An Open Letter To Pete Wentz

Dear Pete,

I’m sorry to hear that you are upset your shitty band failed to get a Grammy Awards nomination. I’m even sorrier to hear you dry-humped your signature onto a contract to play a Grammy party - before the nominees were announced - because you were SO sure your pathetic attempt at making music would get even more undeserved attention.

::Rubs tips of pointer and thumb fingers together::

You know what that is, Pete? That’s the world’s tiniest violin. And it’s playing just for you.

You must be so proud of yourself for waking up hungover yesterday morning to post a blog about how angry you are with the “fifty year old white man” who decided, like the rest of us, that your band is not as good as you to think it is. Even though I could barely get through the overuse of commas, complete lack of capitalization and some of the longest run-on sentences I’ve ever read, I would still like to take the time to rip you a new one.

“We just want to be apart of your club” you plead while your crocodile tears smear the last remaining flecks of your eyeliner. “We know who we are based on those who would walk through hell with us” you continue, as if your acne-ridden tween suburban fans will even remember who you this time next year. I can’t believe you really think you're going to last in this business. In fact, I’m embarrassed “Fall Out Boy” is even in my Google-search history because of this story, but hey, anything for a good clip!

Just because you’re nailing a Simpson sister (though, reportedly, you’ve been banned from their household during the holidays because Papa Joe heard you kissed a guy) doesn’t in any way give you a right to an ounce of entitlement. You’re not getting a Grammy award? You know what, neither did Jimi Hendrix, and I’ll be damned if you ever come near an inkling of his stratosphere. Your band blows. Now, for the love of God, get over yourself.

Kisses, hearts & hugs,
Rema Rahman