in the morning a disproportionate amount of time, I never knew there was a term for it. What a thorough education I was receiving!

When I woke up first the next morning, I found myself with a case of morning wood. Sharing a room with a bunch of boys, I wasn't about to do anything about it, but I was pleased to know I now had something to call it.

I left the room and found that two of the girls, Genesis and Chante, were also already awake; perhaps they tried sleeping on their stomachs and didn't get a good night's sleep. Particularly since I now had a name for my situation, I was highly conscious of my persisting morning wood that was visible in my sweatpants. Embarrassed, I grabbed a Scrabble box and held it over my crotch in what I hoped was an inconspicuous manner.

"Did you want to play Scrabble?" Genesis asked. That hadn't been my aim at that moment, but I didn't want to blow my cover, so I agreed. The three of us sat down on the floor and as soon as I took the box's top off, I placed it on my lap to continue covering myself.

At some point during the non-competitive game, Chante played the word "WOOD," which prompted the girls to laugh. I was mostly uncomfortable with the coincidence, however. Surely they didn't know what was occurring under the box. Surely they didn't think twice about the boy with the lid inexplicably resting over his groin. Surely they had no clue.

But maybe they did. Who knows what the choir director's daughter was teaching the girls over in their cabin?

WebMD

Terri: I put my symptoms into WebMD (headache, lightheadedness) and one of the suggestions was AIDS. Dear God! Dramatic, much?
Kevin: DENIAL MUCH?
Terri: Haha. Well Moira did the same thing for a rash in her palm and it told her Syphilis.
Kevin: So you're saying that usually it is correct?
Terri: Shut up.

Super Bowl Party at the Teen Center!

Originally, I had Super Bowl plans, but the host wound up bed-ridden with a virus, so even though she said she wasn’t “canceling” the event, that was pretty much the end of it. Besides, the only fever I wanted to risk catching was FOOTBALL FEVER!

I’m kidding, I haven’t watched another pro football game all season, but out of some sick cultural obligation, I had to tune in, not just for the game, but for the three hours of pre-game coverage. Literally the first thing I saw when I turned on the television was the highly touted pro-life Tim Tebow ad. After all the hype, I was expecting something way more controversial; abortion and the pro-life movement were never even mentioned explicitly aside from the phrase “Celebrate Life” at the end, which is so unspecific that it could have just as easily been the tagline for Visa, Pepsi, or bail bonds. Where were the bloody fetuses we were promised?!

As I questioned why I was watching any of this superfluous coverage, roommate Dan asked whether I wanted to play tennis. The public rec center is always overcrowded, but he theorized that Super Bowl Sunday might keep more people indoors. Dan’s prediction was correct and it was fun to fight the couch potato attitude of the day. I felt like an athletic stud, or at least as much of one as someone playing a preppy, non-physical-contact sport can.

On our walk back home, we talked about ordering a pizza and I moaned that I just wished there was a way we could get free food. In college, the best part of the Super Bowl was that different clubs would sponsor barbeques and you could eat for free all day. As if on cue, we passed a building that I had always believed to be the local teen center and an older lady stopped us. “Do you want to come in and watch the Super Bowl?” she asked. “We have pizza and nachos and a large screen TV.” We stammered for a bit, ultimately committing only to perhaps coming back after changing.

Do we look like teenagers? Does she think we’re teenagers? I’ve taught teenagers, so I should hope I don’t look like one. We pondered this for a few minutes as we decided whether to return for the free food. I wondered if maybe it wasn’t a teen-specific event and open to everyone and did an internet search to confirm. What I found was that the building was called a Community Center, not a Teen Center! “We’re part of the community!” I exclaimed, still clearly wanting free food. We felt better about the situation; obviously that older woman had recognized our correct ages and had extended us a legitimate invitation. We discussed bringing some beer to share, but decided to just be takers in this instance.

On our walk over, we discussed worst-case scenarios: gross cheap pizza, lots of kids, and it not being a large-screen TV. This was supposed to be just funny speculation.

When we arrived, Dan peered in through the door and tried to signal for us to abort (sorry, Tim Tebow), but I had already greeted the older woman who led us inside.

This was not a Community Center -- this was a Teen Center.

If the placard stating the fact were not enough, the posters about not bullying, the computers in the corner with signs about limiting your MySpace time, and the room full of teenagers would have probably tipped us off.

Unsure of how to back out, we sat amongst the group of teenagers and a Reverend, who kept encouraging us to eat. I mean, that’s what we were there for, but it’s surprising the appetite a couple of guys in their mid-twenties can lose when they realize they’ve acidentally crashed a teen center party. Our worst-case scenario was unfolding: there wasn’t even a TV, instead the game was being projected with a large yet grainy picture. Plus, the pizza was just cheap HAR. I think our presence kind of distracted the kids from the game; I’m sure they were thinking, “What are these old dudes doing here?” for which I do not blame do them, as I would think the same in their position.

In a very awkward fashion, we sat quietly for the entire second quarter with our new teen friends, occasionally muttering things to each other about how we’d end up on some pervert lists for showing up here and how glad we were that we hadn’t decided to bring beer to the event. We also tried to plot an escape that wouldn’t seem too rude, before deciding that the best exit was just a simple exit where we said good-bye and thanks. Of course, I had to foul up the plan by tripping on the cord that was operating the projector. Fortunately, I didn’t break or unplug anything, but I did cause a big scene, which provoked the teens to laugh, so I was feeling my ALL-TIME COOLEST at that moment.

Arriving home, we wasted no time cracking open some adult beverages, just in time to watch The Who decompose on the halftime show. Seriously, CBS, if you were that desperate to promote CSI, perhaps you should have just invited the respective casts to sing on stage. As for the second half of the game… whatever. It was good, but I kept changing my allegiance to root for the team that was losing. It seemed like a fun plan, but it was one that was going to end in almost certain disappointment, unless one team scored in the last possible second.

I’ll be a better football fan next year, guys. Meet you at the Teen Center!

Three (Embarrassing) Favorite Songs of the Moment

Wow, my taste in music has drastically plummeted as of late. My three favorite songs of the moment are songs that I’m too embarrassed to admit liking. Then again, I always share embarrassing details about myself here, so why censor myself now? What’s possibly worse than the quality of the music is that I am late. According to some wikipedia research, all three of the songs were released in August of 2009, so I’m really late on getting to know them. At least if I had liked them in a timelier manner, I could have blended in with the crowd of fans and joined the party.

Speaking of party, my first favorite song of the moment is “Party in the USA” by Miley Cyrus. “Everyone’s heard of that one!” you say. Sure, I read enough media to know of the song’s existence, but the title alone was enough to scare me away. It just had to be awful, so I never gave it a listen.

But, as it turns out it’s so fun! I had seen this song listed on a bunch of reputable critics’ Best of ’09 lists, but I didn’t take their suggestions seriously. And now I can’t stop listening to it. It’s to the point where I’m embarrassed that my sixty-year-old neighbor is going to knock on my door and tell me to stop playing Miley Cyrus on repeat.



Don’t get me wrong, I still don’t like the girl. In an interview, she doesn’t even own up to the genius that is “Party in the USA” by emphasizing that she didn’t write it and that it’s not the kind of music she likes. In the same interview, Miley admits she has never even heard a Jay-Z song, despite referencing one in the song’s lyrics. See, she really is a racist.

Speaking of racist, the next song is by Lady Antebellum. I’m not saying they’re racist, I know nothing about them, but when I hear the word “Antebellum” I think of the period in the United States when people were allowed to own slaves; you’ll have to tell me whether that’s a universal connotation. It just seems a little, eh, let’s say “problematic” as that is my favorite way of stopping short of crying “racist!” for some southern country singers, a sect that already carries certain connotations, to use as their name. They can tack “Lady” to the front, but that doesn’t make it a dignified choice.

So clearly, I have major beef with Lady Antebellum. Au contraire! I heard them perform this ridiculous song, “Need You Now,” at the Grammys and proceeded to have it stuck in my head. The bottom line is that I’m just a sucker for a blending of male and female singing voices. Controversial opinion: Marry whomever you want, but duets should only be performed by one man and one woman. It’s just better that way and God says so.

Lady Antebellum   More CMT Music   More CMT Music Videos

I know it’s not “cool” to like country, but as my jean shorts demonstrate, I say “Fooey!” to what’s cool. Growing up, when people asked for your favorite kind of music, it was good to say “everything” so you sounded eclectic and cool. It was even more popular to say “anything but country” since country was a universal dumping ground. Though I don’t seek country music out, when it falls in my lap, I’m not going to deny it. Admittedly, that’s half because I like it when someone sits in my lap.

So far, I’ve confessed to liking a country song and a kid’s song. The last tune is one that I’m sure is a favorite of your mothers’. I was channel surfing and a Michael Bublé video actually came on VH1. (“HAHA OMG VH1 still plays music videos?!?!” is the new “HAHA OMG MTV still plays music videos?!?!”) I stopped to watch, since I had heard his name so often and never heard a song. I realize Bublé is considered a joke, but I’ve always been curious to hear the punch line.



Though it took me hearing him perform it again on Saturday Night Live later in the week, I get the appeal. He strikes me as smarmy, but what crooner who has the hearts of middle-aged women everywhere wouldn’t be? They don’t call it easy listening for nothing.

Oh, but, hey, Michael: lay off the lip-gloss.

Predictive Text Kills

I use T9 predictive text when punching out text messages and it tends to get me in some trouble. Rather than clicking each digit multiple times to get the letter you want, you just hit them once and it does it's best to guess the word you spelled. Many times it works, but often it does not. The bad educator that I am, I don't often take the time to proofread my text messages back, so whatever word it assumed I was trying to say gets sent, meaning be damned. I get a lot of "Whats?" as response, and on more than one occasion, I've been told, "I can't understand your texts because they don't make any fucking sense."

That said, I've never accidentally killed anyone via text message, as Terri found herself the victim of recently.

It all started when Terri went to a comedy show at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery. Yes, it is a real cemetery, but since it's in Hollywood, it's also inevitably tacky, so they host a bunch of events there, too, like comedy shows and the sort. While at the show, Terri encountered a girl who she had met once through a mutual friend, Angel. This girl decided to share the coincidence with Angel in text message form, saying:

"I'm at the Hollywood Cemetery, that girl Terri is here."

Well, that's what she tried to say anyway. Thanks to a typo and a predictive text gone wrong, it came out as:

"I'm at the Hollywood Cemetery, that girl Terri is dead."

Naturally, Angel freaked out and called back immediately with concern. It is fairly amusing that he would believe this news since that would mean that not only had Terri died and no one shared this news with him, but now she was being buried in the most ostentatious cemetery in the country amongst deceased celebrities. That said, I can't fault Angel for his reaction, because it someone told you that your close friend had died, you probably wouldn't stop to reason through the situation.

Anyway, lesson learned: Mind your Ps and Qs! The letters might fall on the same number, but it could mean the difference between life and death.

My Celebrity Doppelgangers

On Facebook this week, the trend is for people to change their profile pictures to a picture of their celebrity look-alike. Some of my friends have done an admirable job of finding their doppelgangers, while others need to quit flattering themselves.

Even if I were inclined to play along, I don't think I could. No one has ever told me that I looked like someone. Well, there was that student who thought I was Dan from the Del Taco commercials and tried to give me hugs and money, but he was legitimately crazy, so I'm not going to count that.

Nevertheless, I was curious to see if there is some celebrity that comes close to me in appearance, so I did a search and found this website which allows you to upload photos of yourself. From there, it claims to scan your face and compare it to a celebrity database to find your best match.

I submitted this photo first:

And it had the gall to tell me it "couldn't find" my face in the picture! Granted, I'm hiding behind a table and making an expression that no face should, but that doesn't mean I don't have a face!

Fair enough, I thought, I'll give it one more shot with a more straight forward picture.

My #1 match was Cillian Murphy. Who? He's cute, though, so even though I don't see the resemblance, I'm going to pretend I do. Other than that, I apparently also look like Julie Andrews with a headdress, unknown Asian guy, Steven Seagal, and Kate Winslet. Okay, all of those are really funny, so I decided to try another photo to see if I got the same way-off results.

On the first one, I found it interesting that the software couldn't even discern my gender, but this time, it seems quite confident that I must be a women. And possibly black. Oh, to live the life of Raven Symone!

What about if I used a picture of me smooshing?

Well that looks about right. And how about if I use a picture of me daring to put off-brand gel manufactured in 1983 in my hair?

Billy Bob, Prince Harry, Molly Ringwald, and Liberace. If all of them had a love child (and I'm sure they've tried!) that would pretty much be me, right?

As fun as this experiment was, it clearly is faulty. It never "matched" me with a single celebrity more than once, showing how inconclusive it is. My highest percentage match appears to be Judy Garland. Eat your heart out, Liberace.

What do you think? Do I look like any of these celebrities? What preposterous celebrities does it suggest you look like?

Open Letters to Stars at the Grammys

Watching the Grammys last night was so fun that it inspired me to catch up on my correspondence. I sincerely hope to receive personalized responses from each of the musicians I address below, but I will also settle for an autographed picture.


Dear Elton John,

Kudos on the duet with Gaga, but does it sting a little to see how effortlessly she can out-flamboyant you? Before you let notions of further “collaborations” run through your head, remember that the Gaga penis rumors are probably just that, as she was desperately trying to demonstrate last night:

Dear Lady Gaga,

I fear for your life. Elton has a tendency to make a living off publicly grieving the latest hot blonde de jour. Please continue wearing elaborate costumes that double as armor and padding for your own protection. It wouldn’t surprise me if some “freak accident” were to occur during your next pyrotechnic-laden dance number so he could raid your closet and give you the “Candle in the Wind” treatment. In the meantime, if you want to preemptively go “Paparazzi” on his ass, I’d much appreciate his demise for selfish reasons. Thank you.


Dear Green Day,

Were I richer man, I’d buy a ticket to your Broadway musical out of morbid curiosity. Sounds like it could amount to a fat Dookie. Since you’re using “21 Guns” in the show, do you have to pay royalties to the Full House people?


Dear Beyonce,

While I appreciate your attempt to out-Gaga Gaga in your performance, it’s not happening. Don’t get me wrong, this video that Rich from fourfour compiled proves just how endearingly crazy you are in your own right.

But I did love that you’ve been lauded so often that you didn’t even go on stage to accept your own award. And despite finding “If I Were a Boy” to be a dreary and dull tune, I do have some respect for it after my friend Brian pointed out that you are one of the few people in pop music today that correctly employs the subjunctive tense. (I’m looking at you, Pussycat Dolls: Dontcha wish your grammar was were hot like me?)

Also, how were you the only person in the audience who knew to have 3D glasses during the Michael Jackson tribute? Were you just backstage saying, “Fuck this!” and watching Avatar and that’s why you missed your own award?

Keep being you, girl!


Dear “Best New Artist” Zac Brown Band,

I HAVE NEVER HEARD OF YOU BEFORE.


Dear Pink,

Those acrobatics were crazy! Why did it take you a full decade to show us that you have redeemable talent?


Dear Michael Jackson’s kids,

Where was Blanket? Please tell me he’s not being dangled out of a window somewhere. I’m not going to make fun of your botched attempts at reading a teleprompter as, frankly, I am impressed that, given your upbringing, you are even somewhat literate. Jesus juice and bed sharing aside, the best thing that Michael ever did for you as a parent was to keep you out of the spotlight. Just because your grandparents, notoriously thoughtless child exploiters, now have custody of you does not mean you should let them throw you to the media. Stay in hiding before you become just another character in the Jackson Freak Show.

P.S. I know this is inappropriate for so many reasons, but Paris Jackson, you are a looker!


Dear Bon Jovi,

You might have eked out a career well past the 80s, but no one remembers any of your songs from past that point. If you hold 900 public votes to determine which song you should play, 900 times the people will choose “Livin’ on a Prayer.” The poll might as well have been, “Would you rather have a free piece of chocolate or poop?” Everyone but the occasional farmer in need of fertilizer is going to choose the chocolate. Never mind that there’s really no choice at all since “Livin’ on a Prayer” ultimately tastes like poop – except when this one guy who covered it performed all four vocals (no really, click the link, it’s awesome, you won’t regret it.)


Dear Dave Matthews Band,

It is comforting to hear that you sound exactly like you did in the mid-90s when I last paid attention to you. Never change!


Dear Andre Bocelli,

Thanks for proving that it’s possible to record a benefit song that is more of a disaster than the cause it is intended to help. I’m sure Haiti will appreciate the four dollars your belted version of “Bridge over Troubled Water” will raise. By the way, when Mary J. Blige walked on stage halfway through your song, I saw you open your eyes wide to check out her heaving cleavage. I’m not going to accuse you of faking your blindness, but I have no problem heavily implying it. For example, this letter is not in Braille.

Dear Roberta Flack,

I’ve been meaning to write to you before your Alzheimer’s kicked in, but it appears I may be too late. You looked like an old woman who hasn’t been invited out of the house in years, so you decided to put on every accessory, bit of make up, and ounce of hair dye that you owned on your person. Also, if you wanted to convince us that you were not lip-synching, you should have probably held the microphone above your waist. Unless all that plastic surgery enables you to sing out of your cooch now, in which case Kill Me Softly!


Dear Taylor Swift,

You’re adorable. We get it. But your incessant overacted “genuine” surprise starts to grate by your fourth award of the night. It’s one thing to be humble and another to act like a doe-eyed bumpkin. Keep that up and people are going to jump ship for Team Kanye. I checked Wikipedia and apparently you’ve won more than 50 major awards in the past couple of years, so this is hardly a new experience for you. I hope while rehearsing your duet, Stevie Nicks introduced you to cocaine to make you a little less predictable.