Like most of us, I’m all for blaming it on the goose, making love in this club, just leaving with me now say the word and we’ll go, and getting low low low low low low low low. But you have to draw the line somewhere, and I draw it at Kesha.
(No, I will not spell her name with a dollar sign, but I have my standards, and I won’t spell Barack Obama’s with one, either.)
There are lots of things to hate about Kesha. There’s her obsession with Jack Daniels, her belligerent in-your-face trashiness, and her insistence that she either sound or be drunk for the recording of her entire album. All legitimate concerns, but nothing we haven’t seen before.
Kesha crossed the line when I was listening to my itunes the other day. I like “Tik Tok,” in spite of everything—I’m all about it as long as I’m driving, drinking, or working out—and Genius thought I would also enjoy “Blah blah blah.” It sounded promising.
It was not. “Uuuuhhhhh blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-blah, comin out cho mouf with your blah blah blah,” she mumbled, in an impressive attempt at sobriety.
“Zip! your lip! like a padlock. Just meet me in the back with the Jack and the jukebox. I don’t care where you live at; just turn around boy let me hit that. Don’t be a little bitch with your chit chat—just show me where your dick’s at.” CHORUS!
Say what?!
I’ve got to hear that again.
“Don’t be a little bitch with your chit chat—just show me where your dick’s at!”
Oh no she did NOT. There are so many things wrong here.
First of all, chit chat is not for bitches. Women’s conversations are no less substantive than men’s, and “chit chat” is just an easy way to demean whatever we’ve got to say. Kesha is also implying that a woman thinks you’re a wimp if you, you know, talk to her. Kesha is not a woman. Kesha is a garbage disposal disguised as a woman disguised as plastic surgery. So don’t take her “word” for it.
Men, please continue to “be a little bitch with your chit chat.” I really have no interest in your dick as such; it is only noteworthy when connected to an interesting and intelligent man, capable of witty repartee and/or “chit chat.”
Guys are already bombarded with music created by other men that promotes this instant sex culture. A few choice offerings:
Jason Derulo’s “In my Head:” Instead of talking let me demonstrate. Yeah. Get down to business and skip foreplay.
Jamie Foxx’s “Blame It:” No tellin’ what I’m gonna do. Baby I would rather show you, what you been missin’ in your life—when I get inside.
Guys are telling other guys that this is what women want—or at least, that this is what makes them a baller. The last thing they need is to have a woman reinforce that notion.
While select women may prefer penis to genius, I would hope—even guess—that instant sex over substance is not the majority view. But when guys hear it from both ends, it confirms that this behavior is acceptable, even desirable.
Kesha’s lyrics are like a Trojan horse. They look like a gift but they will destroy everything—our social fabric, our way of life, our men, and even our computers.Nothing is hotter than playful, sexy dialogue, and Kesha is just mad that she and Jack Daniels suck at it.