In Santa Barbara, in a car with a Country music loving lady friend, my Risky Business sunglasses on blast and the windows rolled down like whoa, the radio set to Top 40 pop per my request (natch) (obvs). And this song comes on:
Friend: Man, Rihanna does, like, EVERY song now! What’s that about?
The Jay: Now that Beyonce has transcended this plane of existence, and only resides in one of those of those futuristic life bubbles Hugh Jackman did yoga in from The Fountain, Rihanna is the go to hot girl singer for hooky-pop choruses. But also, and more importantly, this isn’t Rihanna.
Friend: It’s not?!
The Jay: No, it’s Fergie. This is the Black Eyed Peas.
Friend: Hold hold hold hold hold up, check it out. Like, Fergie Ferg?
The Jay: As in Fergalicious.
Friend: Up in the gym, just workin on her fitness?
The Jay: But with a methed up tranny manface, yeah.
Friend: Why does she sound like Rihanna?
The Jay: As opposed to all her other songs, where she sounds like a dying smelly cat version of Madonna, Britney, Missy Elliot, Xtina and/or Nicki Minaj, where approps, but with more wicked oblique muscles?
The Jay: It’s a mystery!
Friend: That makes me kinda hate Rihanna.
The Jay: Makes me kinda hate my oblique muscles.
/listening to the song
/singing along to the Fergie part
BOTH OF US: Boy, I think about it every night and day…
Friend: …I’m addicted, wanna germ you like a bug.
The Jay: …I’m addicted, wanna jam it up with love.
Friend: Jam it up with love? That’s not what she’s saying!
The Jay: Why would she be trying to germ you up like a bug?
Friend: Who can ever know what these idiots are saying!
The Jay: True. Most of the time I just hear the bleep bloop sounds of IBM computer keys getting clicked and low-fi ADR of knock off 80’s robot voices.
Friend: Fucking, Rihanna. This song sucks!
The Jay: I know. I love it, too.
(Follow me on Twitter @jasonamatthews.)