While sitting in the passenger seat of my vehicle, with my husband driving, I recently heard the local disc jockey share a story of a Michigan girl enamored with pop superstar, Bruno Mars. This young high school girl reportedly posted a video of herself covering one of Mars’ songs in hopes of getting Mars to attend her junior prom as her date. My first thought was that Bruno Mars is a grown-ass man, so while this would be a rush for the young girl, it also borders on criminal.
After this very rapid thought, which I quickly dismissed as it wasn’t worth fretting over, I then became consumed with my own relatively related celebrity desire. I then loudly yelled out, “What the fuck?!?” My husband promptly turned to quizzically look at me. What was my issue? Was I angry about some situation I was internally obsessing over? Did he do something to upset me before leaving the home? What just happened? Did I see some disturbing scene along the sides of the back road? No, no, none of this, I assured him. I was angered by the story on the radio, I explained. “Bruno Mars is thinking about taking this girl to prom, and Justin Timberlake continues to ignore my requests.”
He laughed at me, and then asked if I was talking about my short list and my insane New Year’s resolutions. This was precisely what I was talking about. “Angela,” he said, “How the hell is Justin Timberlake supposed to know you want to fuck him?” I very calmly replied, assuming myself to be perfectly rational and sane, that I had shared my posts with Justin Timberlake via twitter.
“Really?” my husband asked, acting as though this may have been an odd thing to do.
“Yeah, of course,” I continued. “And if Bruno Mars is going to take some seventeen year old to prom, why the hell won’t JT respond to my requests for fucking?” I sounded seriously distraught over his lack of response.
“I like to remind him every so often that he can be a celebrity hero and help me reach my resolutions,” I added, thinking of my tweet the previous night.
@jtimberlake: As I haven’t recently reminded you, please recall the offer to assist with my resolutions still stands.
“A hero? What is wrong with you? I don’t think helping someone with their short list makes a celebrity a hero.”
“Well, whatever. It’s like my make a wish.”
“Why would you get a make a wish? You’re not sick.”
“The fuck I’m not. How come only physically ill kids get to make wishes? What about the mentally ill?”
“The mentally ill make wishes to have celebrities fuck them and become best friends with dead authors, like your damn resolutions. That’s why they don’t get wishes.”
“Whatever,” I said, and then dismissed my husband and began to write this post in my head. I thought that I needed to come up with something grander than a blog post or a few creepy tweets to get JT to take notice of me.
I started to envision making my own you tube video of myself performing “Bringing Sexy Back.” This young girl was potentially getting a celebrity prom date because she sang one of the artist’s songs on you tube. I could do that, but not well. Although I’ma rock star in my own mind, I do also acknowledge how painful and embarrassing a you tube video performance of “Bringing Sexy Back” would be. Train wreck. Total train wreck.
People love watching wrecks though. Admit it, your favorite part of American Idol, and similar shows, is all the early auditions of the bat shit-crazy delusional artists, like William Hung singing Ricky Martin. So, I figured I would go ahead and do it – but only if you all help me out. I explained my ludicrous plan of action to my husband. I said I can ask other bloggers and friends to help me out by tweeting Justin Timberlake and telling him to make my resolution a reality. I said I would ask you all to use the hash tag #fuckmejt, and I would post the video if Justin Timberlake received at least 500 tweets demanding his hot little ass pay me some attention.
Sometimes I say such stupid shit that my husband just kind of gives up on me. Therefore, after I had explained my plan to make a you tube video if I got enough people to tweet #fuckmejt, he simply replied, “Okay, whatever. I’m going to go give the kids a bath.” Without him around, I was then left alone and had to convince myself that I was crazy and had just concocted what was potentially the worst plan ever.
All the same, I’m still left asking: “What the fuck, JT?” I’m willing to tone my request down a bit, if that’s what it takes. I can work with “heavy petting” (a term my grandmother used). At the very least, JT, can’t you just send me a penis pic? That’s not weird or gross anymore; it’s standard fare for politicians and athletes. I bet Bruno Mars would do it.
Bring your sexy to me, JT!