Tuesday, July 29, 2014

Bruno Mars-o-Phobia

I will admit I have a fear of Bruno Mars. Yes, I am deathly afraid of the leader of the midgets who sings in a falsetto and who's lyrics wreak of misogyny and overt stalkerish creepery. James Brown also called me the other day. He wants his act back. And the gas station down the block that does oil changes wants this annoying munchkin to stop dipping his head in their supply and leaving a trail back to his mansion. They are losing money. On top of that, his career was handed to him with little or no effort because he did not have to deal with the slings and arrows of sexism but contributed. And his music is just plain HORRID.

Granted, I am not a 15 year old girl. As an adult woman I know it took him three second to write, "1,2,3 you can count on me....." And then I listen to him sing about a woman's vagina and how that is all she is to him. Way to contribute to the rape culture, Pal. Then again, he has only had sex once in his life and he thought it would never happen for him and he's kinda happy. So perhaps I should be a little easy on the man representing the Lollipop Guild.

But those are not the sole reasons I hate and fear this cacophony that just needs to go back to Hawaii and pick pineapple. There is a deeper reason, and if you read this you will understand.

About a year and a half ago, work was really busy. I was taking a night off visiting my friend and her grand-daughter. My friend's grand-daughter was about ten, and she had several of her friends over. At the time I had no feeling on Mr. Mars or his noise that masquerades as music either way. It was teeny bopper shit. But my friend's grand-daughter and her friends were blasting his album which took seconds to write as I mentioned and maybe five minutes to produce. If they would have played the album once it would have been fine. But over the course of three hours they played it over and over and over and over and over. It was to the point where me and my friend were both begging the grand-daughter and her friends to play something else. They wouldn't budge. The torture went on for another hour, and it was so terrible I starting confessing government secrets I did not know just to get them to stop. Just kidding, I didn't confess government secrets. I don't know any. However, I was making them up. Anything to get them to stop!!!!!

Up to that point I had actually respected him a little as a multi-instrumentalist because I have a cousin who was a music prodigy as a kid. So I know how much work it takes to master an instrument, and I respect it. Sure the lyrics were horrid but there was some talent there.But now his music was playing in a loop in my mind, over and over. I listened to gangsta rap. I listened to Nirvana. Good music from my generation. Nothing helped. So I decided I needed to go to bed.

I laid my head down to sleep. In my dream, I was living in a big Hollywood mansion away from all the financial problems I was swimming in. The dream was good, for a few seconds. That is, until people kept saying, "Oh April, there's your husband. Isn't he such a great guy to throw this party for you?"

I thought so too, that is, until he emerged.

It was none other than Bruno Mars. I wanted to die right then and there. My mother's warning had come true. I married a midget. Granted, he was a very loaded one, but a midget nonetheless. And this midget made horrible music about women's vaginas and was very probably that stalker boyfriend you had to go to the cops for. What, he has only had sex once. Men with one sexual encounter tend to get attached. I had degraded myself, and wanted to die. As if that wasn't enough he said, "Hello Fairy Princess."

I woke up screaming and sweat was dripping down my face. It was all just a bad dream. I threw some water on my face and went to get some coffee at the deli. Relief and back to reality, a place that I sometimes detest but today I welcomed like surprise money under my mattress. Well as soon as I step into the corner store, I hear "One, two, three you can count on me...." coming from the radio. And right in front of me on the magazine stand in the same corner store is Bruno Mars on the front cover of GQ.

The munchkin was stalking me! First he invaded my head. Then he invaded my dreams. Now he was invading my life. He was saying as he smiled on the front of GQ, "Die feminist bitch, die. I will sing about hating women and degrade them in each and every one of my songs. And I am three feet tall, so you will need to toss me. But catch me if you can, first."


So I will end this horror story the way all horror stories end. Your mother told you never to trust a midget who steals James Brown's act, sings in falsetto about hitting women, and steals oil for his hair from the local gas station. She was correct. I didn't listen and now the midget haunts me. Then again, Sting didn't take his mother seriously, and now Bruno Mars steals his beats.

I will take the monkey's paw any day of the week over this shit. 

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