Don’cha not wish?
OK. I don’t know anything about the Pussycat Dolls. I’m sure that individually, they’re very nice women who have worked incredibly hard to get to where they’re at in their careers (or somewhat hard – or a little hard – maybe not that hard.) That said, I really fucking loathe them for their hit song “Dont’cha”, ie, “Dont’cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me” in which they ask a fellow if, upon looking at their triflin’ skanky butts, he doesn’t maybe wish his girlfriend was as good looking as a leopard imprinted, mall touring, glorified stripper. This is the most not-on-the-team bullshit ever. There was a period when this song was impossible to escape, but then it died down. Unfortunately it is now back as it figures prominantly in the “Norbert” (Norbit?) trailer, which is offensive for a million other reasons independent of that song (primarily, not funny – relies on making fun of obesity for hilarity. Waka waka.) But in any case – what the fuck? I guess I can understand why the PCD’s went along with recording this hateful crap ($$$) but how can any chick listen to it? How can you groove to some other chick basically lap dancing in your guy’s face and saying you’re not as hot as she is? I’m not denying that some guys may actually secretly wish their lady was a little more PCD-esque, but why do I need some other chick encouraging that? Fuck you pussycat dolls. Don’cha wish you didn’t have to write a song about undermining other women to be successful?
I realize this comes off as a pretty strident, unfunny post, but I’ve been thinking about the song for awhile and then when I heard it today at the movies I just couldn’t take it anymore. The thing is, I don’t need the PCD’s to make me feel bad. I already wish I looked like one of them. It really started with Josie and the Pussycats, when I wanted to play drums in a shitty animated girl band and wear a slutty cat costume onstage. I wanted to look like the brunette one with the weird stripe in her hair.
When I was a little girl I dressed as a black cat for Halloween for seven straight years. I wore the same outfit every year – black leotard, black tights, black cat ears, drawn on whiskers, and the piece de resistance, a black cat tail that my mom would sew on to the butt of the leotard. I loved running around with that tail. Not intending to try to feel sexy, I felt sexy anyway. Unfortunately, as the years went by, all the stuffing in the tail slowly sunk to the bottom, so after a while the top was deflated and there was just a round little lump at the bottom. It actually kind of looked like a long black dick. When it finally was too dickalicious, I bailed on the black cat theme and became Groucho Marx, who was kind of my first hero. I got the glasses and the mustache and a cigar and I wore a blazer of my dad’s, and I went trick or treating in a local high rise. I did the Groucho stride down the hall, shoulders slumped, laciviously waggling my eyebrows and leering. I felt like a pervert. I liked it better than being a black cat.