Actions
(194.9 KB, 800x1313)
(75.19 KB, 500x375)
Amy Winehouse probably had more black dicks in her than Amy Schumer. The fact that Amy performed at Baltimore's "Virgin Festival" was pure comedic irony for this dead, useless slut. She wasn't even a study in wasted potential, just a study of a constantly wasted Jew. Her music is a grating mess of faux-retro gimmicks and slurred vocals that slithered between whining and slurring, like a drunkard serenading herself in a cracked mirror. Her biggest "hit," Rehab, was an obnoxious anthem of denial, celebrating her refusal to get help while croaking over a lazy, repetitive melody. The entire Back to Black album was a wallow in her own dysfunction—songs like You Know I'm No Good and Love Is a Losing Game were just pathetic self-pity set to bland, recycled Motown knockoffs. More like You Know I’m No Singer by the end, her voice collapsing into frayed, tuneless rasps, as if her very vocal cords were dissolving in the venomous acid of her Jew throat. Winehouse might have felt shame, if she felt anything at all after drowning her sorrows in her addictions.
What a spectacle. Not merely a hedonist, but a zealot of self-annihilation, chain-smoking her way through life between swigs of liquor and hits of crack, her body withering into a grotesque marionette of its former self. Those sunken eyes, that skeletal grin, she didn’t just resemble death, she courted it, serenaded it, as if decaying into Miss Skeletor were an art form. Her admirers, oh, how they clapped and wept, mistaking her unraveling for ‘authenticity,’ her deterioration for ‘depth.’ Even when she staggered onstage, a mumbling, swaying disgrace: they cheered, as if watching a suicide in slow motion were entertainment. Pathetic, really, though not as pathetic as her refusal to grasp the lifelines thrown her way. Money, fame, pleads for sobriety, all cast aside like so many empty bottles. Then there were her... 'acting' endeavors. On Saturday Night Live, she slurred her lines into oblivion, as if the very concept of effort were beneath her. Her St Trinian’s cameo was a glorified walk-on role, delivered with the enthusiasm of the emaciated walking corpse she was. Even in documentaries chronicling her own ruin, she could scarcely string together coherent thoughts, her interviews a meandering fog of disinterest and intoxication. No craft, no presence, just a name slapped onto projects for the sake of notoriety, like graffiti on a tombstone.
Of course there was an inevitable finale. Alone at 27, her body surrendering at last to the poison she’d fed it for years. No grand operatic tragedy, just a squalid end, as predictable as it was avoidable. The resources to save herself? All there. The will? Absent. So she joined the ranks of those who mistake self-destruction for profound insight, leaving behind not a legacy of art, but proof that Jews tend to succumb to their own stupidity and die just as pitifully as they lived.