I heard you’re getting married.
I must admit, Amy, I’m a little dismayed at the news – I know this is normally the time for a chorus of “Mazal tovs” and that insufferable song frummies like to sing about the cities of Judah and streets of Jerusalem, but I have a couple of minor objections. First and most pressing, your fiancÃ©, the similarly ironically-named Blake Fielder-Civil, looks like something a refined person might disgorge after consuming a pint, three White Russians, shrimp scampi and the spunk of someone with a CB callsign by which he insists everyone refer to him. I know what you’re thinking – “Bashert!” – but first listen to my second objection: you should be marrying me.
Hear me out, Amy. Ever since I’ve heard you rake your voice down the back of “Me and Mr. Jones'” horn chart, ever since I’ve heard a young Jewish girl namecheck Ray Charles, Donny Hathaway, Sammy Davis Jr. and Slick Rick all in the space of a few songs, I’ve been hopelessly in love. You’re like Billie with range, or Macy with timbre. You’ve got more sass than an old-fashioned root beer. You complement Ghostface better than RZA does. Your liquor cabinet is much better-stocked than mine, and your stash doubtless more potent. You should be my woman, Amy.
Sure, there are a few difficulties involved, but I’m flexible. I know you have an epic appetite for the hairier sex, and I understand you need fresh lyrical material, so I promise not to get between you and whatever you drag out from under the bar stool after last call. You don’t even have to think about me when you come. I’d prefer you didn’t, actually – mixing affection and orgasms always ends with someone crying.
In fact, our relationship could be entirely non-physical. A careful study of your lyrics has led me to the conclusion that once something has passed the event horizon of your navel, no known force in the universe can keep the singularity ‘twixt your legs from rending it asunder (“Whoa-oh, here she comes, she’s a man-spaghettifier…”). Also, given your apparent propensity for combining semi-anonymous sex with heavy drinking, you’ve probably got more clap than a Barbra farewell concert. I’m far too lethargic, and my micturition far too liquid and painless, to contend with the demands you place on cocks that fall into your orbit.
Really, Amy, all I want to do with you is get sloshed, burn spliffs, listen to Coltrane and render shrieking judgment upon the sober, non-tattooed, Gucci-toting masses whom you so viciously eviscerate. We could make a life together like that, Amy. We could be happy.
Think about it, Amy. And think about how awful “Amy Winehouse-Fielder-Civil” will look on your checks.
This post brought to you by:
Amy Winehouse – I Heard Love is Blind
Ghostface Killah & Amy Winehouse – You Know I’m No Good
(cross-posted from Kosher Eucharist)