You can imagine how pleased I was when I stepped into my building’s lobby the other day and was greeted by what appeared to be The Book of Shadows sitting on the communal table by my elevator. It’s kind of a thing in this building – people leave their old crap on the table downstairs in the hope that their 1970’s guide to parenting or half-consumed jar of Nutella will go to good use, insead of where it belongs (in the trash).
Sure, the cover of the book says that it’s something benign, pleasant, even: The Standard Treasury of the World’s Greatest Music. With that being said, I’m pretty sure that given its faded, burgundy cover and spooky vibes that this book contains all of the secrets to the world’s evil and should never be opened by the weak, fleshy hand of a mortal.
We’ll put it like this: I just hope that B and I are out for a walk with Jack when some idiot finally comes along, cracks open the cover and turns my building into a portal to hell.
People on the subway who furiously bob their heads in time to the music they’re listening to on their headphones annoy the shit out of me. Wow, guy – you like it when musical notes are strung together in a melodic way? That doesn’t make you ‘cool’ or ‘ hip,’ it makes you a sentient human being with ears that work and a beating heart. Stop pretending that you’re Avicii DJing MSG when we’re both just two schmucks riding the 3 train home from our grunt administrative jobs.
I. Cannot. Fucking. Stand. Rihanna. She’s untalented, she’s too pleased with herself, and she’s way too rich for being so untalented and pleased with herself. Also, her forehead is so huge that she looks like one of the aliens in the Twilight Zone episode “To Serve Man,” but nobody talks about this uncanny resemblence, and I find that frustrating.
Let’s add on a few more reasons why Rihanna should disappear, shall we? How about the fact that she just got a tattoo of the word ‘Breezy’ on her neck (Breezy being Chris Brown’s nickname)? For the four of you who don’t know who Chris Brown is, he’s the ex/current boyfriend of Rihanna’s who pummeled her face a couple of years ago like he was a bartender muddling fresh mint for mojitos. He’s a terrible, awful, loathesome human being, but for some reason, she keeps going back to him, and that makes me hate her more. Now, maybe it’s just me, but it seems kind of weird that a girl who could date literally anyone in the world insists on dating a guy who does things like, oh, I don’t know, smash her fucking head into the dashboard of a car. So much for the empowered woman she’s always tunelessly warbling about being, eh?
ALSO, Rihanna grabs her crotch WAY too often for me to be okay with it. After all, everyone knows there’s a three-in-a-lifetime limit to crotch-grabs. They’re like wishes from a genie, and Rihanna is making a fool of everyone who respects the rules. Plus, she’s never NOT sweating like she’s sitting in a sauna. It’s truly repellant, and it’s definitely a sign that she is engaging in some not-so-smart extracurriculars (namely, blowing rails of coke in between schmoozing with Diddy and drinking Ciroc in Paris and shit). I can’t wait for her inevitable downfall. It makes me smile just thinking about it.
So concludes the first installation of Celebrities Who Should Disappear Already. Stay tuned for the next one, in which I’ll be discussing why Kim Kardashian should be waterboarded on stage at Madison Square Garden.
Somehow, since I’ve started blitzing the city with my Fangs of New York stickers, my hit count has gone DOWN. What’s that about? I’m pretty sure that God doesn’t punish people for shameless self-promotion, or else Lana Del Rey would already be a skeleton.
This guy absolutely kills it every time. His skills on that piece of equipment are nothing short of astounding – now all we need to do is get rid of the basket-weaved fedora and it’s STRAIGHT TO THE TOP, BABY, STRAIGHT TO THE TOP!
By far the best and most disorienting music video of recent memory (is that bread he just flung around his neck at 0:38?), Ssion’s “My Love Grows in the Dark” pays homage to the most DIVINE club tropes of the late ’80s and ’90s – and it’s a super catchy song, too. Check it out!
Something about this track’s haunting bird call combined with Justin Bieber’s [actually really fantastic] falsetto performance on it makes me want to record a Kreayshawn-style video in which I lip-synch “Boyfriend” on top of a roof while wearing a purple sequined fitted. I imagine this fits in nicely with Justin Bieber’s evil plan to create an army of his very own clones, starting with the lesbians (http://lesbianswholooklikejustinbieber.tumblr.com/).
There’s a man who stands on the street outside of my apartment and plays the recorder for money. That’s right – the recorder. He literally plays “Hot Cross Buns” 100 times a day, which annoys me for a number of reasons, the most important of which is that I could TOTALLY DO THAT if I had less shame/dignity left to lose.