Godammit, I’m Mad!

Finally! For all of us who’ve been praying for Amy Winehouse to unload Blake Incarcerated, our prayers have been answered. Thank you, Lord, for saving our Amy from that rotten little scumbag, who now wants a divorce and half of her money.

I didn’t even know that Blake Incarcerated was back in jail after failing his drug test in December! What a horrible horrible shit that guy is. At least Pete Doherty is a musician, for Christ sake.

I blame Blake for everything. Poor Amy was under his spell, but now she’s learned that a nice clean hunky athlete is the way to go. According to the Daily Mail, which makes up its celebrity quotes, Amy even told a ‘reporter’ that Blake was “rubbish” in bed, “adding ‘Almost every time I slept with him it was like I was dead’.”

If only Blake could read, he’d be furious!!!

Now Amy can make another record, and her label can stop emailing me about all the extra special versions of Back to Black I can buy.

I love you, Amy! Don’t worry about that tattoo on your chest, you can have it removed. Keep up the eating and stay strong. As each day passes, you’re closer to realizing what self-esteem is.

And whatever happens, do NOT give that idiot your money, unless he promises to leave the planet and never come back.

*And also too, speaking of music, treat yourself to the genius of the Firstborn Wolf, whose song Omelette will make your day, or your money back!

I was amazed that Amy WInehouse actually made it to the concert for Nelson Mandela. Just days ago at death’s door, she looked like a little Q-tip under her giant hair. Not only did she wear that crazy Blake thing in her beehive, but during her wailing rendition of the old anthem “Free Nelson Mandela” she substituted the lyrics: “Free Blakey, my fella!”

Hahaha! Amy is nuts but godammit I love her. If only we could save her!

You can watch her performance here. Listen up at 5:25 for the shout out to Blake Incarcerated.

Now, this is hair! Do you love it or do you love it!

I believe these hair sculptures are the work of Nagi Noda. I hope Amy has seen these.

The Grammy Awards show was all about Amy Winehouse, but here’s what else happened.

Frank Sinatra, who won’t stay dead, talked about the awards and then joined Alicia Keyes in a duet. Alicia looked gorgeous, even though her hairdo was crazy. That Rihanna girl pranced around with Morris Day and his band, who were probably too old for anyone to remember them except for their buddy Prince. Prince looked fabulous in a fitted red suit and dark sunglasses with diamante accents.

Some idiot introduced Tina Turner as the Queen of Soul. Girl! Everyone knows that’s Aretha’s title. Anyway, Tina looked a little scary in a silver lame jumpsuit but she still knew how to move. Beyonce joined her,  wearing a silver mini that highlighted her enormous legs. Her shorter blonde hair and new face were not enough to erase the My Pretty Pony effect.

I think John Mayer came out and accompanied someone on guitar, although I may be thinking of the David Letterman show. All you can think about when John Mayer appears is “Eeoow!” anyway.

Kanye sang his big hit and I know I wasn’t alone in thinking, what about your Mama? Sure enough, he had the word MAMA carved into his hair. I asked my teenager if he would do the same for me, were I to die before he accepted his Grammy award. He argued over some technicalities but I believe we have a deal.

Tom Hanks gave some award to the Beatles. Paul couldn’t be there, because he can’t just give Heather the money and call it a day. The always excruciating Cirque du Soleil performed a creepy routine to Day in the Life. If only that girl had fallen off the rope! Heather could have helped out with a new leg.

Aretha sang, accompanied by a gospel choir, a mountainous vision in a sea green dress. Be as fat as you want, Aretha, you are the Queen.

Two guys sang an aria or something, and the Foo Fighters had lank, greasy hair. Finally, the live by satellite performance by Amy Winehouse, in London. Amy looked gorgeous but very nervous. She rushed through two songs, screwing up a few times and wiggling her hips in obvious terror. Her desperation to prove herself was touching, just like her shock at winning the award. She sent out her thanks to “My Blake, incarcerated” and hugged her tiny haggard Mum.

Then the Album of the Year was mistakenly given to Herbie Hancock, who played the race card as he accepted the honor that rightly belonged to My Amy, not in rehab.