Eminem – Relapse
Aftermath (2009)
Reviewed by Chip Norman
“I was born with a dick in my brain, yeah, fucked in the head. My stepfather said that I sucked in bed.”
“I don’t wanna feel you like my step-dad felt me. Would you rather be felched or do the felching?”
“He played ping-pong with his own ding-dong. He’s got nuts like King Kong.”
- Marshall Mathers, R.I.P 1999
As should be evident from the above, the late-nineties have finally come home to roost.
The federal reserve created a white-trash music bubble and the forecast for redneck recovery is dire. There just aren’t enough Burger Kings and Dollar Stores to support the burgeoning illiterates. White rappers and rap-metal gorillas alike have gone broke and are looking for an Empire State Building to climb. This strange case of post-millenial, Zombie-Shady was inevitable.
I take no joy in this. Meth is a terrible drug and I had hoped never to say “wigger” again. I honestly have sympathy. Moreover, I’ve applied some perspective. Re-discover with me, the root cause of this tragedy.
We have to ask ourselves: “Who are the ones who made” Slim Shady?
IMAGINE:
You are a major label record executive circa TRL. You would sign Islamic terrorism if you could get it into Pumas and an Allah-sized hockey jersey.
PICTURE:
A retard at a Detroit truck stop. It’s at the age they become really uncomfortable to be around (33). It’s foot is stuck in a tire. It’s hair matches the snot caked to its face. It’s howling loudly.
PRETEND:
You take off your belt and chase the terrified mongoloid into your Prius. You give it unthinkable sums of money. You land it serious roles in major motion pictures. It has a duet with Mariah Carey. You let it rape anything around it. American children forget how to read.
SUDDENLY:
All that money vanishes as abruptly as it appeared. Online music distribution has crushed the industry. You escape on a golden parachute to your record-exec mansion, shouting to the pathetic troglodyte from above, “Blame the internet, Slim Shady! See you on VH1, my boy!”
Now, having been in Marshall Mathers’ shoes, do you expect the primate to understand why its back at a Detroit diner? Do you expect it to be calm? To join the workforce? Do you not expect it to lash out?
Well, Eminem just struck back hard, internet. This is the worst rap album of all time. Actually, that title is too good for this. Not even an Adam Sandler Sings the Blues! K-mart-exclusive could be worse than this. Slim Shady’s newest is called Relapse. And I’m sure Eminem was hoping for a Relapse back to the days when black people pretended to like him. Wigger can forget that dream right now. Relapse plays like a soundtrack to the script of an unmade Scary Movie-sequel with pop-culture references so painful, not even 21st Century Fox dared to green-light it.
A more appropriate title for this album would be Rock Bottom. Eminem pulls out every tired gimmick in his bag o’ wigger tricks in a desperate attempt to get paid like its 1999. Listening to this record is a sadness on par with visiting an alzheimer-patient. Relapse is 20-tracks of a sobbing Slim Shady screwing the bloated corpse of Carson Daly while wearing one of those retarded Rasta hats with fake dreads stapled on. That’s right– the orange, green and red headgear that white college idiots buy in bulk at 311 concerts.
Marshall, I doubt you can read, but if you can understand this, I hope Relapse makes you famous again. I really do. But you should know that:
- WIGGER, WE GET IT: YOU WOULD MOLEST UNDERAGE HOLLYWOOD STARLETS. So would most of the dudes I know, but none of them have rapped godawful raps about it. Just touch yourself in private, Elvis.
- WIGGER, WE GET IT: YOU REALLY, REALLY KNOW DR. DRE. Stop abusing Dre. No one even knows who he is anymore. He probably doesn’t even know where he is. It isn’t said out loud, but believe me, your fans are tired of feigning amusement when you REPEATEDLY make Dre jump out from behind bushes. You need to let the good doctor go.
- WIGGER, WE GET IT: YOUR MOM BANGED TRUCKERS IN YOUR BED-ROOM AND SOMETIMES THEY WOULD TOUCH YOU. Please don’t make any more reminders like “My Mom”- a Wigstafarian-water-boarding that probably gave me testicular cancer. Clearly, you are under the mistaken impression that being white trash gives you depth or inspires sympathy. Do the universe a favor and cut to the fat-Eminem ballad-filled, comeback album. That way, at least whatever horror you produce can be laughed at. You could call it More than a Wigger: My Mom Banged Truckers In My Bunk Bed and Sometimes They Would Touch Me. The album cover could feature you staring pensively over a river. You’ll be like the next Meatloaf, only deeper, holmes.
- WIGGER, WE GET IT: YOU REALLY, REALLY LIKE TO RAPE. But you should know that skits of girls getting raped are ill-advised. Skits in an album of music are ill-advised as a matter of general principle. (Eminem might slide on this one, given that there is no music in Relapse.)
- WIGGER, WE GET IT: RAPPERS LIKE TO TALK ABOUT THEMSELVES. But repeating that “everyone wants you” in the chorus of a song surely written by Good Charlotte does not make it so.
- WIGGER, WE GET IT: wait, no we don’t. CHRISTOPHER REEVES IS DEAD. AND HE DIDN’T SOUND LIKE A ROBOT, YOU IDIOT. I- I, just…I have no – zero – idea what this wigger is doing. Eminem’s bizarre inclusion of woefully out-of-touch, and at times insanely non-sensical, pop-culture references is beyond my understanding and likely God’s. That “I Love the 90′s” show is like the Encyclopedia Britannica compared to this odious disaster.
I’ll admit that I stopped listening after I heard the third reverb-drenched “Yeah, mon!” But I heard enough to know that someone needs to mercy kill Eminem NOW. He is a dying frog on the sidewalk of popular culture. Collective society accidentally stepped on him. He is twitching there, with white stuff coming out of his mouth. Someone needs to end it. We owe him that.
Or wait and allow 8 Mile-2-Furious: Felched or Felcher to happen. The choice is yours, America.
Want a preview of how bad such a film could be?
Well, have you ever seen those holographic stickers of Looney Toons (in hockey uniforms) and flaming skulls on motorcycle wheels that rednecks give to their wives and exchange as currency at wrestling matches? The kind that “bailiffs” use to swear in the “defendants” on day-time CourtTV ? You know– the stickers that come from dispensers in Pizza Huts, gas stations and county fairs and spell “no fear” in flaming Mexican-tatoo-lettering?
Want to know what happens when a wigger with nothing to lose buys every last one of those retarded things, finds an April 2007 issue of Entertainment Weekly in the methadone clinic, and finally convinces both a carnival license plate air brusher and special effects wizard from the Hallmark Channel to turn these treasures into a music video? I’ll show you.
BEHOLD.
THE WORLD’S MOST EXPENSIVE BIG LOTS APPLICATION:
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If Eminem survives the Relapse, we should all pray that his next record is called G.E.D.
