Dick Acorn = Jury   

August 6, 2001

Mariah Carey:

The Bitch is Whack


Here we go again with these broads! Another bathead dame, kooked as a clockbird, has suffered the daunting torture of wealth and celebrity victimhood and has degenerated into a whacky simpering hospital case. And because of her status, and her condescending actions before and perhaps during her crack-up, she evokes small sympathies; you tend to feel sorry for yourself that you have to write about her. Yet write about the ditzy dingbat you must, because her plight is such a reflection on modern culture and the mores of the times. In a word, she drives YOU batty, and to scare the winged vermin away, you must purge your soul through the possibly unjustified and completely unsupported speculations about the nutty bitch. Otherwise it might be you on the unfunny funny farm.

Mariah Carey, or perhaps we’ll call her Mariah Crazy or just MC for now, has had an eventful life. She comes from a broken and dysfunctional family, you can’t wish that on anyone, anytime. Okay, let’s give the dame a break because it’s one of the excuses she’ll be using to explain her present “exhausted” state which has landed her unto the shrinks.

At 18 years old, just on the verge of genuine womanhood, MC catches the eye of super-mega music impresario Tommy Mottola (himself likely an odious scumbag of suitably wealthy and arrogant proportions) at a party. History has it she slips Mr. Tom a demo tape; he listens to it in his car on the way home.

He’s impressed, and turns around and goes back and gets MC and drives her home – whether to his house or hers is uncertain. One would think they went to his house because it was probably nicer and the bed had clean sheets. 

The next chapter is MC as Cinderella: Record deal, hit singles, hit albums, big houses with clean sheets, baseball, ghetto-rapper and hip-hop boyfriends, several of which are gunned down just for the dis of it.  Facing these stark life episodes, MC reverts to the immutable incoherence located in the depths of dames everywhere: she gets loon-itis and compounds things by acting like a bitch.

The ballplayer, not a dumb guy, realizes the scenario and bugs like he’s legging out a stand-up triple. MC’s sister - unhappily afflicted with AIDS - comes into the bright lights and says bad things about MC. Quickly, hush money is dispensed and back sis goes into obscurity.  Other people say bad things about MC; her limo driver wants to murder her for being not only a bitch but a deadbeat bitch (no, don’t say?). Mottola, he figures he set the broad up to begin with, he calls the shots; he finds that the broad wants to do her own thing.

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Tommy and Mariah
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What a surprise, Motts. Thus the marriage goes out the window like MC flinging a kitchen utensil. Still, the songs keep playing and the checks keep cashing and the bitch keeps bitchin’ all night long (as Keith Richards would sing).  Some media outlet (followed immediately by all of them) dubs MC a “diva” - whatever the fuck that is. Any broad so dubbed considers it a compliment; in reality, the word describes a supercilious attitude perfectly pitched from celebrity dames to torture the world in general and men in specific.

Recently MC signs a gargantuan $90 million dollar record deal. She’s doing movies in Hollywood. She’s a long way from an 18-years-old blowing Tommy Mottola to get to the to the top (you don’t believe she really handed him a tape and that he listened to it without accompaniment on his flute?). MC’s “made it” by any dingbat definition she can dream up. But not really, not for MC.  

Sure for about 5 minutes she’s happy with the vast mils, then she runs into another music impresario, the ghetto king gunman Puff  “Adder” Combs, a snake in white mink and pimp headgear.  Puff puts the immediate bad whammy on MC by explaining to her that she got ripped off with her mammoth deal.  “MC,” said Puffer, “don’t you realize how much money the evil record companies make from your music?  You got nuthin’, girl!”  Considering this, financial whiz MC figures she’s been had and gets a bad bummer on. 

Comes word recently MC’s Latin singing boyfriend reads the crazily swirling tea leaves and jettisons MC from 20,000 feet like unwanted sandbag weight on a hot air balloon. 

Even friggin divas can’t fly, and up comes the ground like a dissatisfying 90 million-dollar contract.  Crash. Boom. Bang. Call the meat wagon, it’s midnight and Cinderella has cracked up the Pumpkin.  And the Pumpkin driver wants his money.  

Before this latest incident MC, with all the money and fame, had been the Poor Little Bitch Girl.  Now squatting in her own drool-pool in psycho central, she is the Hospitalized for Exhaustion Poor Little Bitch Girl.  According to newspaper reports (which you can take to Fort Knox for accuracy) MC in her psychosis was flinging plates like frisbees and making a general mess of her expensive belongings.  One wonders about the condition of her sheets.  She’s in a bad, bad, baaaaaad way, and she can count on the support of the “entire worldwide entertainment industry.”   Let’s see if that pulls her through.  It’ll take more than meager psychological support to snatch MC from the clutches of “exhaustion.”  It’s gonna take money and serious money to get the ditzy songy kookbird (or is that kooky ditzy songbird?) back to terrorizing men, record companies, siblings, movie studios, limo-drivers, ballplayers, Latin lovers, and plate-makers.  Not to mention Pumpkin drivers and website writers.

Reader Feedback

As a HUGE fan of Maria Carey, it disheartens me considerably that someone would be so MEAN and VICIOUS to attack this beautiful woman in distress. This is an outrage and I take offense and request that you remove that offensive attack on Ms. Carey from your website. Thank you. She has touched so many people's lives with her beautiful songs, charity works, and wholesome good looks and lifestyle.

-- Cleon Jackson

South Plainfield, NJ

One thinks of all the possibilities of what’s going down with MC: Is she really nutso? Yes. All women are and it would be unfair to single MC out for being typical. But has she GONE nutso – has she flown the coop of mental normalcy (as much as dames can be “normal”) to the point where she’s in the hospital for something beyond rampant promiscuity and multi-substance partying?  Or is she in there precisely because of those typical celebrity afflictions?

Or…is she just really really afraid her new movie “Glitter” is going to bomb; the name alone suggests YES.  Is she’s pissed at her record label for only giving her $90 mil when Puffer said “more?” and now she wants that more? Is she shaking people down left and right and looking for more money to get her out of her bitch snit? More money so she can be even more unhappy, and exhausted, bitchy, and torturous of men?

Well, the point of this piece is not to speculate about “poor” MC. The point is to predict where we go from here. Well, it can be said with some confidence that sooner or later the drugs will leave MC’s delicate system, and her pussy will snap back into place and cool down from the near molten friction build-up that was probably making MC a little cranky and “exhausted.” 

The record companies and the studios, terrorized beyond death of an “unhappy” Mariah Crazy, will relent to her Puff-inspired insistence that she “get paid.” Lawyers will lawyer, publicists will publicize. 

Murmurings will surface about MC’s “broken home” (would bet she didn’t spend much time there anyway, besides she left at 18). There will be all of the “poor me the victim” stories blaming the record companies for slying MC by underpaying her the $90 mil. 

You see this stuff coming 1000 miles away, for it is a tried and tested comeback road on the celebrity whack track. Today’s celebrity-besotted public will soak it all up in the name of “sympathy for the Songbird.”   

Go right ahead. There’ll be the MC “comeback” stories, and her fans will eat it up like the bitch-shit MC’s been feeding the public in general and men in specific for her entire celebrity run.  There’s no point in being upset or annoyed about these things, all you need to do is sit down at the keyboard and let it flow from your fingertips like so much ugly and bilious ooze. It can’t be helped: the Bitch is Whack. And as Johnny Cochrane would surely point out, “If the Bitch is Whack, you gotta attack.”  

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--Dick Acorn