Dear Ray J:
Hey! Television viewer here. How’s it going?
It’s been a few months since America has seen you. A long time away from the spotlight, eh? I know. Attention-seeking sociopaths get lonely, too.
So I hear that you are coming back to VH1 and Celebreality with the second version of For the Love of Ray J. Deciding whether to cash that paycheck must have been quite the dilemma! Royalties from those guest spots on Moesha must be waning. What about music? You had a hit single with “Wait a Minute” from that one album, This Ain’t a Game. All Music Guide picked it as your best album at a lofty two stars! I bet they LOVED the song “Wet Me.” Oh, you are a wordsmith.
Any-who, I’m rambling here. I wanted to write this because, again, you’re coming back to reality TV. And with such a momentous event, I had to say this:
Everything you touch is slimy.
Your music — if you can call it that — is slimy. (Seriously, “Wet Me?”) I know that you overcompensate for being the little brother of (formerly) squeaky-clean R&B singer Brandy, but your R. Kelly-wannabe Lothario act is even slimier than he is — and he loves underage girls!
The women in your life — Kim Kardashian, Whitney Houston, your mom when you were born — are now and forever slimy. Congrats for tainting them with that slime.
That beloved art form known as reality TV is that much slimier with you and your show on it. Having women fight over the right to date you? Sure, it’s comical when Bret Michaels or Flavor Flav do it because, you know, they’re pathetic. But dude, you bring so much skeeze and swarthiness, it’s like a Nickelodeon slime-like film that drips off of the screen every time you appear.
So, yeah, slimy. Damn. So slimy.
Anyway, keep in touch!