An actual blog post is coming … but until then, I’m copying and pasting from here.
Stupidest Song of the Year
Ordinarily, this category would be nigh unto impossible to judge. One could argue it a hundred ways: does the song with the stupidest lyrics win, or the song with the stupidest musical content? Shall I give it to the song enjoyed by the stupidest people, or to the song written by the stupidest person? And anyway, Ã¢â‚¬Å“stupidÃ¢â‚¬? is subjective, so one personÃ¢â‚¬â„¢s opinion of stupidity may be another personÃ¢â‚¬â„¢s idea of biting satire. So, for all these reasons, I would never dare attempt a Ã¢â‚¬Å“Stupidest SongÃ¢â‚¬? category. Ordinarily.
You can go ahead and throw all that shit out the window this year, because the Black Eyed Peas have crafted what is without a doubt the dumbest, most obnoxious song ever to disgrace the airwaves. Previously, we knew the Black Eyed Peas as a formerly socially-conscious rap outfit which mutated into an ignominious, money-hungry cross-cultural minstrel show that shucked and jived its way into the mainstream with its retarded songs about getting retarded. Little did we know how retarded the Peas were capable of getting: Ã¢â‚¬Å“My HumpsÃ¢â‚¬? is a profoundly retarded product from what has become a terminally retarded band.
The track concerns the humps of Fergie, their garish backup singer. For all the bragging she does about the loveliness of her lady-lumps, she still looks … old (edit of over the top attempt at humor). Over the course of what seems like about fifteen minutes, Fergie and her reprehensible sellout cohorts expound the virtues of her leathery lizard-flesh to such a maddening degree that the listener will vow never to look at another woman again.
I wonÃ¢â‚¬â„¢t bother reprinting any sample lyrics here. If youÃ¢â‚¬â„¢ve heard the song, you donÃ¢â‚¬â„¢t need reminding, and if you havenÃ¢â‚¬â„¢t heard it, you wouldnÃ¢â‚¬â„¢t believe that I wasnÃ¢â‚¬â„¢t making them up. If you did manage to suspend your disbelief, youÃ¢â‚¬â„¢d quickly come to the conclusion that the song must be a joke. In fact, while the song certainly isnÃ¢â‚¬â„¢t serious, itÃ¢â‚¬â„¢s far from a joke. ItÃ¢â‚¬â„¢s the worst kind of false-humor; itÃ¢â‚¬â„¢s a jokey song written by people with no concept of irony and intended for consumption both by people who will take it at face value and by people who will smirk at it. ItÃ¢â‚¬â„¢s like one of those terrible bargain-bin straight-to-video horror flicks about a killer urinal: it can never be the Ã¢â‚¬Å“cult classicÃ¢â‚¬? that the cynical halfwit filmmakers intend it to be because itÃ¢â‚¬â„¢s in on its own joke. Something canÃ¢â‚¬â„¢t be Ã¢â‚¬Å“so-bad-itÃ¢â‚¬â„¢s-goodÃ¢â‚¬? if it tries really hard to be Ã¢â‚¬Å“so-bad-itÃ¢â‚¬â„¢s-good.Ã¢â‚¬? Instead, itÃ¢â‚¬â„¢s merely false, artless, pathetic, and loved by idiots.
HereÃ¢â‚¬â„¢s a little science experiment: go park your car next to the transmitter tower of your local pop radio station. If Ã¢â‚¬Å“My HumpsÃ¢â‚¬? isnÃ¢â‚¬â„¢t already being played, wait about fifteen minutes. When Ã¢â‚¬Å“My HumpsÃ¢â‚¬? comes on, look at the tower. YouÃ¢â‚¬â„¢ll notice that the transmitter will be emitting comical green Ã¢â‚¬Å“stink lines.Ã¢â‚¬? I swear to god, itÃ¢â‚¬â„¢s true.