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,


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.

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