And now, as promised, the thrilling Raven Symone letter!
People, April 7, 2008
It's great that Raven (Symone) wants to be a role model for thick and fabulous girls. However, as a role model, I was disappointed to see her list tanning beds as one of her favorite things. We don't want a country full of self-confident young women with skin cancer.
Highland Park, Ill.
Speak for yourself! A country full of self-confident young women with skin cancer is my personal vision of paradise. I'm frankly sick of all the whiny, depressed young women with skin cancer this nation's saddled with now. It's always "me, me, me" with those chicks. "Don't poke it! It itches!" or "Do you think this will metastasize?" or "Please, tell my father I forgive bleeaaarggh (*thump!*; sound of flatlining EKG)". Seriously, there's more to life than just having cancer. I'm not blathering incessantly about how much I love peanut butter or whatever every time we get together, am I? No, because that would be cretinous, and I was raised to observe the social niceties that allow us, as a society, to get through each day without taking a sniper rifle to the top of a water tower and opening fire on the eminently shootable crowds below. Even though, and I think we can all agree here, peanut butter is fucking delicious, and certainly more worthy of conversation than your rather banal squamous cell carcinoma. Amputate a limb, and then maybe I'll be impressed.
What were we talking about again? Oh, right. If you ask me, the real issue here is why the fuck does Raven Symone think she needs to go to a tanning bed in the first place? You don't see me going down to the Clorox factory and asking them to make me even more pale and pasty, do you? Look, I'm not trying to get into a big racial brouhaha here - in my eyes, every race is filled with about 90% stupid jackasses - but I always thought that one of the few benefits of being an African-American in our society was that you didn't have to do dumb-ass shit like go to tanning salons. Jeez, next thing you know, comfortably middle-class suburban white kids are going to start deluding themselves into thinking they "identify" with gangsta rap. People, can't we just accept each other for who we are? When your name is Morgan Chatsworth III and you're chugging down Main Street blaring Bushwick Bill from the Bose speakers in your ugly yellow Hummer, nobody is going to think you paid for it from your illegal activities when you were rolling with the Crips. That would be as flat-out crazy as a black entertainer starring in a movie with friggin' Donnie Osmond. I pray it never comes to that. Life is hard enough for the white man in this world. Seacrest out!
If it's a temporary lull why'm I bored right out of my skull?,