No, You Should NOT Have Passionate Kisses, Mary Chapin Carpenter

This letter is to you, Mary Chapin Carpenter,

No, you are not a dear, Mary, and so I cannot address this letter thusly. Let me begin by explaining the reason I am composing this letter.

I have long despised your mediocre talent, and even more has your choice in song recordings galled me for many years. Songs such as He Thinks He’ll Keep Her and I Feel Lucky have irritated the beJesus out of me since childhood, but none of these “hit singles” have caused me to cringe and my ears to fold in on themselves quite as much as the song Passionate Kisses.

I know not whether it is the unmusical tone of your voice, or the even less harmonic rhythm of the song itself, but, oh evil songstress of country, how I loathe thee. Let us look upon the unpoetic lyrics of said song for a moment, shall we?

Is it too much to ask
I want a comfortable bed that won’t hurt my back
Food to fill me up
And warm clothes and all that stuff
Shouldn’t I have this
Shouldn’t I have this
Shouldn’t I have all of this, and

Passionate kisses
Passionate kisses, whoa oh oh
Passionate kisses from you.

While I do not deny that we all at one time or another crave a bed that doesn’t cause our backs to ache, and I myself want more food than is necessary to fill me up, I must point out that these very commonplace wants do not, in my opinion, cause you stand out enough that you should deserve such things as passionate kisses from me or anyone else. Moving on….

Is it too much to demand
I want a full house and a rock and roll band
Pens that won’t run out of ink
And cool quiet and time to think
Shouldn’t I have this
Shouldn’t I have this
Shouldn’t I have all of this, and

Passionate kisses
Passionate kisses, whoa oh oh
Passionate kisses from you.

I might mention here that, to be honest, you are not a performer of such caliber that you are in the position to be demanding of anything. If you were, you would not be needing to ask for a full house for your rock and roll band, because it would already be sold out. Too, you would have enough money to buy pens that have ink in them if you were able to sell tickets to your shows. Maybe it is your entitled attitude that causes people to not want to see you in concert, hmm? Or maybe they just realize that you will ask just anyone for passionate kisses, and do not want to run the risk of acquiring herpes labialis. Anyhoo, I digress.

Do I want too much
Am I going overboard to want that touch
I shout it out to the night
“Give me what I deserve, ’cause it’s my right”
Shouldn’t I have this (shouldn’t I)
Shouldn’t I have this (shouldn’t I)
Shouldn’t I have all of this, and

Passionate kisses
Passionate kisses, whoa oh oh
Passionate kisses from you
Passionate kisses
Passionate kisses, whoa oh oh
Passionate kisses from you 

Did you ever think maybe, just maybe, if you quit yelling at whoever it is you want to make out with so desperately IN THE NIGHT while they are trying to sleep that they might actually want to kiss you? Maybe if you ever shut the fuck up for one goddamn second, and quit whining about passionate kisses, someone might actually desire to smush their lips against yours?!

I have come to the end of this atrocious song, and find that I have nothing more to say to you, Mary Chapin Carpenter. You may blame my place of work for playing this song frequently, because having had to listen to it on a regular basis has made me quite certain you will never, EVER be getting your coveted “passionate kisses” from me. To be clear, your tiresome neediness is the reason you lack affection.

Goodbye,

Sparklebumps

Considering Taylor Swift’s Legs (and Other Repugnant Subjects)

I was going to make last night Date Night for my Rockstar and I, after my friend Delightful was unable to hang. I dolled myself up after work so R would have something to show off on his arm, but when he arrived home, instead of OKing the movie I’d suggested we go see, he reminded me that the CMA Country Music Festival was being shown on TV last night. Our night out was immediately changed to a night in, and he made a beer run to ensure that our evening did not lack liquid refreshments.

I was thrilled to see that Little Big Town was hosting the show, mainly because Kimberly Schlapmann’s curly blonde afro is an inspiration for my own wooly coiffure. (And because my Rockstar stated that he would like to see both girls of the band bent over and cleaning the floor- he’s so classy, ain’t he?)

Before each commercial break, they listed every singer that was to perform in the next segment, and I began to wonder why it was that I was so thrilled to be watching the show in the first place. ‘Tis true that I find Carrie Underwood to be quite easy on the eyes, but I am so disgusted with her talent for picking un-appealing songs to record, and even more repulsed that she still claims to be “country”, when she decides to dress up like Pocahontas’ bastard child and sing Guns N Roses’ “Paradise City”, that I barely had time to notice her lovely behind. My Rockstar agreed wholeheartedly with me on the monstrosity of her performance.

The night continued with unmemorable performances by the unmemorable dudes of today’s country music, and then there was Taylor.

By now, you shall all have probably discovered my distaste for one, Taylor Swift. I had thought my loathing of her could not possibly get any worse, but I was ready to upchuck my Peach Schnapps as I watched her trying to be sexy in her new uniform of hotsy-totsy shorts. I say trying, because no, there was nothing sexy about it. It was very like the scene in True Lies, you know the one, where Jamie Lee Curtis is dancing mostly naked for Arnold- hilarious and painful, yes, but not sexy in the least. Taylor’s air-humping was only intensified when the object of her wet dreams, Tim McGraw, arrived on stage to sing with Taylor, while not-so-furtively checking her out out of the corner of his eye. You could almost SEE the thought bubble above his head: “HEY! A younger, hotter blonde than my wife! I hope Faith isn’t watching me openly commit statutory rape on Taylor with my eyeballs!” (Yes, of course I was watching his crotch closely to see if any hint of Tiny Tim was happening.)

After the nauseating performance, my Rockstar admitted that he’d “do Taylor, just for the challenge, and to brag about it”, even though she “has a weird body and would be better off showing off her legs in something that is not tight shorts”. I admonished him that if he DID do Taylor, I doubt there would be much of a challenge involved and that there wouldn’t, in fact, be much to brag about in the least. After all, there are many tall, long-legged blondes that can’t sing in the world, and plenty that are hotter.

I was, however, greatly relieved to find that the women of country music today are not afraid to pack on a few pounds, and to stuff that shit into sausage casing so it doesn’t stick out. I believe that Kelly Clarkson should go back to pop music, because she hasn’t done anything of note in Nashville, other than eat, apparently, and Miranda Lambert wants everyone to know that she is NOT expecting- she just got fat.

Don’t get me wrong, I love these girls for the stands they’ve taken, but someone needs to shoot their stylists. I myself am not of a desirable weight, so to speak, but I realize that wearing leather leggings that are two sizes too small is NOT going to flaunt what I’ve got in a good way. As Hillary from Lady Antebellum sang about her man “Not taking her downtown anymore”, my Rockstar and I rudely remarked that it was probably because she couldn’t fit through the door- in her defense, she’s having a baby any day, but I’m convinced it’s two or three.

All in all, it made for a night of insults and opinions from my Rockstar and I, as we sat and made fun of people who are much more successful and rich than we. I’m certain karma is gonna come and kick my ass at some point.

You Disappoint Me, Carrie Underwood

Dear Miss Carrie Underwood,

I shall begin my letter by saying that I had high hopes for you. I was one of the several million people who voted for you on the finale of American Idol, even though Bo Bice had that whole sexy Southern Rock thing going on. At that time, I was certain that anything you touched would turn to gold.

I find you to be completely gorgeous. In fact, the only thing that has kept you from replacing Angelina in my spank bank is your blonde hair. While it suits you perfectly, I cannot get over the fact that I despise blondes. Kudos to your hairstylist, however, for making it look as good as it can look. I am a bit concerned, however, about your weight. When you first caught our attention on Idol, you were a perfectly healthy-looking girl from Oklahoma. I realize the pressure to look good in all those free designer clothes is hard to deal with, but, girl, you need to eat a sammich. A whole buffet of them.

It is true that you have become one of the top-selling musical artists in the country. I would like to have a little chat with you about that.

No one can deny that your singing voice is stellar, and any remakes you do sound better than the originals. So why the hell don’t you pick some songs to record that showcase your voice?! I believe you are suffering from Mariah Carey Syndrome- you are so focused on picking catchy tunes that people want to sing along with that you do not remember that your musical talents far surpass the average karaoke singer, and that you owe it to the world to sing those songs that no one else is able to. The well-sung songs from your first album are long forgotten in the wake of more “popular” hits such as Before He Cheats, Cowboy Casanova, (that song suck balls by the way), and The More Guys I Meet. I cannot deny that your wardrobe in these music videos is admirable, which somewhat takes away from the harsh reality that you suck at making song choices. I just can’t talk about this anymore.

Of course there are millions of fans wanting to pay the exhorbitant prices for your concerts; why wouldn’t they, when you insist on wearing skirts short enough that we can see what color panties you are sporting? The cameraman at those awards shows knows just the right angle to get from offstage to have filled us in quite well on your panty wardrobe. I suppose that I cannot really judge, after all, I market myself as a bookwhore. However, do not for one second think you have fooled anyone into thinking you are a nice girl. Your numerous ass flashes prove otherwise.

And what is this cross-over business? I find it deplorable that you pose as a country cutie, when you clearly long to be a Rockstar. Shame on you for taking the money of all those ignorant hicks who cannot tell the difference!

All that being said, if you would have someone else choose your songs for you, I’m sure you would have a whole nother group of fans.

XOXO,

Sparklebumps