I'm just sitting here wishing I had brought more than one flask with me—or at least finished drinking that entire bottle of Jack Daniels. Anyway, I never thought I would be the type of asshole to show up at the Grammys. But when I heard that even Prince was making a cameo, I thought, ‘Fuck it, might as well. It’s not like I have a model to fuck right now anyway.’” I immediately regretted my choice upon walking into the Staples Center. I mean, Christ, it’s the Staples Center. As in Inglewood. What the fuck was I thinking?
It already started off predictably when Adele won for a song that was, surprise, from an album she released like ten years ago at this point. After she was finished showcasing her over the top British lilt, I pretty much fell asleep until Ellen Degeneres and Beyonce came onstage to introduce Justin Timberlake. In his attempt to come across as the modern answer to Frank Sinatra, it became clear that the only thing that was going to save his performance was Jay-Z jumping up on the stage to start rapping his part.
Any semblance of integrity Timberlake’s new music might have had was instantly negated by the Bud Light and Target commercials broadcast during the break featuring him and his bastardized music. I resumed my nap again until Rihanna appeared onstage with some rando named Mikky Ekko. And yeah, even though I’m always fucking models, I can’t deny that Rihanna’s nice to look at. It was obvious Drake thought so too judging from his open-jawed mouth.
I resumed sleeping after they kept cutting to Lena Dunham’s ugly mug every five seconds. I mean, even though I find it kind of humorous that she’s dating one of the homosexuals in Fun., I still don’t think it warrants having her every expression documented. After I performed with my harem of the moment, I managed to keep my eyes open to watch Carrie Underwood’s dress perform. I then vaguely remember Kelly Clarkson paying homage to some of the greatest women in country music, even though they probably would have been better off having me do it.
I think the Black Keys also performed at some point too and yeah, I guess it was pretty good, but I’m also fairly certain I could sue them for copyright infringement. I excused myself to whoever I was sitting next to under the guise that I needed to change out of my peacock suit, but really I just wanted another shot (or bottle) of whiskey. While I was in some backstage area, I became momentarily distracted by Katy Perry’s tits and started flashing back to how much I miss Meg’s tits. I sort of wished she was there, but at the same time, not really.
I also remember wondering why Elton John seems to be at every music event capitalizing on someone’s death even though he doesn’t actually have any new music out ever. Or if he does, it’s over my head. And then I remember thinking how hot Kelly Rowland looked in that black dress… maybe even hotter than Beyonce. And then I wondered if I could be gay for Frank Ocean. I think I probably could. At some point between my final blackout and the end of the show, I realized the music industry had no respect for quality if they could allow a man like Prince to walk onstage (side note: why didn’t I think of using a cane as an accessory first?) but then nominate Mumford and Sons as the winner for Best Album of the Year. I think I might officially renounce my career in music—but may consider reemerging later in the vein of Justin Timberlake and Jay-Z.