Tuesday, 6 August 2013

Song Review: Pitbull - International Love ft. Chris Brown

Pitbull has two urethras, making his penis look a bit like a pig's snout. It is the weeping, pockmarked snout of an old boar - one of those pigs that stays mostly inside his derelict breeze block and cracked wood house at one end of the sty, but occasionally rushes out across the mire, snorting and chomping and scaring away the children with his vicious manner and alarmingly large, inflated ball bag. Pitbull also has a large, inflated ball bag. He injects it with a saline/cocaine solution twice weekly so that it retains at all times the appearance and aroma of a miniature haggis.
   Chris Brown arrives at Pitbull's mansion. He has two beautiful women with him, one on either arm. They are bought girlfriends. Chris Brown makes a series of unpleasant remarks about rival pop musicians. The girls laugh, but a bottomless abstraction fills their eyes. They glance at each other. To each girl a tortured half-smile is reflected back.
   'Hey Pitbull! Get down here, Bro.' Suggests Chris Brown from the 'lobby'.
   Pitbull emerges from the bedroom, naked under a pink silk bathrobe that clashes with his complexion. He is wearing mirrored sunglasses and rubbing his brow. Last night was a party night. He dimly remembers telling the Black Eyed Peas to touch his big bald head and stroke his soppy little chin beard, but he can't remember exactly why or if anyone thought it was funny.
   'What do you want, Chris Brown?'
   'We're recording our song today, Pitbull. Get some clothes on, boy. You look like a fucking pork and bramley apple sausage.'
   The girls laugh. Pitbull adjusts the front of his dressing gown.
   Pitbull gets dressed. On the way to the studio, he shows one of the girls his penis. She has never seen anything like it.
   'I know,' admits Pitbull, 'it's remarkable the number of people that still want to touch it.'
   Chris Brown accidentally looks over. He feels sick and quickly draws his hand up to his mouth. Everyone flinches. There is an embarrassed silence.

1 comment:

  1. Your ability to generate genital similes is reassuringly undiminished. On the other hand, you're not doing much for the British offal-derived foods industry.

    Do you like scones?