Perhaps you remember me? We talk all the time? Sometimes I pay attention to you, sometimes I don’t. A lot of people say I should listen to you more often, but I say that’s dull and boring. Also: it’s the sort of thing that lands people in trouble. Robert Oppenheimer did nothing but listen to his Brain, and look where it got him. Not to mention us. You know: humanity and stuff.
Anyway, I’m not here to talk about that. I’m here to talk about your playlists.
I don’t know if you’ve glanced at my iTunes collection recently, or any of my Pandora streams, but if you have, you might’ve noticed a curious lack of Whitney Houston songs. On closer inspection, however, you’ll see that the absence isn’t curious at all. Her music isn’t there because I hate her.
Really, truly hate her.
I don’t care that Whitney’s had it rough. I don’t care that she’s got a stellar voice. I don’t care that she’s a belter. All I care about is that her music is the music of awful things and awful people (with the exception of Opal Vanderhurst’s drag performance to “I’m Every Woman”, during which she’d drop her top and parade her silicone tits — backalley injections, not surgical implants — around the dining room of Lucky Cheng’s for the benefit of sheltered tourists from Nebraska). Whitney is the music of sorority girls and mixers and forced merriment and people who probably would’ve had a lot to say, if only they weren’t so busy artfully ripping their jeans.
To be fair, “diva” music isn’t my thing. In fact, I find it
pretty loathsome. Annie, Aretha, Celine, Mariah: this is the music I dodge like Ebola. And out of all those divas — self-proclaimed and otherwise — Whitney is the Queen. Off with the bitch’s head, I say.
Anyway, if I hear one more chorus of “Saving All My Love For You”, you’re getting a big fat dose of Tylenol PM. Or a lobotomy. Whichever is easier.
You’ve been warned.
P.S. In place of Whitney, please substitute calculus. I would like to know calculus now. Thanks.