lately my alarm clock has been giving me some pretty thorough mindfucks. i’ll blindly swat at it, trying to find the snooze button — or you know, smash it into a million pieces — and sleepily wonder if i’m only dreaming a young jeezy song or if it’s actually playing and whether or not i’m really awake yet. i worry that 94.5 is infiltrating my early-morning pre-waking thoughts. and if it is, that is not a good thing.
it is highly unfortunate that i have to hear anything whatsoever about the daily dealings in the life of jessica simpson or tom cruise. honestly, i could give a fuck. i don’t need to hear mariah carey voicemails to her fans at 6 o’ clock in the fucking morning, thank you very much.
however, on the other hand, that’s one of the only stations that gets decent reception on my tiny lil clock radio and i desperately need the full-blast screeching radio volume to drag me out of bed in the morning. past research has concluded that a simple alarm clock default noise does nothing to rouse me out of the dead-to-the-world pile of sleep i am usually immersed in every morning (if i’m lucky & relatively kitten-free). i suppose conditioning myself to never hear the hourly night train rushing past my tiny house as a kid has its drawbacks. on the one hand, i can sleep through anything. on the other hand, i can sleep through anything…
although, today, i learned a valuable lesson: ultimately horrifying and traumatizing radio stories will jerk me out of bed faster than a kitten leaping claw-first onto my bladder.
and what was so horrifically wretched and awful i bolted wide awake in the hopes that — yes, please god, let it be a dream! — what i was hearing was only some fucked up dream my poor sleep-dreprived mind was torturing me with?
50 cent.
that’s right, you heard me, 50 cent. (pronounced: fittycen’ – tm scooter)
on a day to day basis, 50 is merely an exceptionally greased up chunk of g unit thuggery that i pretty much don’t ever have to deal with. and of course, i was only marginally aware of his efforts to transform himself into an infectious corporate entity by marketing his own clothing line, shoe line, energy drink, etc.
but then these words struck terror into the very pit of my soul:
50 Cent Plans Sex Toy Line
what in the bloody fuck?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?
and it gets worse. the every sucky, vapid jamn 94.5 djs that drone on and on every damned morning just had to read this part, over the air:
50 tells GQ magazine, “I need to make a 50 Cent condom, and a motorized version of me. A motorized version of me will definitely have to be waterproof, so you could utilize it in the tub. A lot of them (vibrators) aren’t waterproof. Blue is my favorite color, so it would probably be blue. But I don’t know how big. I don’t know if big is better because I’m not sure a man wants his woman playing with a really big dildo.”
and a little part of me died inside. blearily i stumbled into the shower, but could not wash off the dirty, dirty feeling the radio left on me. and then i cried a little.
i mean, seriously, even trying to wrap your mind around something that horrific? it will make your brainmeats liquefy in self defense!
other useless crap the radio felt necessary to deluge me with:
boy kills girlfriend with a kiss
tom cruise is fucking insane
