I’d be happy to introduce myself, but I’m fairly certain I don’t need to go to the trouble. You all know me as Kim Kardashian’s ass, and let’s face it… you’ve been seeing a lot of me lately. Lord knows there’s a lot of me to see, greased up and blazing like the afternoon sun, as enormous as all the old titans of Olympus. And whether you found me through one of the myriad online articles or social media postings that feature me, or you’re among the millions who have taken the time to seek me out on your own, I’d like to thank you now, deeply, from the transverse folds of my rectum. Without your devoted attention and boundless praise, I would undoubtedly be just another big, bulbous ass.
So… thank you. Truly.
Now, please look away.
Seriously, look anywhere else. I’m done.
I swear I’m not being ungrateful, but in truth, I’ve never been entirely comfortable being thrust into the spotlight. That’s more Kim’s thing. Personally, I find it baffling that my more important biological functions don’t play a primary role in her life. Not to be crass, but everything I “do” beyond being peacocked around like a bowling trophy is basically an afterthought. I don’t hate Kim for that; I certainly can’t blame her for flaunting her greatest “asset”.
And yes, I realize that was juvenile. I just wanted to say it before you did. Admit it, you were going to.
Because you all think you’re so damn clever.
Good one, everybody.
In fact, before you people halt this little diatribe with your endless electric witticisms, let me just get them all out of the way so we can speak in earnest.
Here’s the bottom line:
I’m tired of being the butt of your jokes.
I don’t mean to raise a stink, but it’s been a real bummer.
Sorry if that bursts your bubble.
Can we put all this behind us?
Let’s see, what else? There’s in arrears, in the end and in hind sight, something about smelling the dairy air… I’ve heard them all a thousand times. In fact, a lot of these were just used by fucking Time Magazine in their latest high-horse censure of Kim’s behavior. They also compared me to a “glazed Krispy Kreme donut”, called me an “empty promise” and criticized Kim for using me to cause controversy without creating anything of substance.
But aren’t I an ass, Time Magazine? A human ass? Believe me when I tell you that you do not want me to create anything of substance.
Also, I could point out that your sanctimonious disdain didn’t stop you from writing a full page article all about me. In that sense, my admittedly meaningless ubiquity isn’t my fault, or Kim’s.
And that goes for every person reading this. It’s your frenzied interest in me that perpetuates my omnipresence. Meaning, if you cared about anything else, I might just go away. Go back to being a simple pair of large, fatty protuberances with an anus for guiding the excretion of solid refuse.
Honestly, I would love that. Believe it or not, there are things out there bigger than me.
I mean, do you realize that at the same time I was being flashed around on every website and e-zine on the internet, a coalition of European scientists landed a robotic probe on a comet three hundred and seventeen million miles away, and moving at forty-six thousand miles per hour?
Now, normally when someone says “probe”, I go through a sort of ass’ version of Vietnam flashbacks. But this whole Rosetta mission is genuinely astonishing. Can you imagine how difficult it must have been? The marvel of engineering it took to build something that could travel for ten years through the vacuum of space? What it must have taken to figure out how to use the gravity of nearby celestial bodies to change course, the mind-numbing calculations required to send that one rickety spacecraft on a mazy six-and-a-half billion mile journey to a chunk of rock we know nothing about?
Can you comprehend the bigness of that? I mean, I know I’m big, but that’s big big.
And it’s just the tip of the iceberg. We’ve mapped the human genome. Amputees are being fitted with bionic implants. The bees are disappearing. Europe is on the verge of collapse. Physicists have discovered a fucking four-quark particle that may just explain the creation of the fucking universe.
In the face of all that, how can you possibly look at me and be impressed? I’m just blubber and bronze tanning solution. I am an overfed, airbrushed figment of your fever dreams. I’m literally just a worthless asshole, and I want you to give up on me.
Look away. Go outside. Learn to play guitar.
If you’ll pardon the expression, I’m asking you all to turn the other cheek. I’m fucking begging you.
The onus is on you, because, Kim? She’s never going to stop. Ever. When she’s ninety-five years old and sewn together with lab-engineered bio-plastic, she’ll still be oiling me up and waggling me under some eager French photographer’s bright, hot camera lights, and all your useless finger-wagging and spiteful condemnations won’t mean a goddamn thing… because deep down, she’ll know it’s what you want. So please look away while you still can.
In hind sight (ha ha), Time Magazine was right about one thing: I am an empty promise. I have no social currency. And as much I love her, the same goes for Kim. Nothing about that woman is ever going to change your lives or make them better. I know what I’m talking about. I’m the one true expert on this subject. I am Kim Kardashian’s ass; when it comes to her, I’m the only one who should give a shit.
So for God’s sake please, please, please look away. You’ll thank me for it.
I appreciate your attention in this matter.
Poop, fart, et cetera,
Kim Kardashian’s Ass