Ryan Seacrest thinks he can speak for me.
I heard him. It happened. He was doing that radio program of his and had
legendary recording artist douche canoe Rihanna on the phone. She was about to hang up and he ended the conversation by telling her “you deserve all the success. We love what you are doing.”
Hm, is that so?
As part of the listening audience at that moment, I can only assume that “we” included “me,” and if “we” did indeed include “me” and was not just Ryan Seacrest talking about his dimples and his ego, then Ryan Seacrest is a liar and a jerkface. Please ignore the underlying fact that I had to be listening to his radio program for this story to exist. Such a thing only happens when all the other stations are running commercials and NPR is talking about politics I don’t understand and I’m ferociously whacking the station button on my steering wheel hoping for something to add amusement to my horrendously long and boring commute from work. Even if that amusement ends up being the executive producer of all the Kardashian shows and the creator of “Bromance.”
Mr. Seacrest, don’t assume I am a Rihanna fan just because Clear Channel owns all the radio stations and tells people that she is great and hot and awesome. That game doesn’t work on me. I’m not tripping on that crack and falling for your pucky. She is not great. She is not hot and awesome. She is bad.
That last sentence originally read “She is a barf sandwich between two slices of bread made from frozen pee and grass clippings,” but I settled with “bad.” Read whichever one more closely represents your own feelings.
I think there might be a good voice somewhere in that little frame of hers. A glimmer of potential was shown a few years ago when she put out the song “Unfaithful,” which pretty much everyone forgot about by now because it doesn’t have some ridiculous hook that gets burned into you against your will like crotch rot you picked up in the back of a van. She actually sang words in that song. All other Rihanna tracks are repetitive jibberish, or Barbasian Yodeling as I call it. Here’s proof:
Exactly. Did you enjoy that? I suffered and edited that together just for you, creating nearly a full-length song of nothing but Barbasian Yodeling from some of her most popular tracks. That, kids, is how you make tens of millions of dollars before age 23. I thought going to college and getting a job was going to lead me to be able to pay bills. Apparently I should have just been asking rude boy boys if they big enough and forgetting my own goddamn name.
I am not one to knock someone else’s artistic work. Unless you are starving a dog and calling it art, I have respect for you creating whatever it is you want to create. But that doesn’t mean I like it.
So, Rihanna, I want you to stop. Enough with the babbling. Enough with the jibberish. Your music sounds like an old woman gargling Metamucil while riding in a covered wagon. Your songs are catchy in the way a fire alarm is catchy. Try and actually sing something again. Don’t worry about telling me about your whip and chain fetish. I often see high school freshmen girls who look older than you, so the mental image of you engaging in S&M gives me the creeps and makes me feel shame. I know there is a voice inside you. I know you have the potential to be more than your yodeling. Next time you pop up during my commute home, I’d better hear some real vocals. Don’t expect me to bum bum be dum, bum bum be dum bum. Don’t expect me to pon de replay, whatever that means.
And YOU shut up. I’m trying to drive.