Truly Awful Music
Remember yesterday how I said that the crazy bitch who spit up bat shit at Usher for parking in a handicap spot should smoke some a bowl out of a Valium bong while a kitten massages her ear with its purrs to calm her ass down? It's a good thing I kept a receipt for that comment, because I'm taking it back. Usher deserves to be covered with bat shit and beat with a dozen handicap parking placards for giving birth to the maple syrup-covered anti-Christ who is responsible for this dark-sided drummer boy fuckery (featuring Busta Rhymes).
The drummer boy just stopped drumming and poked his ears out with his sticks. Jesus just put a call in to Maury, because if he can prove that God is not the father, then Christmas is canceled forever and this song can be erased from the planet to never be heard from again. Jesus, let me dial that number for you.
Oh, and here's another one to bang your head against a wall to. Mimi, you'll never be forgiven for this.
Some doctors might say that I burned away most of my brain cells from watching every season of Footballers Wives at least 12 times and from snorting the insides of a Dexatrim pill as a dare once. But the truth is that they all ate themselves out of madness from working retail during holiday times and listening to the same 15 damn stupid Christmas songs over and over again.
This song, that is already #1 on iTunes, will join the evil army of yuletide melody terrorists this holiday shopping season. It's Jason Mraz burping repeatedly as a lesbian beaver from up north breathes out mistletoe(and cameltoe)-killing note after mistletoe-killing note. It will ruin your holidays. It will also be the reason why you'll have no gifts to give to your loved ones this year. Every time this mess comes on in a store, you'll have no choice but to punch everything and everyone in the aisles as you run out of there to crash head first into the nearest tree. Your loved ones will understand. It's a natural tick.
Also, note to Justin Bieber: When the shawty you're calling a shawty is about as shawty as you, you shouldn't call her a shawty. You should call her an astallasme-ey, or something.
via The Hairpin
On last night's season finale of The Real Horseflies of New York City, Cuntess LuMann de Lesseps threw a party on a boat to celebrate the 1 year anniversary of dating her boyfriend Dahveed Schwimmière. LuAnn throwing herself a fancy party for her 1 year dating anniversary is one kind of confusion, but Natalie Cole agreeing to sing at that mess is another. Earlier in the episode, Natalie magically ran into LuAnn at a recording studio and agreed to sing a duet with her at the party. This crap put the du(du) in duet.
If you crawled into Nat King Cole's grave, opened his coffin and gave his skeleton mouth to mouth bones, the sound that comes out of him would sound a million times better than what came out of LuAnn's last night.
I never saw Natalie shake her head and make a "so it's come to this" face, but I did it for her. I'm surprised that Natalie Cole singing a duet with The Cuntness didn't make Hell freeze over and send an icy glacier up through the Hudson to break that boat in two.
L is for the way my ears leak blood....
I just got back from spending the evening with my family at the luxurious beachside enclave that is Brighton Beach where we feasted on overcooked old fish and flat soda water at the most prestigious Russian seafood restaurant with a zero point Zagat rating, so this is the perfect video for me to end my day with. This is The Real Housewives of NYC's Countess LuAnn dragging Jill Zarin and a bag of leather beans through the Borgata Hotel in Atlantic City, because when you think of "Chic C'est La Vie," you automatically think of an old Jersey whore giving a $2 hand job on the boardwalk. I know I do.
But real talk, that video is just a ridiculous piece of shit wrapped in old lady tragedy. Jill Zarin belongs in a music video as much as a clit belongs in my asshole. It's not right. It's also not right that Cuntess LuMann sounds like an Eartha Kitt fart and looks like a man alien in Teri Hatcher drag. This is what it looks like when a hot flash and a cold queef collide.
Yes, the "o" in pop star is long.
Staple the folds of your ears to your face until you're partially deaf, coat your eyeballs with white glue until you can't focus on moving objects, swallow a bottle of anything mind altering until your soul is numb and then press play on The Real Housewives of DC's Michaele Salahi moving like a stale grandma scarecrow blowing in a fart on NBC Miami's local morning show.
If Kim Zolciak's dirty tampon mated with Heidi Montag's half-melted suppository and the latter gave birth in the middle of a Ke$ha concert held in the parking lot of a Versace outlet, this is pretty much what an artist's dramatization of that event would look like. Everything about this GOLD down to the UPS delivery dude clocking out for 5 minutes so he could help a bitch out. And no, I won't be signing, because this package is going back!
Simon van Kempen is the latest Real Housewives of NYC cast member to slap an open sore on the sanctity of music by abusing technology to put out his own single called "I Am Real." It's been described as a dance song, but the only movement you'll want to make to this mess involves wrapping your hands around your own neck and shaking until Simon's robot voice has left the building in your head. Seriously, the sound of those latex pants being ripped off of Simon's hairy nutsack is probably more pleasant than this song.
Simon tells Popeater that his sound is very Jarvis Cocker and I have to agree. It is very Pulp. That is if you took a Pulp cassette single, let it warp in the sun, played it in a Boombox with low batteries and then shoved it all up a hippo's ass right before the creature had to fart. I'm sure that's what Simon meant.
(Thanks to everybody who sent this in!)
13-year-old Rebecca Black, the pop culture superstar sensation who is about to receive a restraining order from Friday, made her late-night talk show debut on Leno! Rebecca charmed Bradley Cooper, said she's donating the profits from her single to charity and told Jay that she didn't have to audition for Ark Music Factory. Well, Rebecca didn't have to audition, but a personal check her mom cut did. And guess what? It passed! Thank the auto-tune gods for that, because if it didn't we'd never get to see her perform "Fried Eggs" last night. I use the term "perform" as loosely as I use my bong.
This feels like something you might see if you walked down into the basement and caught your sister singing karaoke to an audience made up of her favorite stuffed animals. But Rebecca seems like a sweet girl and she is pretty good at mouthing lyrics into a mic. She's ALMOST as talented as Our Lady of Cheetos. Brit Brit better hold her weave, because Rebecca is coming to snatch it right off!
Ever wanted to know what it would it sound like if a 5-year-old Ke$ha performed a song about the calendar on a water-damaged Casio keyboard after snorting glitter glue and swallowing a vibrating ball? Well, Rebecca Black (ft. an embalmed Usher) is making terrors come true by serenading you into the weekend with a song that could be used to argue that we should change the name of Friday to Nightmareday.
Rebecca has also answered the question that you always find yourself asking on a Friday night: what comes after Saturday? And this bullet to your sense of hearing will also leave you asking: why don't they make funnel shot glasses for your ears? Because you'll definitely want to wash your ears out with vodka after this shit. Fun! Fun! Fun! We so excited! Fryyyyyyyy-daaay!!! (This song will never stop stabbing my brain, right?)
Khloe Kardashian no longer has to worry about almost pulling her back out from hunching while stalking baby wombats in the dead of night. Khloe just has to play Kim Kardashian's new "song" for them and they will be instantly stunned, paralyzed and vulnerable. That pretty much describes how my ear drums felt after being exposed to the unflavored mound of lukewarm shit that is Kim's new song called Jam.
Jam sounds like a slutty and sedated toddler burping while riding a plastic pony in a playground. I swear, Kim isn't singing, bitch is letting out an auto-tuned yawn. It's the music equivalent of her sex tape. Jam makes "Stars are Blind" sound like a heartbreaking torch song of raw emotions. It's about as exciting as the jelly left on a probe after a rectal ultrasound.
Kim says that she did the song "for fun," but it doesn't like she's having fun to me. Ho sounds like she's eating plain yogurt while watching her reality show. Kim needs to listen to some Midi, Maxi, Efi to hear how monotone bored voice is really done. In the meantime, Kim should just fart into a microphone for her follow-up single. It might have more life in it. Nice try, though.
While rehearsing his Oscar host debut, James Franco recorded his version of Cher's "You Haven't Seen the Last of Me" from Burlesque and uploaded it to his Twatter as a joke. James claims they pulled this mess from the show out of fear that it'll make Cher's latest face throw itself in an open urn.
James is the greatest performance artist since Angelyne, the literary mind of every generation, a master at the art of memorizing lines and now he can add "homeless drunk hobo chanteuse" to his ever growing list of talents. Warning: This goes on forever and it's the audio equivalent of that picture above. Your ear drums will gnash themselves as much as your retinas are:
Personally, if James is going to do Cher, I'd rather he put his vocal cords to bed and pay homage to her by slipping on her "If I Could Turn Back Time" crotch-suffocating bodysuit.