IF YOU SEEK AMY
Um, I have an issue. Well, I have multiple, but we are going to focus on one at a time today. My most current and pressing issue is with the song “If You Seek Amy” by Britney Spears.
Everyone has been muttering about the genius lyrics of the song because you have all clearly been huffing ReddiWhip cans. Rumor has it that when one says, “If you seek Amy” that it sounds very similar to saying, “if you fuck me.”
I understand a great deal many things, so I know it has to be all of you that are cognitively impaired because this one eludes me. I’ve listened to the song about four hundred and twenty-two times and you know what it sounds like to me? “If you seek Amy…” That’s what it sounds like, it sounds exactly like the words she’s saying.
So I googled it seeing if someone could help clarify my confusion, because we all know the internet is filled with brilliance. I found a message board where someone was saying anyone who didn’t understand this is clearly retarded. I’d like to meet this person face to face because I’d be willing to bet you diamonds for dirt they are missing teeth and sport a mullet. This person laid out the lyrics, as seen below, and I assume the upper case words are what one is supposed to emphasize.
Let’s all try together: “all of the boys and all of the girls are begging to if you SEEK AMY.” It ended with, “and if that doesn’t make sense, your a moron.”
Oh good sir, am I really? Am I really a moron? To me it would make a lot more sense if the word “seek” was replaced with “fuck” and “amy” with “me.” Yes, I think that is how it would make the most sense.
“all of the boys and all of the girls are begging to you if you fuck me.”
“Oh, yes, I get it now!”
The other problem I have with it is that even if it DOES mean “fuck me,” from a grammatical viewpoint, it makes little sense at best. All of the boys and girls are begging to…what? Begging to do what if you fuck her? They aren’t begging to fuck her, they are begging to do something else after they’ve fucked her, but what? (“all of the boys and all of the girls are begging to BLANK if you fuck me.”) Apparently in the mind of Britney we simply do not need to know. I thought perhaps they were begging to see Amy, since other verses of the song seem to allude to this character of Amy. But if Amy is Britney’s vah-jay and they just fucked it…then they already met Amy as their penis was just in it!
This song ticks me off more than “Everytime.” I loathed that song for such a long time because it bothered me that they put every and time together. Every and time do not go together. That is not a word. It’s every space time. Dammit.
I guess in this world of trying to make sense of things, one has to pick their battles lest they should lose their damn mind. I’m going to let this one go for a while, but if anyone can explain it to me it would be much appreciated. Maybe I have the volume up to loud, or perhaps to quiet? Regardless, I feel like someone that has been left out of an inside joke, and I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.
- Michael
DAMN QUEERS
For what is believed to be the first time ever, Wheel of Fortune featured an openly gay couple on the show. I knew this is what would happen if the liberals stared taking over. This is exactly what starts to happen when people stop taking the Bible literally and realize it wasn’t the divine inspired word of god but a mistranslated, misunderstood book written by mortal men. They start letting fags in the army and on our game shows!
Watch Vanna White’s face. You can tell she’s thinking, “This is exactly the reason I voted ‘yes’ on proposition eight.”
MILEY CYRUS CAN GO TO HELL
Do I have issue with Miley Cyrus? Well, I think that’s a rather silly question to be asking. Of course I do. Of course I have issue with Miley Cyrus, that incestuous nymph (see photo below. That’s how my dad and I watch movies together, only I’m usually in just a thong).
I am not just filled with horror to be blogging about her most recent music video, but more so horrified that she was ever allowed to make a music video in the first place! We live in some dark times my friends, dark times indeed. I believe Nostradamus prophesied such evil in the end days of this planet.
This issue I take with the Fly On the Wall video is that it is a direct rip off of Michael Jackson’s Thriller. The only difference is that the “Michael Jackson” character turns into a paparazzi, not a monster, after leaving the movie theater and chases Miley around town. Where Michael Jackson’s face turned into that of a horrifying monster in Thriller, the Fly On the Wall video features this boys slurpee cup morphing into a camera. I would like a small, round lead projectile submerged into my brain please. What an original idea. She’s on her what, third music video? and she already has to resort to recycling old ideas? That screams career longevity right there.
In Thriller we all recall the flawless choreographed dancing of Michael Jackson and all the hideous undead. In Miley’s video, however, there is a choreographed dance scene of paparazzi mimicking the Thriller dance (because why the hell not?). She of course stands off to the side and observes because, to reiterate, she has no talent and cannot dance. The only dance move she can do involves her spreading her arms and stumbling around, looking like a bird with down syndrome about to fly into a large glass window.
The video ends with her bitching about being followed around by the paparazzi, and hunny, I have to sympathize with you on that. I wish the paparazzi didn’t follow you around either. I would much rather they followed someone that is interesting. Someone that isn’t Disney Channel’s bitch.
If the video wasn’t reason enough to add Miley Cyrus to my thirty-three thousand page listing of people who I don’t much care for, the fact that Chris Crocker likes her is. All credibility of something, even if it only had a miniscule amount to begin with, is lost when someone who walks around saying, “It’s a hair flip” and “eat my corn hole” endorses it. True, Chris Crocker was all for Britney Spears, but that situation varied slightly because Miss Spears gives the impression she wouldn’t be caught dead in the same room with him. Miley Cyrus and Chris Crocker have pictures together. Evil.
I give this video negative eighty-seven million stars.
-Michael
The Video: Watch but be forewarned.
YOU DON’T KNOW MY LIFE, BITCH
To Whom It May Concern:
I am writing this today because it has come to my attention as of late that there has been a great deal of fallacies circulating about my life. I am here today to dispel many of these rumors and hopefully, for the first and last time, set the record on my personal life straight.
It seems that many people think my life is easy, that I just coast though my days on a ray of sunshine. Well my friends, allow me to inform you that nothing could be further from the truth! If anything, at this point, I’ve all but lost the will to live. My slim figure was all I had to cling to in these hard times, but I’m slowly loosing my anorexic build to Doritos and processed cheese. The will to work out now just a distant memory as I have discovered investing in jeans a size or two larger requires a great deal less effort.
I have a substantial two dollar and thirty nine cent a day caffeine dependency. I’ve tried to quit; I need to try again. However, the first waking hours of my day are a complete mess, absolutely unbearable, without it. I can’t find the will to dress myself or bathe properly when I’m jonesing for caffeine. There’s mornings I’ve found myself reading the side label of my conditioner in the shower, praying to god that Suave has included it as one of the active ingredients. Would I drink it? We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. The health problems it causes really are of no consequence to me, the near lethal does of caffeine in a large sized Red Bull has all but sent me into coronary heart failure. My hands shake; my heart races and I have to pee like a mother but can’t focus on the task of urination long enough because I’m so wired up. One time while peeing, so preoccupied with finding something else to burn this energy on, I walked right out of the bathroom, pants around my ankles, urinating all over the place. It wouldn’t have been quite as embarrassing as it all sounds had I the foresight to check my feet before leaving the men’s room and noted the piece of toilet paper stuck to my left shoe.
My car is a death trap. Let go of the steering wheel for one second to spark up a doob before class and it veers further to the left than my last boyfriend’s penis. It’s a battle to keep the thing on the road, a real battle. The parking brake is completely worn down to a mere suggestion of its former self. I tried remembering to unlatch it before driving, but they really should implement some sort of warning system other then the odor of burning break pads. I have to park on a completely flat surface now, which is next to impossible to find. I don’t know who paves parking lots but I’ve gathered their budget doesn’t include a level. So I’m forced to park wherever I can and pray my car stays where I left it. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve come out from class only to find my car has rolled backwards through the parking lot and out into traffic. You never get used to that sort of embarrassment. The onlookers saying things like “what sort of idiot does something like that!” I deny I ever owned the car and join in, promising whenever we find this reprobate, who has clearly no regard for public safety in mind, to give him a real piece of my mind. I then proceed to walk the thirty five miles home, “I’ll pick it up from impound later this evening” I think.
I struggle to keep even a single friend. For god’s sake, I’m like a hemophiliac with these people, hemorrhaging them left and right! It’s to the point where I don’t even know why I keep a cell phone; periodically I test the ringer to see if it still works because I haven’t heard it ring in months. My buddy list is down to four people, three of the four screen names are mine. I begin to wonder if it’s me, perhaps I’m a bit to abrasive, opinionated, perhaps I really am a self absorbed asshole like everyone says. “Poppycock” I say, “It can’t be me.” And if it is me, I remain unapologetic for my behavior, I should not have to change the way I am and have been for the last twenty-three years to fit the mold some may have set in their mind. “I’ve been the same person my whole life” I think to myself, “If they had a problem with it at the start they shouldn’t have continued the friendship.”
So at home alone I sit, reorganizing my collection of Mardi gras beads by color. I’ve never been to a Mardi gras party; I just bought the beads and imagined what the party may have been like. I was wearing a fierce outfit, the life of the party always in the center of a crowd, people hanging on my every word.
“…so we seriously argued for almost an hour, he kept insisting that the penis DOES have bones in it! ‘How else do you get an erection’ he says to me.” The crowd erupts in riotous laughter as someone brings me a fresh cocktail. Cher is there, sitting in the corner royally pissed off, it’s her party I’m at, the one she was planning to announce the re-re-re-re-re-re-launch of her musical career, not that anyone would have really cared anyways. “You can only cry retirement so many times” I think to myself, “Only so many times before people lose interest.” By the end of the evening she’s been cast further into the shadows by my announcement of a world tour. I’ve not yet released an album, but still have managed to sell out every stadium from Denver to Iraq. And yes, my tour does stop in Iraq. It takes place in a newly constructed arena named in my honor, after I constructed a plan for ending the conflict in Iraq, turning it from essentially a ticking time bomb to a hub of fashion and musical talent; a France/Hollywood fusion of the Middle East, if you will. Drew Barrymore has just purchased a loft down on Shiite Avenue, right across from gay bar actually, Baghdad Buns, or BB as the locals call it.
In all actuality, I read a lot to pass the time. I’ve just finished an almost four hundred page book on the secret war of control going on inside the White House. I can honestly say I now know more about the war in Iraq than, I assume, the president. I’ve even managed to go cover to cover on a book written by Al Gore. Most of it was regurgitated rhetoric originally by George Orwell. I’d say it was a good read, but I cannot lie, and must protest that you will not fully understand human suffering until you thumb through one of Gore’s books.
This morning, because I felt the need to mentally punish myself, I watched a good hour or so of golf. I can’t imagine how anyone could find such a ‘sport’ entertaining, half the time was spent looking for balls that had flown off course into brush. Then the agonizing debacle of deciphering which ball belonged to which player. Apparently, despite making it to the PGA, none of these idiots had the foresight to bring a sharpie with them.
In closing, I hope this letter has helped to change the brush strokes of the picture you had painted of me in your mind. Change them from a Monet to a Picasso. It’s not always so sunny in the life of Michael Hansen. You don’t know my life. Bitch.
With all my love,
Michael
