Dear Lil’ Kim:
I heard you turned 34. Again.
Sorry. That was mean. However, I’m pretty sure you were 34 last year, too. Don’t you think I can count? Just let it go. MILFs are hot right now. Ride the wave.
Anyway, I was planning to write and wish you a happy birthday, but then I stumbled across this photo. Please take a look at it:
I hope you’re as concerned as I am. Because when I saw it, I gasped. Seriously: gasped. I was all, like, honeychild, what’s up with all this fakeness, this body mod? You look like a press-on nail.
For starters, you’ve straightened your hair and bleached it to chicken-fat yellow. Or maybe you’re sporting a weave, which means you’re wearing (a) someone else’s hair or (b) a petroleum byproduct. Either way: if you’re trying to impersonate the checkout girl at my local Walgreens, mission accomplished. Classy.
In the eye area, I see that some ketamine-friendly drag queen has gone tweezer-happy on your brows. Those ginormous artificial lashes are millimeters away from Liza territory, and…are you sporting blue contacts? Lady, please, what is this, 1997? Just because someone still makes them doesn’t mean you should still wear them.
The lips. Lordy, those lips. Need I remind you of the plastic surgery disaster known as Mickey Rourke? Let me refresh your memory: old Mickey. New Mickey. Old Mickey. New Mickey. Old. New. Now, side-by-side. The slope you are on is slippery, and you are slathering it with bacon grease every time you visit the dermatologist.
The boobs. Okay, I’ve seen worse, but yours are still kinda like two grapefruits in dress socks. Which is making me hungry for breakfast, even though I hate breakfast. (Although I dig the special serrated spoons they give you at restaurants. That almost makes up for the fact that grapefruit tastes like a bowl of lizard shit, with a hint of citrus.)
As for the abs: look, I know that you did 366 days in the slammer, and I know you probably butched out and did a lot of weight-training so you could keep your bitches in line, but that was years ago. If I’m wrong, and it you’re still maintaining that gym routine, props to you, but from where I’m sitting, it looks like someone got an airbrush for xmas.
Finally, your skin. Most people aren’t genetically inclined to sparkle, sweetcheeks. Yes, you could be wearing body makeup, but I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that you’d had your DNA adjusted so your pores ooze glitter instead of sweat. I’m sorry to think that way, but I have no choice.
I can’t see your teeth, but I’m guessing they’re real–I mean, you’ve lived a long life, but you’re still a little young for dentures. As for your vagina, reports vary, but whatever. Live your life.
One final suggestion before I go: in addition to the epidermal warfare you’ve got brewing from the waist up, I also have a problem with your name. Specifically, the “Lil'” part. Don’t you think it’s time you became just “Kim”? Or possibly “Mid’l-Aged Kim”? Or, if you’re into alliteration, “Cougar Kim”? There are a lot of possibilities. Pick one. Because your boobs may only be ten years old, but you’re 34. At least.
0 thoughts on “Happy birthday, Lil’ Kim”
Um… what he said. You go, girl. And by girl, I mean Richard.