Just 25-days ago America’s finest music makers were on a podium declaring the death of Spotify and Pandora and announcing the launch of Tidal, the true artist-fair music app. Kanye West, Madonna, that dude in the Mickey Mouse head, and Nicki Minaj got doe-eyed explaining how Tidal would cost only twice as much as its competitors so Madonna could afford a decent oneg shabbat spread for her Kabbalah cluster. That pretty much killed Tidal in the crib. Even Kanye’s hand upon Tidal couldn’t save that fucker. After a few downloads in the opening week, Tidal dropped off the bottom of the iPhone charts while Spotify and Pandora both had record signups thanks to a bunch of unlikable famous people talking shit about them. The enemy of my app is my friend. Displaying his unwavering loyalty, Kanye has removed the Tidal logo from his Twitter profile and retro-deleted every single Tweet he’d made about the service. Then he announced his won-loss record remains perfect. Memorial services for Tidal will be held later this week. Beyonce will sing a song she didn’t write and bitch about how she’s not getting songwriter royalties.
Rihanna took a Hawaiian vacation and spent most of the time taking photos of herself and captioning them with explanations about what a good time she was having although it has been proven difficult to actually rage with a phone in front of your face. I fondly remember the times I’ve had getting black out drunk with trained dolphins yet I don’t recall posting any updates to my live feed. There’s a paradox. When you’re really partying, there’s no documentation. Hence weird shots like this where Rihanna flags down a grounds crew guy to take a shutter series of her ass crack. It’s important for her future children to realize Rihanna did indeed relax on vacation when she wasn’t cropping, editing, and captioning the photos of it. For example her battery died at the airport and she enjoyed a Corona with some egg salad. Unfortunately we will never have definitive proof. That’s what legends are made of.
Nobody makes fun of Rihanna anymore. There’s not much left to get. She holds her liquor, she smokes reefer, she rakes in cash, she’s got tight tits and ass. She had a brief period when she was trying to re-live her crack daddy childhood, but she’s grown past that. She fucks movie stars. Her naked photos get hacked, she doesn’t say a peep. She knows she looks amazing without her clothes on. She’s never said boo about politics or pretended to have a strong understanding of arcane geopolitical philosophy. If you can make her cum, a 50-inch TV with the NFL package and some perfectly cooked hot wings will shoot out of her snatch. She’s smile. You’ll smile. Only one of you is dreaming.
There is no more pointless investigation than verifying whether or not Leonardo DiCaprio is fucking the chick standing next to him in any given paparazzi photo. Let me save you some time. He is. Thrice that very day, four times on a Sunday when his ball sac belongs to God. That ponytailed chub has the Cock of Unstoppability. It’s not even asking anymore. It’s just knocking as a slight nod to chivalry and walking in. Is Leo banging Rihanna? Look for the stars in her eyes and the imprint of a tiny hand on her left butt cheek.
At some point media headline writers have to stop breathlessly referring to Rihanna as daring. It’s like bitching about Kirk going rogue. The shock value has to depart at some point in the repetition. I’ve seen Rihanna’s tits more than I’ve seen my girlfriend’s. Mostly because Rihanna doesn’t insist on meals for the privilege. She’s got to do something while she waits for the oompa loompas at Roc Nation to create her very personal music. Wearing masks and showing off your tits is as good a hobby as any. Piercing your nipples is far less painful than golf.
I don’t envy the magazines that cover celebrities like they’re actual sentient beings. Harper’s Bazaar has a guy at the aquarium who I guess owed them a favor so they let Rihanna snorkel into the circular fish tank and pretended it was a Jacques Cousteau shark-filled ocean adventure. I’m not sure why they insisted on the sea-faring ruse. Somebody in editorial came up with the idea and they just committed tons of Photoshop resources and interview credibility points:
LAURA BROWN: Swimming with sharks is not only scary, it’s a big metaphor. How did you learn to swim with the sharks of life?
RIHANNA: I try my best to avoid the sharks of life, but I have had my share of experiences with them, and in those cases I just have to handle them accordingly. But I do not swim with sharks … sharks swim with sharks.
So true. Except you did just swim with sharks. It’s not just a big metaphor, it’s a confusing one. I can’t wait for Kate Hudson running with the bulls and talking about honesty and Katherine Heigl busy as a beaver shaving her taint. Or they could just photograph them all naked on a couch and quadruple their sales and call it a day. If only Estee Lauder didn’t demand their products be advertised against Stepford Pablum.