Whatever happened to Amy Winehouse? That’s the question. Last time I saw her she looked like Horseshack from Welcome Back Kotter with some kind of barrel gut, topless in St. Tropez, frolicking in the water like an inebriated squid with surprisingly perky cans. Where did she go? She was, to borrow Paris Hilton’s latest (and probably best) catchphrase “huuuuuuuuge” not long ago, but now she’s done.
Was it the drugs? The crazy? I don’t think so, man. Drugs and crazy are what made us notice her in the first place. Without the drugs and crazy, she’s just Joss Stone. Yeah, Joss Stone smokes weed, but don’t be a pussy, that’s not even a drug. That’s like saying you drank last night because you had water with dinner. Technically correct, but not in the spirit of what’s going on in the conversation you semantics nazis.
Anyway, point being, without the crazy, Joss and Amy, pretty much the same. Amy is crazy and trashy and that’s why everyone loved her. That creepy lizard skeleton husband, the ill conceived tattoos, that stuff got us foaming at the mouth. Without that stuff, she’d just be Lilly Allen, a piggy little princess who acts out because she’s always been a spoiled little fat thing…a Kelly Osbourne, if you will. (My friend Peter [yes…same guy] used to call fat little cunty brit girls DLP’s, an acronym for Daddy’s Little Piggy. I always thought that was pretty great).
So anyway, what was I saying? Oh yeah. Without the talent, Lilly Allen would be just another Kelly Osbourne, who, with a few less deserts would just be Peaches Geldof, who, if she sounded like Dionne Warwick, looked like someone had drawn a cruel 1940’s caricature of a jew on her face and made her batshit insane, would be Amy Winehouse, who, to bring this full circle, is essentially Joss Stone but crazy and fucked up on (real) drugs. And Joss Stone, as we all know, is a talentless slute of a human being who essentially channels the worst parts of Mellissa Ethridge through the body of that girl that’s hot enough to bang at camp or on vacation, but as soon as you make the mistake and bring her around your friends, you’re so bummed out. Oh, man! She’s talking about unicorns again. And unironically! Oh Christ. Did she just get stoned and start laughing so hard and for so long that she started hyperventilating and everyone got weirded out and went on the porch to smoke and now I’m just stuck in here with her? Ah fuck! All this because she was the best looking girl at the resort, but the joke was on me because her beaver was an unkempt backwoods and she had strange nipples! Don’t leave me alone with her, dudes! PLEEEEEAAAASE! I’ll never bring a dumb outsider chick around again! I swear!!!! Ah, fuck. They’re gone. I don’t fucking believe those guys took off! (long, uneasy silence) What did you say? Okay, fine. Yeah, I’ll watch “Nights In Rodanthe” on demand, I guess.
You get the idea. That’s Joss for you. And the rest of em too, probably. Actually, I dunno. That Peaches seems like she’s a party wrapped in a couple of crazy pills from India wrapped in a saline drip, if we’re being honest. I’d hide in her closet while her dad yelled at her about something. If I wasn’t married, that is. Huh…I guess I could put her on my list of Unassailable Bangables. Nah. Waste of time. She’d pass out before the good stuff started.
You know what I’m talking about, right? Everyone has a list of I dunno, five people that, should the opportunity arise, they can bang and their spouse can’t be mad. Well, I’m here to tell you, as someone who crafted my list carefully, to include only girls I thought I may potentially meet, who I could conceivably (theoretically) convince to sleep with me, that the whole thing is complete bullshit unless you’re like our polyamorous friends in the Sock Drawer, in which case you don’t need a list, or, well, your list is actually the people you CAN’T bang, (which I think probably doesn’t work most of the time either, but you know, nice try).
Anyway, point being, when I met Avril Lavigne, I called my wife just to kind of prepare her, and the response was less than enthusiastic. My response to her response? “Hey, not my fault you picked a harder list than I did. I like to do the legwork with my mind. Not my fault that my listees come to punk shows and your listees hang out on Yachts in france watching all Angelina’s kids. Bad choices, if you ask me.”
So, yeah. Long story short, I fucked her. Angelina, that is. Avril smelled of rotten salmon. Not really what I expected, though. Angelina’s vagina- huge and tattered. And greasy and kind of sideways, actually, if we’re being honest. All pockmarked too, just like her husband. Whatever. She smelled okay at least. Like crisp linen.
Anyway, I tried to make my list all my wife’s friends and various girls I work with and stuff, but she balked at that. She said that everyone had to be famous. So, anyway, here’s my list. If you’re out there, let’s bang. I got a green light:
Nah. I can’t bang Amy. She’s too gross. She’s covered in sores, but what happened to her? That is, after all, the question, innit? When did her drug use stop being compulsively watchable and become career poison? I mean, she’s not any bigger of a fuck up than lots of people who I see every night in bars, starting fights, passing out, barfing, walking around with coke rimmed nostrils, getting fucked in urinals, shit like that. Her behavior is remarkable only in that she doesn’t pretend it doesn’t happen. You. Yes. You. You out there have done some stupid fucking things, and if you were in the public eye like poor Amy, you too would be branded a complete fucking wastoid. But you’re not, so you just sit there and judge. Why? Because it feels good to shit on people who are rich and successful and to claim they don’t deserve it because they have the same problems that we do. Well, guess what? They also do stuff. Stuff that people respond to. Where’s your stuff? Eh? Thought so. So anyway, this one’s for you Amy. It’s a little early, but I’m sure you’d approve, right? Cheers, you various dicks and front butts!