Other news organizations print letters to the editor. How boring. The Fake News will instead write letters from the editor. Sometimes these will be to famous people, other times to random normal, unimportant people.
by P. F. Tony Garry IV - Guest Editor
An Open Letter to Rebecca Black
Is it ok if I call you Rebecca? It seems a little bit personal, but, if you recall, I have already seen you in bed, in formalwear, dancing awkwardly both inside and outside of moving cars – It’s almost like we’ve been married for years.
I awaited the “dropping” of your new video with hopeful trepidation. Would I be treated to another three-and-a-half minutes of a glorious trainwreck in which the conductor is gleefully oblivious of the impending crash, more concerned with how much fun it is to be speeding on a quickly coddled together train on tracks hastily constructed out of hubris and duct tape?
It seems, Rebecca, that you have forgotten the reason your first video was so popular. The lyrics were not bad. They were so bad that they made J.K. Rowling look like Charles Dickens. Therein lies the secret. Nobody watches bad creative endeavors. They only watch creations that are very good or so awfully bad that they offset the scale of goodness so far that they push Gigli several steps closer to “mediocre.”
Then there was the video. Ah, the video that launched a thousand parodies. Of course the artistic director of the video was a bit hamstrung by the previously mentioned lyrics. That doesn’t entirely let him or her off the hook. If you were wondering which seat you should take, why was there someone in the front seat? As every first year law student knows, one cannot kick someone out of the front seat once said person has already established a claim to said territory.
Fast-forward to yesterday, when the world received your latest creation. From the opening seconds of the track, we learned that you had not only kept the auto-tune so synonymous with the Black sound, but you had even pushed it further to the forefront, filling me with breathless anticipation that you had embraced the glorious trash of your first song.
But it was not to be.