A Love Letter to Aubrey O’Day

And by love letter, I mean I want to fist fight with you in a parking lot, high school style.

Alright, yeah, I did go through the Danity Kane phase because that’s when I was single and liked to dance around a lot with my girlfriends, and you guys had some catchy tunes. You opened for Christina Aguilera when I finally got off my ass to go see her, and you didn’t lip sync, so I was like “Cool, whatever, I guess I don’t hate any of these reality-turned-pop star bitches even though my intellect totally wants me to.”

You vanished from my consciousness as fast as your band did from the media’s eye. I don’t even have your tracks selected on my iTunes anymore because I kind of don’t want to be reminded of you. Your band is one of those “I’ll listen to it with my BFFs when we’re drunk and feeling nostalgic for crazy” kind of things. DK isn’t even tied to anything in my past that means, well, anything because you and your chick back-ups were reserved for nights of black-out drinking.

I happened upon you again when my boyfriend started to record Celebrity Apprentice. Aside from finding the show extremely out of character for J, I decided to watch. Hey, if he likes it, maybe there’s something there aside from an extremely laughable combover in a board room.

And there was. There is. It’s you. And I don’t mean that in the same way as I do your co-stars. I want to snuggle Arsenio Hall and Clay Aiken and their bromance close to my bosom. I want to become Dayana Mendoza’s best gal pal because she’s the cutest motherfucker I’ve ever seen. I want to punch Debbie Gibson in the nose, sure, but you take the blood-boiling cake. You are the craziest bitch I have never met in my life, including but not limited to a pool of women like your co-HBIC, Lisa Lampanelli.

Last night as we were catching up on our not-so-guilty pleasure, I had to soothe J from throwing the remote into our TV, more accurately at the precise spot your face was appearing. You set us off into discussions about two-faced women that last the entire two hour duration of your show, impressing us more and more each moment with your unfaltering capacity for selfishness. You think you are the queen of the world, but I don’t think I even have to take the time to say you’re not.

Not only do you look like you were born and raised on the runways of a gentlemen’s club, you stand for literally everything I don’t like about mankind. Talk about a gal who needs to read everyone’s Everything Card! You are egocentric and cruel, with zero regard to meaning what you say. I hope you’re sobbing on your couch over a tub of ice cream, crying your shitty mascara off as you watch footage of yourself from this season of “reality” and realize what a suckage of resources you are.

So here’s to you, you orangey-red beast of plastic. I hope somewhere you’re stumbling around on your trashy lime-green stilettos, singing about yourself in the voice that’s a former shell of its once debatable glory, because I know no one else is. I guess when all you’ve got is yourself and your Playboy spread, you have to become your own BFF. Stay crazy, girl!

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3 comments

  1. Thanks for the chortle this morning, girlie! I can't stand AoD either. There are a lot of things about her that put me off, but the first thing I ever noticed was the horrid way she slings her tits around like they're societal bludgeons to smooth her way through life. And dyeing her dog colors to match her outfits. Fuck that bitch.

  2. I knew she was awful, but truly didn't know how much until I started watching CA. I told BF I wrote a blog about our hatred for Aubrey, and his first reaction was to ball his hand into a fist and scream “UGH!” The waters of hate for that chick run deep in this house!

  3. As an older woman now – a woman of age and of aging – I'd like to say that in my youth, after graduating from high school, all my girlfriends disappeared – off to college they went, while I went to Barbizon School of Modeling where I quickly learned I did NOT want to be a model. This after experiencing a particularly wretched, narcissistic, assholistic photographer who wielded power and intimidation over us young model wannabes like it was the most fun he could ever have. In retrospect, it probably WAS the most fun he ever had – I doubt he had a girlfriend OR a boyfriend who could put up with his obnoxious self-involved oh-look-at-me-I'm-a-bigshot-photographer-for- Barbizon School of Modeling-in-Bethesda-Maryland- Rock-Star puke attitude. Going to modeling school made me want to become a photographer. A good and NICE photographer. Anyway – I digress. So I didn't become a model – I got married young – and found myself hanging out with musicians and cab drivers – all of them men. And I remember those years of not having girlfriends – and of listening to girl groupies for other bands talk about other women and how they couldn't be trusted and how they were all so two-faced – and how, really, men were where it was at. What they meant, really, was it was flirting with and then fucking a man that made them feel valuable. Time went on . . . and I was feeling a tad empty . . . I was feeling surrounded by guys – a lot of NICE guys, too – who were very good friends. But – there was something missing. Fortunately I was able to get back in touch with an old girlfriend and make some new ones – and the world that unfolded was lovely. I had a husband – I had guy friends – I had a job – but now, I also had girlfriends. We trusted – we laughed – we did stuff together – we discussed politics and relationships and feelings. We wished each other well. My point? I CRY INSIDE when bubble brained, plastic, Barbie doll women trash other women . . . when it's so apparent their own act is so NOT together and their act is also insufferable . . . when it's so sadly apparent that they are either going down an assholistic path themselves . . . when they spread for Playboy to find meaning in their lives . . . to feel valued only by male exploitation . . . sigh . . .

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