MR. DOOL

Hello, Katy.  Put down the sparkly banana costume, I need to talk to you.

When you burst onto the scene a few years ago with that song that Madonna liked, I thought, “mildly amusing, but not my thing.”  Then you came back with “I Kissed a Girl” and I thought, “Oh man, I’m going to have to hear this a lot.”  And then when I was really drunk and it came on in a bar for the first time, I thought, “Oh man, I’m going to have to sing this a lot.”  But I foolishly thought that would be all, that the summer of ’08 would slowly fade into fall, and your professional twilight was nigh.  I assumed you would make an appearance on the VMA’s and then it would be off to that giant NOW! That’s What I Call Music Compilation in the sky.  You’d retire in a Hello Kitty-themed home for pop stars of yesteryear.  Maybe split a condo with Avril Lavigne.  Ke$ha could live in the dumpster out back.

Go ahead, Katy, cash in with that Proactiv commercial, because your clock is ticking, I thought!  Good, good, marry Russell Brand — he’ll always be famous in England!  Yes, befriend Rihanna.  Maybe you can find a post-stardom job sewing barbed wire onto her panties or something.  Smart girl, that Katy, I thought.

But then the greatest pop scourge of 2010 happened.

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