*Please note that the opinions reflected in the “Dear Celebrity” section may (or may not) be the opinion of Miss Jia! In other words….I DID NOT WRITE THIS or any Dear Celebrity letter to follow!
Dear Keri Hilson,
I, like many lovers of good music and personal style, have patiently waited for the day where I would awaken to the news of a fire in your Atlantic Station apartment building. Or even a freak accident involving your tour minivan along the rural roads of Mississippi. Sadly, this day has yet to come… but hope still lives in the hearts of the righteous.
(Caution: Long read ahead)
Some nights I lie in bed on a conference call, with my close circle of friends (and the Armenian b-tch who used to tint my eyebrows), asking why we would be so unfortunate as to have to endure your excruciating vocal assaults, abrasive looks, and laughable fashions. We’ve come to the only logical conclusion: God has you blocked on His heavenly timeline. He knows not what you do. He knows not how we suffer.
Judging from your random self-empowering outbursts on Twitter, it has come to our attention that you feel as though you have “haters” in the world. Oh, contraire madame!! We are not haters, per se. We’re simply tired of your drab and talentless ass life, for a number of reasons that I’ve chosen to outline as we move forward:
1. You tried to bring back the fucking “rat tail” for women. This is not 1992. You are not Master Splinter. Like seriously…… the f-ck were you thinking??
2. Your singing reminds us of why vocational schools exist. In the words of that earnest dromedary prophet, Shawn Carter: “It ain’t for everybody.” They should’ve never gave you niggaz dreams. And by niggaz, I mean you. And by dreams, I mean vocal cords.
3. You dress like that nigga from The Mod Squad. I’ve walked through the Misses section at Belk’s and been more inspired than I have watching your red carpet looks. I’d rather piss Zatarain’s Concentrated Shrimp & Crab Boil for the rest of my life than have to spend an hour in your closet. Fire your stylist. It’s clear that she hates you, and is probably fucking your little brother simply out of spite.
4. You couldn’t sell an album to your own damn mother. You’ll never see a platinum plaque that isn’t on the wall of one of your industry peers who feels sorry enough for you to invite you over for dinner to discuss job opportunities at local Waffle Houses and title pawn offices.
5. Your music videos look like the morning announcements at my high school. Every time a Keri Hilson video receives a YouTube hit, you can bet the creator of Windows Movie Maker is sitting back in an office somewhere, laughing his a-s off and counting his traveler’s cheques.
6. You have that ONE. DRY. ASS. RUN. The SAME DAMN RUN. No matter how hard you try to remix it, speed it up, or slow it down… it’s the same.fucking.run. You ain’t fooling nobody.
7. You have about as much sex appeal as a phone-bone session with Venus Williams. I’m sure the mere mention of your name causes vaginal dryness and severe erectile dysfunction all across the globe. I’m convinced that if you ever released a sex tape, the American porn industry would collapse within a matter of hours.
8. You make me ashamed of the fact that I ever liked vagina. This one is pretty much self-explanatory.
I’m sure by now, you and your camp of spineless handlers are asking: How can we remedy this situation?? The answer is quite simple.
Move to Croatia. Pack yourself a duffel bag full of boxer briefs and strap-ons, hop on that standby Delta flight, and NEVER. LOOK. BACK. You’ll thank me 12 years from now when you’re named Butcher of the Year in your province, and all the townspeople throw a dungeon orgy in your honor.
Or just die. The choice is yours.
Yours in Christ,
Princey.
