I grabbed a black man by the neck in downtown Chicago last weekend. To be more specific, I had him by the Jesus piece.
“Yeezus might not be in the house!” I announced, holding up the zirconia Christ face to the crowd. “But at least we’ve got one motherfucker with a Jesus piece!”
A roar of laughter went up from the crowd inside the Weiner Circle, or at least I thought it did. I was completely shitfaced, and my barometer of self-awareness was broken somewhere between “You’re the fucking man” and “CAN YOU TELL ME WHAT A WANG CHUNG IS?.”
Mr. Jesus Piece and his leather jacket hadn’t seen the move coming. Moments before he and his many chains had been preaching wild bullshit and hurling abuse at the Weiner Circle employees. He hadn’t expected some halfcocked Wonderbread to grab the reins of his hotdog stand revival and take it on the bypass to Topical Town. He took it in stride, however.
“This motherfucker!” he yelled, putting an arm around me. “This is the motherfucker who’s been taking all that ObamaCare money! We’ve all been getting denied, and he’s rolling in that shit!”
“That’s right!” I said. “And I spent it on Kanye West tickets! He postponed! So fuck me!”
With that, I spun around and faced the Wiener Circle employees behind the counter.
“Now which one of you broke motherfuckers is gonna take my order?!”
We were never supposed to be anywhere near that weird hot dog stand on Saturday, November 9.
My friends and I had planned to be miles away in $170 seats at the United Center, lit to the gills and watching a mask-wearing megalomaniac torch every good and natural thing the straight world stands for.
It was going to be a beautiful salute to the self-appointed cockroach of pop culture. But you fucked us, Kanye.
You fucked us good.
The moment your 60-foot Eye of Sauron screen cracked, so shattered the nads, ovaries and precious plans of thousands of well-meaning assholes.
Plane tickets, cab rides and rental cars—all fucked with a jackhammer. Tommy’s first steps and Nana’s wake—missed for nothing. Even bigger losses were the drunken pre-concert reunions, where assholes and douchebags who hadn’t seen each other in years would come together and commune to your wonderful, tragic humor. Instead there was a dirge. A death knell for plans lost and crests fallen.
This isn’t a complaint, however. This is an announcement:
Fuck you, Kanye West.
This isn’t a passerby’s “fuck you,” it should be noted. This isn’t a honk and a middle finger leaving the HOV lane. This is a “I know it was you, Fredo,” fuck you. And it breaks my heart.
When you dropped 808’s and Heartbreak in 2008 and every sheep-blooded geek jumped off the bandwagon, I was there. I defended that shit.
When Gilligan and the rest of the wrist-deep wranglers all came crawling back for My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy, I didn’t tell them to suck a dick—I told them to feast upon the dicks. I called for a Roman bacchanalia of dicks to be brought out and served on fine silver trays. I’m talking fucking HEIRLOOM quality trays here, Kanye. Someone’s great-great-grandmother who patched worn-out coveralls for 19th century firemen used to serve ring-necked pheasant on these hand-hammered dishes. She KNEW Eugene Debs, Kanye. Personally. Sexually.
But those pheasants are long gone now, and those trays were heaped with pound after pound of Dick L’Orange and Uncut Penis Piccata—piccata I metaphorically served on fine dishware to people who gave up on you, Kanye.
And it’s happening all over again. The same people who bailed on 808‘s and shrugged through Watch the Throne despised Yeezus—your most batshit, nun-fucking-est album to date. And that’s how you planned it, because that’s what you do—lob sonic fuck-mortars into the sea of “Nothing But the Classics” lovers and giggle as they scream:
“I miss College Dropout Kanye!”
And I tried explain it to them. I ended the bacchanalia, stowed away the dicks brushed in fig honey and earnestly try to get to them—to explain that Kanye West is a creature. He is changing, feeding, morphing, belching. Evolving.
But no more. You’ve killed all that.
Your personal metamorphosis isn’t over, Kanye, but my ability to stick up for its bullshit has been exhausted. The last screaming tang on the zipper of my personal sanity was ripped asunder the moment you refused to do a show in your own hometown because of a broken fucking television screen.
I respect your “artistic vision.” It’s what keeps us coming back. But the list of reasons as to why your excuse is bullshit could be bound and collated.
Speaking of “bound,” lets take a gander at the cinematic miscarriage you and Ass Freight left on the world’s doorstep this week. Just a peek. Because personally, I find it far more indicative of the direction in which you’re headed than any concert postponement.
In the video for “Bound 2,” you and Freights ride a grocery shop ride in front of a green screen showing what might as well be the fucking Grand Canyon.
You did this knowing full and well that the song prayed—BEGGED—for an urban setting. You know it reeked of deep dish pizza and young accountants bitching about Jay Cutler. And you told that effervescence to go fuck itself.
That would’ve been fine—your fans expect these random middle fingers-to-the-world SCUD missiles you like to launch. We bake fucking cakes when the streets run wet with “BUT WHY IS HE WEARING A SKIRT” tears. It’s like Mardi Gras. I decorate a fern. It’s a whole thing.
But this—thing—this be-fucked little half-job you limped out there—there’s no reward in it. There’s no inside joke to be enjoyed by anyone but you anymore. Even at your most serious, Kanye, your music and our enjoyment of it is predicated on the dark laughter it brings—the stuff that toasts to our inner douchebag and swings back at the endless fist-storm of BabyGap bullshit that pop culture heaves our way.
I think if you’re honest with yourself, I don’t even believe you find this one funny. Or inspiring. I think you know this song—a crude but beautiful track that at once reaches back and forward in time—deserved better than tracking shots of fucking horses.
But that’s okay. It’s already over. As I said, my sticking up for your bullshit ended a week before the video dropped. And it feels good.
After a decade of going to bat for you, I stepped away from the plate a moment before you launched a junkball at my soul. The “Bound 2” video was just vindication—a confirmation that I gave up equivocating your “craft first,” “art is everything” bullshit at the right moment.
Granted, I’ll still listen to your music. I’m no hero. I’m just some asshole.
I’ll use your words to stroke my own ego from time to time, and there’s a better than even chance that I’ll grab another stranger and go on Heinous Public Rant, Volume 2, one day. But that rant won’t involve you, Kanye. Its all been said.
So from one asshole to another: Fuck you, Kanye. We’ll talk this out in hell.