Athletes, entertainers, the long term incarcerated for crimes against children, all need to contemplate what comes after the prime of their career. So long as lonely war app game players admire Photoshopped tits, Mariah Carey will be heralding their newest form of non-physical activity related entertainment. Lost your voice? No problem. That’s what recording libraries are for. Give us a day and we’ll give you ten million dollars. No, you don’t need to blow the developers, just lean into them every now and then in a low cut top. I know, isn’t this industry so much better?
Mariah Carey laid down seductively along Hollywood Boulevard as seismologists at Cal Tech traced their pencils over the peak lines and declared a 4.3. Carey deserved her star. Even before they started passing them out to every chick who had the hot pop song of the summer or was in the latest Marvel movie. Mariah Carey earned her fame the old fashioned way. She came to town on a bus, hustled for big fake tits money, and fucked an important music executive twice her age. Kids these days with their YouTubes and their Snapchat machines just don’t get it. This might be the last of the grand dames. Form a human bucket line. If she dries, she dies.
The technology that went into Mariah Carey’s all-terrain fat containment suit wasn’t even available just five years ago. It’s how we’re going to keep diabetic soda kids from going comatose on future trips to Mars. Still you direct too many psi into the muffin area and a tit is going to squirt out of containment. A convenient coincidence when you’re forty-five and trying to look cool in front of your new rich Australian boyfriend. Reports says Mariah fell madly in love with James Packer the minute her business manager vetted his last four years of tax reports. How much is this dude worth? Mariah’s body will let you know. A nipple is a good sign.
The Internet is all in a tizzy after Jennifer Lopez was caught texting during Mariah Carey’s performance at the Billboard Music Awards. The more appropriate celebrity response is to pretend you’re watching raptly while imaging Mariah dead and you singing at her funeral to heaps of praise.
Ironic Jesus came to me in a dream and told me that if I watched enough music award shows, he’d make something heavy fall on Taylor Swift. A hanging speaker or roof panel or Adele. I relented and watched the Billboard music awards. Kanye was booed by the upper deck and his mom in heaven because he refused to splurge on the platinum lipo package. Mariah Carey was so tightly cinched her head threatened to go Scanners. At one point the assistant who holds the lint roller came up and wiped up visible smudges on her gown which turned out to be hemoglobin osmosed through her flesh. The Devil’s cut. Nothing fell. Where do I got to get my five minutes of fast forward back?
The Mariah Carey combustion clock edged another minute closer to midnight. Carey has some fleeting amount of time left in between the loss of her once impressive pipes and the moment earnest college students pour buckets of sea water over her to keep her from suffocating. Being a wealthy lady let who lets it all go won’t be so bad. You can eat and breathe and disappear the staff that make fat jokes to Chinese body harvesting camps. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, unless the exploding waves of viscous matter are visible from space. Then you’re on YouTube.