Between this and The Completely Unnecessary Karate Kid, it seems that Will and Jada’s child-labor-based retirement plan is proceeding apace. Too bad they couldn’t figure out a way to do it without raping my auditory canals and the memory of Pat Morita.
WARNING: This video depicts fictional sexual violence. A non-consenting guitar is fondled, thrown forcibly on to a bed, ravaged, and then thrown away like so much refuse. Please remember, kids: not being able to say no, means no.
The awesome thing about a video like this is how it does a terrible job of promoting the actual song (030 by The Good The Bad), and yet no one cares. This is because there are two absolute truths about music video production:
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You must stay at least 1000 yards from this image at all times.
I was all prepped to post something snarky and creepy about Miley Cyrus’s new album (Can’t Be Tamed) and the video for its lead single, which serves as the next step in her plan to raise sex offender recidivism rates across the country. But that was totally derailed when TMZ got their mitts on a video of Smiley going buck-wild at the wrap party for her latest cinematic irrelevancy. Shockingly, the public seems to have lost its collective shit.
Y’know, I really don’t understand people. Why the big deal over Miley giving director Adam Shankman a lapdance? I don’t pay much attention to the news, but it seems like all those elderly people with the signs on that one Fox channel that never runs American Idol are always complaining about this country losing its freedoms. I’m sure they’d agree with me that The Founding Fathers were all in favor of underage girls grinding all over a profoundly gay dude’s disinterested lap.
(I believe it was Ben Franklin who said one night during the Constitutional Convention, “Gentleman, being as we are at an impasse in the grand design of our nation’s governance upon this eve, perhaps it would best serve the ultimate needs of our assorted and trustful constituencies that we repair for fair rest and sober reflection to whatever sanctuaries most welcome our diverse spirits. In my case, the nearest titty bar.”)
Let’s face it, America: it’s 2010, and by the time your Little Princesses are old enough to use the web without you in the room, they have already seen their first double-penetration porn with a frosty finish. By Miley’s age, they’ve mastered the art of giving a handy-j with the left hand and texting about it with the right. My God, they’ve seen both girls and the cup. You just don’t come back from that.
Yeah, it's the cup that gets them. Every time.
Bearing this in mind, wouldn’t you prefer they were freaking all over some middle-aged homosexual who will clap cheerfully and encourage them to be fierce? Giving them outlets like that –in conjunction with constant exposure to weird-haired castrati like those Bieber and Jonas boys– will keep them off the straight and narrow, if y’know what I mean. Think about it.
Now that I’ve got that off my chest, all I have left for the new song is the video and this interesting factoid: someone called The BCG –I’m assuming it’s an abbreviation for Bi-Curious Guy– also has an album called Can’t Be Tamed, which features a single entitled Tea Bag A Ho. I’m not saying there’s a connection here… but if the balls dangle, dip ‘em.
I’m not even vaguely sure of what’s going on in these Harper’s Bazaar photos. It looks like she’s just come in from playing in that corner of the garage that the spiders claimed as their own back in ’05, or is perhaps being sprayed by an an industrial jism dispenser. (The latter being impossible, since my penis was with me the day of the shoot.) Either way, I’m confused, and since I’m a good American and don’t like things that confuse me, I hate it.
Please note a brief list of other things I hate: electricity, internal combustion engines, dark matter, Domino’s Bread Bowls, girls I dated in high school named Maureen, all languages other than igpay atinlay, and my own sexuality.
Nothing called a "trench dress" should be worn by anyone, ever. Sounds like the protective clothing an ER nurse would wear while fumigating an old hooker's vag.
Also, I think I kinda hate Cheryl Cole. I mean, she’s supposed to be a member of Girls Aloud, a Brit pop group spawned from a reality show that no one with proper dental care watches. But most of the mentions of her in the press seem to dwell on her dissolving marriage and faltering solo career. I could research it more, but my confused hatred is only exceeded by my soul-numbing apathy.
Don’t cry, though. I’ll make it up to you with this ass shot of Cheryl in a bikini, highlighting her seriously unfortuate –and probably drunken– choices in tattoo placement.
(hat tip: djmick)
Storm is attempting to stare into the dark recesses of my soul. The joke's on her... I watched an episode of Keeping Up with the Kardashians the other day, so my soul's been dead for at least 72 hours.
A few years back, Survivor producer Mark Burnett took a second crack at turning his Rock Star concept into a franchise with Rock Star: Supernova. Unfortunately, the formula that had worked reasonably well for Rock Star: INXS –bring in a bunch of struggling, professional vocalists to compete for a shot at fronting a big-name band– fell flat in its second iteration. Some might attribute that to the brief period of reality-show backlash that hit the country at that time; personally, I think it had more to do with the fact that there’s only so much excitement to be had in watching people struggle for accolades from Carmen Electra’s ex-sex toy and two walking footnotes (Gilby Clarke and Jason Newsted), while simultaneously trying to work out how many girls in the audience were going to be new hepatitis patients before Tommy Lee left the building each night.
But there were a handful of bright moments on the show, most of which were provided by one Storm Large, a blond bundle of tatted-up, maniacal energy and awesomeness encased in Wonder Woman’s body.
She even had a kick-ass original piece that she launched on the show, one that –when paired with JD Fortune/INXS’s Pretty Vegas from the previous seaosn– pretty much justified the production’s entire existence.
Stupidly, Storm was voted off the show much earlier than warranted, and I despaired of ever seeing her again. Like the other twelve people who watched the show, I completely lost track of her… until earlier this week, when I stumbled across her blog, and on it, one of the greatest music videos ever shot. Behold the wonder that is Eight Miles Wide!
It’s a piece from her one-woman show, Crazy Enough, reimagined visually as a mashup of “a Massengill douche commercial and a Dr. Pepper commercial”, demonstrating right there why the video would rule even if the song itself were complete ass.
Fortunately for all of us, that’s hardly the case… Storm has crafted one of the decade’s finest Cheerfully Filthy Songs, right up there with Liz Phair’s H.W.C.
You’re welcome.
All these years you’ve been avoiding me, ignoring my phone calls, marrying rich, scary black men without even a thought to how I might feel about it… it’s been tough. I’ve kept quiet and soldiered on through the countless sleepless nights and humiliations, all for the sake of the beautiful dream of us.
PICTURED: Beyoncé Knowles-Z holding her metallic spaceman
I mean, when you started singing songs about me? That was low. Single Ladies? Like “put a ring on it” isn’t a clear reference to that time I showed up in your backyard wearing nothing but a leather thong and a cock ring. You didn’t even come to the door! Yeah, “I wasn’t home” is always your excuse, isn’t it? Fucking Christ, it’s not like I haven’t sent you macramé puzzle pieces made from my pubic hair that –once assembled– made it bloody obvious that I would be there that day! Feh! And don’t get me started on knowing what it’s like to miss you, ’cause God knows how many times I’ve wasted perfectly good, GHB-coated darts on your housekeeper, just trying to get my aim right with the blowgun.
(Sorry, Rosalita.)
But I’m a big boy, and I’m prepared to let the past be past. Because you have shown me that there really is something inside you other than the sexomagnetic cyber-uterus that the future-aliens implanted in you specifically to draw us together so that we might breed a race of superbeings charged with protecting this galaxy from the encroachment of otherdimensional plasma beetles. And that something, I’ve found, is a heart.
PICTURED: Kanye West, holding his robo-alien love doll
Last night, when the entirely sane and reasonable Kanye West leapt on stage at the MTV VMAs to defend the honor of that little video you made featuring the hand-crafted Gauntlet of Infinite Stabbiness that I sent you in the mail back in 2005 (I’m not bitter), and in the process plunged country singing teen (and part-time nightmare of Lilliputians) Taylor Swift into a bottomless well of backstage tears… well, you could have just let it go.
But you didn’t.
So, all is forgiven. Water under the bridge. I’ll even go so far as to rescind the fatwa I issued concerning Jay-Z a few years ago. May you both live in peace. Until the beetles get here, anyway.
D’you remember 1999? You’re channel surfing because you didn’t have a DVR back then, you stumble across MTV –which was still toying with the quaint notion of featuring “music videos”– and out of nowhere, you were slapped in the face by this nasally teen-aged singer with giant boobs who looked like she was fully prepared to de-chrome every trailer hitch in Louisiana? It looked something like this:
Good... God. I'm still amazed Rolling Stone got away with this photo shoot. It's as if someone in the art department was like, "Bob, you know who this magazine isn't reaching? Humbert Humbert. We gotta go after them Humbert dollas, yo."
For a couple years there, she was our Jailbait-in-Chief. I could be misremembering, but didn’t we more or less invent the “how many days until she’s legal” public countdown for Britney? It was like Jive Records had put a buncha people in a lab and told them not to come out until they had created a musical sex robot that appealed to everyone from eight to eighty.
And, sure, we know how that all worked out: hundreds of millions of dollars, multiple mental breakdowns, a couple of genetically dubious kids, and the world’s most famous shaved beaver.
(Speaking of which, have you ever paused to marvel at the thought that everyone who wants to has seen Britney Spears’ crotch? I mean, go back some more to, say, 1978. Imagine if we had all seen Olivia Newton-John flash her cooter back then! All the low-lying areas of the U.S. would have been spontaneously flooded by jizz within a day.)
He's got chills, and they're multiplyin'. Of course, that's because (a) Xenu's hands are cold, and (b) he's standing that close to a girl.
Fast forward to 2009, and things just aren’t the same. Take this Pixie Lott chick, for example. Like Britney, she’s quite hot… but without the delightfully cartoonish sexuality that made Britney come off like a cock-teasing Road Runner being pursued by a nation of horny Coyotes.
What would mama do, if she knew 'bout me and you? Based on past experience, she'd probably take out a restraining order.
The girl is eighteen, and aside from an odd affection for slightly unflattering leotards, she pretty much dresses and acts like a perfectly normal person. There’s not much in the way of acting out, and this kinda thing is about as scandalous as her photos get.
Well, lessee here. Lots of leg... that's good, absolutely. Blowing the camera a kiss is kinda flirty. A grungy brick wall never hurts. But overall, it feels like she'd rather snuggle and fall asleep after five minutes of heavy petting than rape me and leave me a broken shell of a man in a puddle of my own depraved satisfaction. Which, if you think about it, is really pretty inconsiderate of her.
And while Brit-Brit can sing a little when she’s sober and in the mood (her live cover of You Oughta Know is almost bad-ass), Pixie can flat-out tear it up with a voice and style that sounds vaguely like Natasha Bedingfield kicked up with a dash of Duffy and then filtered through Christina Aguilera’s pre-Dirrty sensibilities.
If this is the future, this whole “respect me for my talents as a performer and not merely for the way I make your wang chung have fun” thing, well, I call foul. Is it too much to ask these girls to concentrate on being entertainingly slutty? If I want to mix a tantalizing taste of raw sexuality with compelling artistry, I’ll break out John Denver’s Greatest Hits, thanks.
What? Oh, hell yeah. Big John could fill up your senses and your orifices. Believe that shit.
