It’s like, well, God or the Universe or whatever really wants to do two things. One of these things is prove my earlier point that drugs are AWESOME. (Not that I’d know personally, of course, being a devout Mormon girl. Vote Romney!) The other of these things is to kill Amy Winehouse, with, well, um, drugs. And fame. Two great tastes that do not necessarily go great together.

What the hell am I talking about? Well. I’m so glad you asked. I am talking about this:

That, of course, was her performance of her song “Rehab” at the Grammys last night. The irony of that song is rather crushing, all things considered—to say absolutely nothing about her sly, knowing little smile during and after the song. A little bit much, if you ask me, in light of the fact that she is exactly one popped pill away from total disaster.

But that’s not the worst part, her snarky little smile. The worst part is that she won, like, FIVE fuckuckta Grammys last night! This, of course, will only encourage her suicidal druggings, for if she is winning Grammys while she’s higher that a sorority girl’s skirt, why ever stop being high? Exactly. The Grammys are rewarding her for killing herself with chemicals. Now, she’s only encouraged, and it’s full steam ahead from here. She’ll be stone cold dead by Easter.

So when Amy Winehouse and her beehive and her tattoos and her missing teeth are found floating face down in a cold bathtub of dirty water in three weeks, blame the Grammys—the enabler of award shows. It’s really rather horrible, when you think about it. Which is why I choose not to.

Shame on you, Grammys. Shame on you!

Adrian Ryan

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