Perfection, Thy Name Is Tonya.

The Winter Olympics have finally come to a close and I couldn’t care less.  You may wonder why.  After all the Winter Olympics feature figure skating and figure skating is truly the cuntiest of all sports, so what could be the problem?

Frankly my interest in figure skating has waned tremendously following the retirement of the grand matron of the sport, Tonya Harding.  Far too many people know Tonya strictly from her involvement in knee-capping horse toothed bitch Nancy Kerrigan in 1994, but she is so much more than that.  Yes, Tonya Harding was an athlete and yes, Tonya Harding was a criminal.  However Ms. Harding’s life was and continues to be living, breathing performance art.  Her life and career have been overlooked, I would say criminally so, for its immense contributions to American culture.  Given figure skating’s unforgivable actions to distance itself from her, I have had no other choice but to disregard the sport.

To truly appreciate Tonya Harding, we have to take a step back and reexamine her  masterstroke at the 1991 US Figure Skating Championships.  I of course refer to her free skate which deservedly won her the championship.  Figure skating fans tend to focus exclusively on the extraordinary technical content of this program, but it is to their detriment.  That Tonya successfully landed a triple axel and six other triples is of little consequence to the vast artistry present in this program, artistry which has been overlooked to this day.   Tonya knew that in order to truly make her mark at these championships she would need the assistance of a tremendous musical arrangement.  As such she skated to a deftly mixed collection of her absolute favorite music.  Starting with the score to Batman, Tonya then transferred into a delicate arrangement of Send In The Clowns flowing out into a majestic instrumental climax of Tone Loc’s Wild Thing.  The accompaniment alone was such utter brilliance that it should have won her the championships, regardless of her technical performance, yet as the score board lit up following her untouchable athletic and interpretive display there was not a single perfect 6.0 to be had in the artistic mark.  This is unforgivable.  Harding lifted the sport to new heights, heights not reached ever again (although her decision to skate her final competitive free program to the soundtrack of Jurassic Park was almost equally inspired) yet it was all lost on her peers.  She was appreciated simply for being a brilliant technician, perhaps the best jumper in the history of ladies’ skating, and nothing more.  I believe that it was at this precise moment that I lost all faith in mankind.

This brings me to the most recent Winter Games.  There has been an extraordinary amount of criticism about the judging of the ladies event, with many viewers speculating whether the obviously purchased victory of Russia’s Adelina Sotnikova over South Korea’s Yuna Kim was in anyway “fixed.”  I couldn’t care less.  If anything Yuna Kim got exactly what was coming to her.  Yuna Kim made the audacious decision to use a piece of Tonya Harding’s 1991 opus as the music for her short program, skating to Send In The Clowns.  There are certain pieces of music that are simply untouchable and the score to Batman, Send In The Clowns and Wild Thing shall forever be off limits to all other ladies skaters, in perpetuity, for the rest of time.  Many mourned the marking of her low balled short program, but I didn’t.  I just laughed, for she received exactly what she deserved and likely lost the gold medal because of it.  Look, I’m not made of wood.  I can’t begrudge Kim the very human weakness of wanting to co-opt a small piece of Harding’s majesty.  Had she made her short program a full-fledged homage and capped off her skate with a verse from Wild Thing then I would’ve given her pass.  She of course did not and thus got what was rightfully coming for her.  She was damn lucky just to have to settle for a silver medal.  Just ask Nancy Kerrigan.  She can tell you what happens to a bitch when she comes for Tonya Harding.

Tonya Harding has continued to titillate and excite the nation following her retirement from figure skating.  Though an aborted musical career ended unceremoniously, she would return to sports, this time as a boxer.  Far too few figure skaters become pugilists (you can hold your breath all you like but Johnny Weir’s never going to lace up the gloves) and Harding overcame the disdain and scorn of an undeserving public to retire with a respectable 3 win, 3 loss record.  A booking on The American Gladiators was tragically cancelled, though she would later make an appearance on the AAA Mexican Professional Wrestling League as the short lived manager for a team called Los Gringos Locos.  Though she was a respectable pugilist, Tonya’s true calling after figure skating was almost certainly in professional wrestling.  That the WWE did not immediately sign her to a lucrative exclusive contract is unimaginable.  As a nation we are all the poorer for it.

After doing all she could for the advancement of the arts, Harding has at last retired into life as a private citizen.  In yet another testament to her extraordinary physical prowess, Harding gave birth to her first child at the age of 40 in 2011.  If there is any justice remaining in this world, her son will grow up to be a sick’ning drag queen who shall wreak havoc upon the undeserving and uncaring public who so disgraced his mother.  She deserves nothing less.


If You Stop Fucking Him, He Will Go Away.

Another day.  More Katy Perry.  And yet another hideous white lady grill.  This is a woman who’s already walking a fine line between barely tolerable and urge to kill, but it’s all gotten so much worse.   Katy Perry’s media ubiquity is rather irritating to begin with, as it is generally accompanied by her shitty music, but now she is consistently accompanied by something far more sinister- John Mayer.

One strains to wonder why any famous woman would volunteer to spend their time with John Mayer.  Having failed to produce a substantial hit in years, Mayer has only managed to maintain his media presence by drifting from one heavily publicized relationship to another.   Perhaps I’m being a bit harsh.  I’m willing to write off the 12 year age difference with a teenage Taylor Swift as pure love, but anyone who would willingly choose to spend their time with Jessica Simpson clearly has dubious taste and ulterior motives.   Case closed.

We can knock Perry all we want, but she’s a definite alpha bitch.  Perry could easily have any one of us eliminated with the bat of an eye.  She practically bleeds money.  So why lower yourself to John fucking Mayer?  Perhaps “douche-y” is subjective, but isn’t the rash deterrence enough?

I’d be willing to overlook, even commend, Mayer’s relentless man-whoring if he wasn’t so pervasively icky.  I’ll gladly tip my hat to an A-game American Gigolo, but you have to get your swag right.  The man is like a walking yeast infection.  Just looking at him makes my pussy yearn for a Vagisil Medicated Wipe.  Seriously, I can overlook the hobo wardrobe, the college sophomore hairstyles, possibly even the dreadful folk rock, if he didn’t seem so fucking greasy.  Then again, I suppose there’s some merit in a man who comes pre-lubricated.  Perhaps Katy has a tendency to chafe.

The paps are claiming that the two are engaged, having produced a photo of a reputed engagement ring.  Perry denies it, and I certainly hope that’s true, because that cheap piece of shit ring look like something I won out of a neon orange easter egg at Chucky Cheese when I was twelve.  Granted, Mayer more than likely gets most his money out of Katy’s purse, but if you’re going to pop a media stunt engagement you should at least get the bitch something from Jared’s.

Clay Aiken Goes Butch, Seeks Office.

Clay Aiken recently stunned the nation with the revelation that he’s still alive.  Also he’s running for Congress.

Aiken’s political platform isn’t especially clear.  Apparently he wants to help disadvantaged kids, or some shit.  Also he is NOT a politician and, with a knowing chuckle, emphasizes that he never wants to be.  He just wants to bring some hope and change to Washington and, gosh darn it, isn’t that what an elected official is supposed to do?

Aiken announced his bid with a puzzling 5 minute long YouTube soliloquy that raised far more questions that it answered.  At first I thought it was some sort of audition reel for a regional Raleigh production of Our Town.  It wasn’t until I was 3 minutes in to the tastefully blocked monologue that I realized that this was supposed to be some sort of political advertisement.   Nonetheless I’ll give Aiken some credit for upgrading his look.  Clay brings his glamour game hard with a cobalt blue button down shirt, sleeves rolled ruggedly high, khaki slacks and a slender brown belt.   Clearly Clay wants to prove that he’s of the people, for the people, and nothing makes that more clear than rocking apparel from Sears.

Most memories of Clay Aiken revolve around grizzly images of him in triple thick pancake foundation and a modified auburn bowl cut.  Aiken ditches the baby dyke coif and strips down his makeup to a simple, thin application of Revlon Warm Ivory.  Never before has his makeup been so restrained.  He still looks like a strangely ashen version of Howdy Doody (a little blusher never hurt, Clay) but the parred down make up and sensible back comb makes it clear that the man means business.

If you have far too much money and absolutely no shame, you can contribute to Clay’s political campaign via one of the several convenient links on his website.  Clay might lack any real credentials to be a congressman, but I’ll wish him luck regardless.  After all the thought him trying to recoup his campaign debt through a rejuvenated musical career is a far more frightening alternative.

Surveys Says, “No Grills After 50.”

Despite being an ardent Madonna fan (a trait developed during my less bitter days) I cannot in good conscious defend the recent installation of her teef grillz.  There are certain things that a woman of a certain age should certainly avoid: 23 year old boyfriends, self tanner, white-blonde hair bleaching (Betty White gets a pass), and so forth.  Sadly, it would appear that in a bizarre vacuum of self awareness, grill installation must now be added to this list.

Viewing the grill from afar, the first impression is that Madonna had some sort of terrible mishap while applying her Poligrip to her first set of fake teeth.  A bit closer the grill now appears to be precariously holding her original teeth into her jaw through an extraordinary act of extreme orthodonture.  It is not until the viewer has reached an extreme close up that the grill effect finally registers.  There’s nothing that quite screams, “I’m heading to Shady Pines!” like a jumble of crumbling teeth held together by steel, wires and dental adhesive.  As an openly vain woman, it seems doubtful that this is the intended effect for Madonna’s new Iron Man teeth.


The most frightening but also most likely explanation for Madonna’s teeth gaffe is that she’s just trying to keep up with the kids.  Walking, talking piece of Wonder Bread Katy Perry also rocked a grill to an awards show in 2013; interested parties can be assured that her grill was  equally hideous.  Grills on white women are unseemly.  They just make Gwen Stefani’s Return of Saturn braces look like high fashion.  Grills are a special sort of magic reserved solely for the Lil’ Waynes of this Earth.  Before rocking a grill, ask yourself, “Am I as magical as Lil’ Wayne?”  If the answer is no then you are far better off passing on teef bling.  Be advised.

If the award isn’t insertable then I don’t want it.

The Grammys, like Mackelmore, have convinced me that it gets worse.  Year after year the nation is forced to endure the hard, jaundiced turd that is the annual Grammys awards.  It just seems to get more and more painful with each passing year and, no matter how high they suspend P!nk, there is never any break in the annual tedium. 

The Grammys is perhaps mankind’s least convincing argument for existing.  What can be said of an industry show that lauds its least talented artists while systematically ignoring nearly anyone dedicated to their craft?  Anyone who does not live under a rock with their eyes blindfolded and ears plugged hears and sees Beyoncé and P!nk and every other Top 40 robot on an endless loop.  What conceivable need is there to see them yet again warble out their overplayed hits?  Why do people watch this?  Won’t someone staunch the bleeding?

This year’s labored stunt was the gigantic gay wedding orgy during Macklemore’s “Same Love,” a song only modestly less irritating than “Born This Way.”  Encrusted and irritable as I am, I would actually like one of these gay pride songs were it sung by a real live gay person.  It is an utter tragedy that the gay community is so culturally impoverished that we must rely on straight people to write our gay pride anthems for us.  It’s strange that, not only do people get away with this, gay people line up to support these people and buy their shitty music.  And put them on the cover of ours magazines.  But at least I wasn’t the most embittered queen this year, that award goes to Mimi Imfurst:

”New rule: If you are going to officiate a mass gay wedding on television, You can’t stay in the closet to protect your television career.”

Ouch.  Sorry, Khadijah.

What fuckery will The Grammys hand us next year?  The Grammy committee could salvage some modicum of dignity if they handed out a lifetime achievement award to Britney Spears for her contributions to the art of lip syncing, but I doubt they would ever dare do something so entertaining.  They should listen to me, though; when the most interesting part of the evening was beholding Madonna’s latest Colonel Sanders image reinvention, then you know your show’s got problems.

Pray For Bieber

Following her son’s recent arrest, the mother of Justin Bieber recently requested that the the public pray for her son as he struggles through his current legal problems.  Though I first blanched at the suggestion, additional time ruminating on the importance of this subject ultimately moved me to honor her request.  The following is a transcript of my most recent conversation with God about Justin Bieber:

“Dear God,

Are you there, God?  It’s me, bitchface.  I know we haven’t spoken in awhile, but I request that you overlook that and please help Justin Bieber in this, his time of need.  It is my sincere hope that you will care for him, look out for him and pardon his legal transgressions so that he may continue making shitty pop music, taking drugs and driving under the influence.   Justin Bieber has important work to do, so please look out for him so he can continue imperiling public safety, making millions and appropriating the wardrobe of black men.  I cannot bear to live in a world devoid of his ubiquitous smirk constantly peering out at me from all media outlets 24 hours a day.  It is the adolescent millionaires of this world that most need your help and I pray that you will give that to him.  So please, save Justin Bieber, and if you have the time, please also assist the plight of the world’s poor and wartorn, too.

Sincerely Yours,

The Embittered Queen

Lil’ Kim is Undead

A Vancouver-based artist has recently sued Lil’ Kim alleging that Kim stole her signature Zombie makeup design as a cover image for her new album.  I, for one, call bullshit; anyone who has followed Lil’ Kim in any capacity over the last half decade can attest that Lil’ Kim has looked like a reanimated corpse for years.  This is nothing new.  At best Kim presently looks like a bronzed Matryoshka doll, at worst she can pass for a partially mummified Tanzler bride.  As even the most cursory Google image search can attest, Lil’ Kim has been dedicated to looking like a zombie long before the Walking Dead made it in anyway fashionable.  Kim should be lauded for her efforts by the undead community, not decried. 

The article is listed below, but the decision to include a recent picture of Kim quickly debunks the artist’s claims.  Whenever I’ve seen photos of Lil’ Kim in the past few years it’s always looked as if she’s wearing an elaborate Lil’ Kim mask.  Female masking is an unheralded art form and if this is what it takes to bring it wider visibility, then so be it.