Dear Victoria Beckham,
Back in the late nineties, I was socially awkward, dating a giant idiot and working at Best Buy.
In the music department, to be exact.
And when I first saw the cover of The Spice Girl’s first album (which sold hand over fist and I never could understand that because seriously. You all suck at singing.) I immediately thought two things: Who are these dumb
whores girls? and Why is that one so cranky?
(I may have also thought, When are they going the fack away? but that’s besides the point.)
Here it is, over ten years later, and I still have the same questions.
This is the thing, Victoria: I’m sofa king sick and tired of your stupid face.
When The Spice Girls took over the airwaves with hands down the worst song to ever be written before spontaneously combusting into obscurity, I thought FOR SURE we’d never hear of you again.
But nope. You’ve done everything from take down one of my favorite jean brands (I mean, really. Who’s going to buy $400 jeans with crystal crowns on the back pockets?!) to design a “Victoria Beckham Edition” Range Rover.
You’re not in England anymore, cupcake.
Nobody in America gives a crap about you. Your husband? We all want to rape. But you? We’d love for you to GTFO.
Furthermore, nobody in America gives a crap about soccer. Or football. Or whatever the fack you all call it.
So, please. Pack your junk and fly your sour puss anorexic awful haircut self back to England. Just leave your husband here. We’re not done with him.
THROAT PUNCH/TACO CHOP FOR YOU!