I Hate Nicki Minaj

If you have never heard of Nicki Minaj, then consider yourself one of the blessed.  Drop what you're doing and go outside, kneel down, and kiss the Earth wherever you happen to be.  Brush aside the snow or the grass or the flowers and kiss the very soil itself, for you live on truly consecrated ground.  If you've never heard of Nicki Minaj, then leave here now and never look back.  Forget that you have ever seen this post.  Scientists, philosophers, and spiritual leaders alike have all agreed that a life lived in ignorance of the existence of Nicki Minaj is unquestionably better than living with the knowledge that a loving God would allow such a blight upon his creation.

However, if you insist on ignoring my advice and insist on pursuing the inevitable anguish that comes from knowing pure evil, then I guess I ought to explain.  A Nicki Minaj is a misshapen thing, a partial birth abortion of the shadows, an obnoxious teeny a-bop-ination.  She has bright blonde hair, although she is black.  She wears an entire tanker trunk of pink make-up, although she has never worked as clown in the circus (at least not one where they didn't devour the audience in an orgy of blood sacrifice.)  She is made entirely out of cheap plastic, and yet she somehow manages to resemble a living thing.  In Hell they don't give little girls Barbie dolls to play with; they give them Nicki Minajs.  Hence the crying, the wailing, the gnashing of teeth.

She wears costumes.  I can't properly say that she wears outfits.  Human beings wear outfits.  Nicki Minaj is a golem, a rude mockery of humanity.  She is a mere reflection of us, seen through a mirror bitchy.  She behaves as though an alien had found a discarded corpse and decided to inhabit it, modeling every facial contortion, every spare gesture, every slight flicker of the eyes or movement of the hand on half glimpsed observations of real people, weaving all of it into an improvisational performance meant to express this alien's absolute loathing and disgust for the human race.

Silver bullets will not take her down, nor cloves of garlic or wooden stakes.  The way she sneers at crucifixes will only make you hate yourself for being born.  Exposure to direct sunlight will only make her complain, which means hearing her voice, which means rivers of blood pouring from your ears.  This is the first, last, and only warning you will get.  If you encounter the Nicki Minaj directly in whatever dead hour where even God has forsaken the desperate pleas of mankind, all you can do in set your affairs in order and pray, though your prayers will be in vain.  Then you can clench your eyes shut as tight as you can without fear of being accused of dying a coward's death.  No one can be expected to face such an unholy and unimaginable fate with their eyes open.

Courtesy of Wikimedia