R. Kelly's Whack Mad-Libs

This one was printed in my college's newspaper in March of 2006. I just did some very half-assed research and it surprised me to learn that R. Kelly continues to add chapters to his “hip-hopera.” Which suits me fine. My awareness of Trapped in the Closet peaked years ago, but apparently he's still expounding on some epic vision that I clearly don't take seriously.

If you're a devout fan of R. Kelly, my gripe is not with you, but you probably shouldn't read on. I will no doubt soon transform into tactless wise-ass mode. In my defense, here are two things to consider.



First, I'm writing this column on my birthday. At a certain age, birthdays lose their appeal; after 21, it gets harder to muster that childlike enthusiasm on the anniversary of your passage through your mom's vagina.


Fortunately, I have discovered a remedy for birthday disenchantment. For 24 hours, I try my damndest to reject common courtesies and forced pleasantries and permit myself to be obnoxious and rude. I play the bejesus out of the birthday card! If someone objects to my brash behavior by blathering lines such as, “Don't talk shit about my ailing grandma” or “Sir, we don't allow fireworks in this wing of the library,” my reply is always, “Hey, cut me some slack; it's my frickin' birthday.” It works more often than you might think.



The second reason I'm writing an unflattering column about R. Kelly is much simpler. Some people are jerks, and there isn't much hope they will ever change their ways. These people should be parodied, and parodies aren't always nice.

Unless you were part of the pop duo Milli Vanili, America is willing to give you a second chance. W. Bush blundered through a first term in office (and probably got accidentally trapped in a closet or two of his own) only to be dared by a high percentage of voters to do it again. Like W. Bush, R. Kelly has been granted a second chance.

A few years after his much publicized “sex” tape (and I put quotes around that word because sex takes on a twisted mutation when urine is combined with an underage girl), R. Kelly has bounced back with a popular show on VH1. Some will debate it was Kelly's doppelganger who appeared in the video, and in any case, whoever starred in it didn't get punished too severely; R. Kelly is not tormenting “fresh fish” alongside of Suge Knight. Rather, he's got a show called Trapped in the Closet.

I'll never forget my only viewing of Trapped. It was cheerfully introduced by a swarthy nitwit who applies two gallons of hair gel per day. He's the same guy who hosts Bands Reunited, which means he's the only person in the world that's hellbent on seeing one more concert put on by the original lineup of Mr. Big. There are people with faded Mr. Big tattoos who'd rather not see Mr. Big perform a reunion gig at some shopping mall in Tampa.

Anyway, here's a summary of the episode I caught: R. Kelly is “trapped in a tumultuous love triangle with a cop and a woman. R. and the woman are in her bedroom, arguing in a bizarrely musical fashion, and once the tension reaches a fever pitch, they realize the absurdity of their ordeal and burst into laughter. Fair enough, I suppose.

The cop then enters the house and overhears the commotion in the bedroom. In a jesting tone, the woman shouts, “Stop it, you're killing me!” The phrase in question implies that you want the other person to relent joking because you're laughing so hard your stomach hurts and farcically brings to mind the thought of death.

This cop is a total bonehead, though. He infers those words literally. He assumes the woman is in serious trouble and storms into the bedroom with his gun drawn. BANG! Someone gets shot. It doesn't matter who.

For the record, this is an idiotic plot-twist. When they're in the process of being murdered, NOBODY screams, “Stop it, you're killing me!” It just overstates the obvious, really. Actual murder victims scream things like, “Help!” or “Don't do this!” or “You'll pay for this, O.J.!”

Trapped in the Closet has less creative merit than a WWF Royal Rumble. The story-lines are so flimsy and thoughtless that pretty much anyone could write an episode. Are you a literate adult? Great, here's your formula: Take a soap opera cliché, sensationalize it, and add singing.

What follows is not only a fun game to play with a group of friends, but also a likely explanation for the writing process of an episode of Trapped. I present to you: “R. Kelly's Whack Mad-Libs.”

You remember how to play Mad-Libs, right? This version is quite similar. Simply call out all the stuff in parentheses first, jot down the responses, and then recite the whole thing aloud—but don't say it, sing it. Here goes.


Chapter One: "This Crazy Shit be Like Genesis"


Man, this (swear word) is so crazy. I'm all wound-up and I'd rather be lazy. Just lounging around, high on (name of drug), feeling pretty good indeed. But here I am, arguing with (name of stank ho in room). She threatened to call the police, and there's no need for that. I didn't call her fat. I just need to know what's up with her and (name of sleazy pimp in room). Girl, have you been in his bed? Do you want him instead? All those times we (slang for intercourse, past-tense) don't seem to mean a thing, and neither does my bling. Dammit, (slang for wicked woman), you gotta say something. I got no doubts. We gotta work this out. You're my number one girl. When we get down you rock my world, and I'm sorry I gave you (sexually transmitted disease), but if I may retort, we can't go back in time, so just listen to my rhymes.

You know (aforementioned sleazy pimp) is my boy, and if y'all rattled bedsprings like a baby's toy, it's gonna shake my poise. Wait! I just heard a noise.

I think it came from the (common hiding place). Now (slang for wicked woman), don't be stubborn. You can't hide this from me. I won't let it be. I'm gonna pull out my (deadly weapon) and then count to three. I he ain't out by then, to hell he'll descend.

Now first comes one; my heart is beating like a drum. And then comes two. I want to (excretory function, present tense) on the fools in this room.

The door to the (aforementioned hiding place) flew open. I can't believe what's inside; no, I can't trust my eyes. (Swear word), this (swear word) is so (synonym for psychosis). My brain is going hazy. (Aforementioned name of stank ho) was hiding a (term for little person) all along, and he's got his pants down. This is the craziest (swear word) I've ever seen. This dude is hung like (name of male porn star). If you catch my drift, he's got a huge (synonym for male genitalia). Plus he's pointing a gun. I'm not having no fun. Folks, you gotta stay tuned 'cause the (another synonym for psychosis) (swear word) has just begun!

Thoughts in 2013: “I Believe I'll be Snide.”

Are there any good R & B singers anymore? Ones who don't use Auto-Tuners or publicly disgrace themselves by beating or degrading women? In the original print of this column, I tried to clarify that I don't advocate player-hating, and I cited Marvin Gaye as an admirable (and supremely gifted) Player. With a capital “P”! Is there an R & B singer today with half as much talent as Marvin Gaye? Can the soulful magic of the Motown roster that once included Marvin, Stevie, the J-5, and The Temptations be duplicated even a little bit in 2013? (Cee Lo Green, maybe? I have no interest in the talent show racket he's a part of, but he seems legit.) Feel free to comment, to burst my cozy little time-bubble. Act nice, though. I was a dick about R. Kelly, sure, but you should be nice. I for one think that's fair.