An Open Letter to Pitbull

New contributor Matt Warrilow sends a painfully honest open letter to Pitbull.

 

Dear Mr Pitbull,

 

Before we start, let me get one thing clear. I understand why people like you. Hell, if I was younger, drunker and had no sense of dignity, I probably would too.

I mean, when the DJ drops ‘Timber’, Oceana, Yates’s or those student nights must go nuts, right? The VK Ice starts flowing, the STDs start spreading, and man, those guys may just open another button on their shirts, because the ladieeeees love seeing too much sweaty chest on a Tuesday night in Preston.

But whenever I look at you, I see something. Something I can’t quite put my finger on. Then I heard this song, and it hit me.

I just don’t trust you. And I don’t mean I wouldn’t lend you £20 because you’d never give it back. Or ask you to meet my mum as I’m running a bit late, where you try to take her to a Hotel, Motel, Holiday Inn or whichever fine establishment you like to take women to, and I quote, get to ‘boogie boogie, noogie noogie noogie, do me do me’.

I mean for all the suits, the sunglasses and the immense amounts you must spend to get people to see to your douche beard, you are weak.

I can see it now. You’re in the club, dressed like a magician who just went to audition for ‘Miami Vice :The Musical’. You’re making sure the beard -or what I would say looks more like Wookie pubes gone astray- is straight. You assess your surroundings for some fine honeys to get low with tonight. You see one at the bar, she’s wearing glasses.

‘Oh man, geek chic. Maybe she’s hot AND clever. Well tonight, I’m going to show her my theory of relativity. And I mean, how RELATIVELY easy it’s going to get her to my place,’ you cry.

You look around, laughing at your own joke, waiting for approval from your homies. They reply with a laugh which has been forced through gritted teeth. Straightening your jacket, you check your laces (you’re wearing slip-ons, fucktard) and you stroll on over. You’re at the bar, next to her. So it begins.

‘Hey lady…you look smart, the glasses, good eh?’

‘Uh, if you say so. It’s more because my eyesight isn’t great. But thanks anyway…hey, are you the guy from Disturbed?’

‘Dis-what? No, I am the guy from Pitbull. Ladies know me from all over the world y’know. But I’ve never met a smart lady with glasses, I like this lady’

‘Uh…..ok…..’

‘So, lady, you like da music?’

Now, this is your moment, Pitbull. They say yes, you take them to the floor, and when you give the DJ ‘the sign’, he puts your song on. You wrap your arms around her, your overly sweaty all over her new dress, as you grind, and whisper those magic words, in time with your song. ‘I know you want me. You know I want you’.

‘Oh no, not really…’

Mental rewind Pitbull, because this isn’t happening. She’s just thrown you a curveball.

‘…I’m just here for a friend’s birthday. I prefer folk, Irish folk, that kind of thing’

‘…huh?’

‘Folk music’

‘…Fork music?’

‘No, F-O-L-K’

‘Oh ok lady, I see you, I get you, yeah I like folk music too, yeah. So…you want to dance?’

And with that, you wander back to your table, alone, feeling a bit down. What is this ‘folk’ music she speaks of? Out comes your phone, and you Google away. What comes up? Well, this does.

‘So the ladies like this hey? I must put it on my new song, then girls will dance, and I can sing to them boogie boogie, noogie noogie noogie, do me, do me’

And that, Mr Pitbull, is why I don’t trust you.

You will do ANYTHING you can to get ladies to get on your pitbull. Even if there is the slightest chance of getting some smart, Vorderman kind of action, you’d be happy to shoe-horn in some twat awful jangly ho-hah, that doesn’t, nor ever, will go with this, nor any other song, ever made by a sane human being.

But you don’t give a shit, because at least it means you’ll get to, and I quote: “role-play, I’ll be the teacher, lay back, relax, let me eat cha.”

And that kind of attitude, Mr Pitbull, won’t get you anywhere.

No, I’m wrong, it will get you somewhere. It’ll get you to that Oceana in Preston, with the VK Ice flowing, and with the loosening of those shirt buttons. And you’ll be alone. Standing on the edge of the dancefloor, watching as the ladies you once loved giggle at you, the sad old man who has been wearing the same white suit for 20 years, going to the same nightclub for 20 years, just to try and feel young again and you’ll wonder ‘where did it all go wrong?’

I’ll tell you when. When your little pitbull decided to make musical choices for you.

So next time, when you’re looking up a lady, wanting to get freaky, and she tells you she’s into Hungarian bongo music, show some fucking restraint.

Yours sincerely,

Everyone else on Earth

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