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coketalk:

Dear Chris Brown,
Three years ago, you punched your girlfriend repeatedly in the face while screaming that you were going to to kill her. You smashed her bloodied head against a car window, bit her ear and fingers, and placed her in a choke hold until she began to lose consciousness. The beating was brutal, sustained, and left your girlfriend hospitalized.
That really should have been it for you, but you hired a crisis management team, expressed an obligatory amount of remorse, and a surprising number of your idiot fans were willing to overlook the fact that you savagely beat a female.
This past week, you revealed your freshly inked neck tattoo, and it’s plainly obvious that it’s the face of a battered woman, one that bears a striking resemblance to your ex-girlfriend.
Of course, being the little punk that you are, you denied that the tattoo was of her likeness. Instead, your publicist went into damage control mode and made the ridiculous claim that your tattoo was based on a MAC Cosmetics face chart inspired by a Mexican sugar skull. To cap off the absurdity, you tweeted, “I’m an artist and this is art. Dia de los Muertos.”
I’m sorry, but you are not an artist. You’re not even a man. You are a stupid, violent child with a minor talent, and you don’t seem to realize how easily replaceable you are. If Ne-Yo and Usher each produced one extra auto-tuned B-side a year, no one would even notice you were gone.
Your music is cheap candy, a bunch of heavily processed garbage filled with artificial sweeteners and no nutritional value. That’s fine. There’s a market for R&B flavored bubble gum, but don’t go around calling yourself an artist, and let’s not pretend that your new tattoo is art.
Your tattoo is nothing but a toy badge, an empty threat from an angry boy who resents his role as a pop culture villain. Well guess what, Chris? You’re always going to be the villain. Nothing is ever going to change that, and if you don’t like it, then feel free to step off the stage.
No one will miss you.
Yours in disgust,
The Coquette
(Read my Unsolicited Advice column weekends in The Daily.)

Fuck this guy.

Dear Chris Brown,

Three years ago, you punched your girlfriend repeatedly in the face while screaming that you were going to to kill her. You smashed her bloodied head against a car window, bit her ear and fingers, and placed her in a choke hold until she began to lose consciousness. The beating was brutal, sustained, and left your girlfriend hospitalized.

That really should have been it for you, but you hired a crisis management team, expressed an obligatory amount of remorse, and a surprising number of your idiot fans were willing to overlook the fact that you savagely beat a female.

This past week, you revealed your freshly inked neck tattoo, and it’s plainly obvious that it’s the face of a battered woman, one that bears a striking resemblance to your ex-girlfriend.

Of course, being the little punk that you are, you denied that the tattoo was of her likeness. Instead, your publicist went into damage control mode and made the ridiculous claim that your tattoo was based on a MAC Cosmetics face chart inspired by a Mexican sugar skull. To cap off the absurdity, you tweeted, “I’m an artist and this is art. Dia de los Muertos.”

I’m sorry, but you are not an artist. You’re not even a man. You are a stupid, violent child with a minor talent, and you don’t seem to realize how easily replaceable you are. If Ne-Yo and Usher each produced one extra auto-tuned B-side a year, no one would even notice you were gone.

Your music is cheap candy, a bunch of heavily processed garbage filled with artificial sweeteners and no nutritional value. That’s fine. There’s a market for R&B flavored bubble gum, but don’t go around calling yourself an artist, and let’s not pretend that your new tattoo is art.

Your tattoo is nothing but a toy badge, an empty threat from an angry boy who resents his role as a pop culture villain. Well guess what, Chris? You’re always going to be the villain. Nothing is ever going to change that, and if you don’t like it, then feel free to step off the stage.

No one will miss you.

Yours in disgust,

The Coquette

(Read my Unsolicited Advice column weekends in The Daily.)