— Letters (from) —

Dear Christina Aguilera

Dear Ms. Aguilera,

I used to believe that you were just another irritating pop star, but I recently read a bit of gossip about you placing Kelly Osbourne in a headlock, and I freely admit that I was wrong. You clearly understand that violence is definitely the answer; my only concern is that the encounter did not end with a proper ‘bitch-slapping’ or a knee sharply applied to the solar plexus. Ms. Osbourne, no doubt spurred on by her parents, may see the need to retaliate. It would have been best to leave her bleeding and dazed on the floor, suddenly all-too-aware of the devastating (yet adorable) power of your ex-Mouseketeer uppercut.

You are now part of the wonderful tradition of celebrity violence, practiced by such heroes as Ingmar Bergman, Norman Mailer, and Gary Coleman, as well as dozens more of the most irritated, brilliant artists of all time. Please keep in mind, however, that there are still limits: while punching someone for taking your picture is completely acceptable, murdering your spouse or rival is most certainly not. It distresses me greatly to see that some of your peers have forgotten this, apparently unaware of the horrific catastrophe they invite upon an unsuspecting world.

My greatest fear has always been that one day, one of you will start a celebrity riot. The modern gods and goddesses will leave their homes and take to the streets in a terrible conflict that will level the City of Angels. The stars will direct their entourages like grand generals; hairdressers and bodyguards and drivers shrieking and yowling as they dive into the fray. “No way in hell am I going out there, Captain,” the cops will say, as they huddle in their barricaded stations and wait for the emergency generators to go on. “You expect me to arrest James fucking Cameron?” It will be young against old, musician against actor… TV against film! And after the Spielberg Squadron pulls back to Sunset, and the enemy’s triumph seems inevitable, it is then that the trumpets shall sound and the forces of George Lucas shall descend into this orgy of destruction… but will he be too late? And still, amidst the totaled luxury cars and burning wardrobes, above the gaffers and the grips and the back-up dancers and the personal assistants, the celebrities will continue to clash in an epic struggle, the likes of which have not been seen since the Olympian gods waged war outside the walls of Troy.

I would suggest choosing whatever side Russell Crowe winds up on; the smart money says that when the war is over, he’ll be standing victorious atop a mountain of corpses, like an Edgar Rice Burroughs hero. That motherfucker is insane.

Yours,
Jackie Alameda

[Enclosure: 8” x 10” glossy of you (in your “cute” phase)]