When I was in elementary school, I really liked you. Like, honest to God, I enjoyed your music. Much to the dismay of anyone with the ability to hear, I used to belt out “How Do I Live?” on my portable karaoke machine like there was no tomorrow. Seriously, if I had the patience to look through the shoe boxes full of childhood photos (my family is super organized), I’m sure I could find a photo of me in a Gap jumper and Keds, singing for my parents during one of the weekly “concerts” I used to subject them to.
By the time middle school rolled around, I sort of forgot that you existed. I was too busy spending my babysitting money on Abercrombie jean shorts and learning the art of French kissing from YM to really concern myself with country has-beens. You weren’t Paul Walker or Josh Hartnett, and therefore I did not give a shit about you or what you were up to.
This life without LeAnn Rimes continued throughout high school and most of college. I didn’t hate you or anything like that. I just kind of forgot that you ever existed. Occasionally, I’d stumble across one of your ’90s hits on the radios and I’d let nostalgia sink in and sing along, but my thoughts of you finished as soon as the song did. You didn’t exist to me again until months or years down the road when your song would inevitably resurface on one of those ‘Easy Listening’ stations that my parents listen to.
I believe that it wasn’t until my junior year of college that you really came back into the national spotlight. I use the term ‘national spotlight’ very loosely, of course. Were you on the news? I don’t know. Were you on Perez Hilton? Yes, you were.
From the moment I saw you on the celebrity gossip blog, Microsoft paint drawn cum across your face, I knew that the reason for your return to relevancy would be entertaining. Turns out, you cheated on your husband (who I always thought was gay, but I guess that’s neither here nor there anymore), with that sleazy CSI guy, Eddie Cibrian. Not only that, but his estranged wife was so fucking pissed about it, that she decided to air your dirty laundry on national TV by joining The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. Talk about revenge.
In all honesty, I wasn’t personally invested in this story at first. You were some washed up country singer who had resorted to Lifetime movies to pay her mortgage, he was some actor who traded lines with David Caruso, and she was some leggy bitch I’d never heard of.
But then I started digging. I was like a fucking addict and your story was my crack. The more I dug into this fucked up mess, the more fascinated I became. Honestly, in the hey day of this shit storm, I probably would’ve offered up my first born for the opportunity to sit your asses down Dr. Phil style and figure out what the fuck was going on.
The simultaneous collapse of both your marriage to Dean (seriously, is he gay?) and Eddie’s marriage to Brandi was everything. I seriously felt an emotional connection to the four of you. Unlike you lunatics, however, I actually come from a functional family, so honestly, the demise of your relationships was the closest I’ve ever come to a divorce. And let me tell you, it was pretty fucking scarring.
You’ll be happy to know that I hated Brandi when I first saw her hanging with my girls Kim and Lisa on RHOBH. Her crutches, though arguably not her fault, really bothered me. Plus, she was really pretty and skinny and I assumed that like most former models, she would be boring and stupid. But boy oh boy was I wrong about that.
A few episodes into Brandi’s first season, I did a complete 180. Girlfriend was no longer annoying, she was fucking awesome. I realized ever so quickly that no only was Brandi Glanville hysterical, she was also cunning, and I appreciated that. She propelled the collapse of her D-List marriage into her own personal fame and my God, I loved it. With every negative or backhanded quip about Eddie, I literally died. I then pulled a Jesus and resurrected myself so that I could be around for the next dig, only to die again. It was quite the exhausting cycle.
To compensate for the fact that I was only spending one hour a week with my new BFF, I began
stalking following her on Twitter. In order to balance out the playing field, and because I knew the decision that soon awaited me, I followed you as well.
Much like I had done in prior years with Jen and Angelina, and much as I have to do every two months with Taylor and her newest ex, I knew that a side soon had to be taken. I couldn’t play on both teams. It’s sort of like the kids who claim they’re both Jewish and Christian; if you really think about it, you can’t be both. Like, yes there are a lot of similarities, but Jesus or no Jesus? There’s no wrong answer, but you still have to pick one or the other. And so there I was, like a pubescent boy deciding between a Bar Mitzvah and a Confirmation, the decision would be tough, but it had to be made.
There were pros to both of you, LeAnn, that I will give to you. Your songs reminded me of my childhood, and as the alarmingly less attractive of the two, I felt as though you deserved to be rooted for. I mean, who doesn’t love an underdog? Then there was Brandi; she was funny and clever, and admitted to roofie-ing herself on transatlantic flights. Admittedly, I was torn. It was like Sophie’s choice, only harder.
I honestly didn’t know who to pick. What shirt would I order from CaféPress, Team Brandi or Team LeAnn? I was just about to go insane from the inner turmoil when it happened. Like Gabriel descending from the Heavens himself to deliver me a message, you started acting like a real C U Next Tuesday.
You went and got your tits done by the same plastic surgeon that performed Brandi’s surgery, you stole all of her friends (way to kick a girl when she’s down), and then you started asking her kids to start calling you “Mom.” Whoa. We’re arguably a little morally loose around these parts, but that last one is just all sorts of super fucked. Did you carry those babies in your anorexic little belly? No? Then don’t tell them to call you “Mom,” you sick freak.
And just like that, my allegiance was made. I signed the imaginary contract in my head (like I always do for these sorts of alliances) and went from sort of liking you to full-fledged hating you. With my Team Brandi shirt in the mail, I was officially anti-LeAnn.
While I’ve for sure maintained an active (and healthy) hatred of you since that fateful t-shirt order that sealed my devotion to Brandi, I really didn’t think about you all that much. Shocking, I know. On the flip-side, I purchased Brandi’s book and read it in a day, and am anxiously awaiting her return to my TV, but as for you? I skim over your name in magazines and click past you on blogs, if for no other reason than the fact that you’re kind of boring.
Until last night, that is. After googling “most annoying celebrities” (I’m telling the honest to goodness truth), I decided that it would be a fun little game to ‘troll’ America’s most hated tabloid covers on Twitter. Why did I do it? I don’t know. Was it fun? Oh, fuck yes it was.
After making my way through much of the list, i.e. Chris Brown, Justin Bieber, Kanye West, Kim Kardashian, etc., I stumbled across your name. Ah, LeAnn, we meet again, I thought. Though obviously, we’ve never actually met, and up until this point, you literally had no idea I existed, but I digress.
Anyway, knowing that you are essentially glued to your phone (never know when you need to call a paparazzo and tell him where you’re going to be, am I right?), I knew that you had a pretty decent Twitter presence. (Just to be clear, by pretty decent Twitter presence, I mean that you tweet a lot. This, by no means, implies that you have funny or even mildly amusing tweets, because you don’t.)
Moving on. After searching through a barrage of boring and inspirational tweets, I came across one that caught my eye. It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t interesting. It was simple. In all honesty, it was boring even.
For whatever reason though, this was it. This was the one that I wanted to troll.
I didn’t think it was wildly offensive or even all that funny. I expected it to simply go where all boring tweets go to die, The Library of Congress.
Boy was I wrong. Not only did you clearly read it, but you responded. You did not like me questioning the American Royalty’s musical likings and we were now in a full on Twitter war. Obviously, I wasn’t going to just let this slide because:
A) I don’t believe you.
B) It pisses me off that I will likely never know the truth about this.
C) As someone who is staunchly Team Brandi, I couldn’t just let you have the last word.
Thus, I knew I had to hit you where it hurt. My response had to be succinct and it had to be witty. It had to show you that I wasn’t just an ordinary troll; I was a troll who knew more about you than you’d probably care for me to know. This troll had done her research. This troll was in it to win it.
I knew that not everyone would understand this tweet, but this tweet wasn’t for the masses, it was for you. And as you and I both know well, Dean is your ex-husband, the ex-husband that you publicly cheated on.
Judging by the lack of response, I’d say that my trolling experience was successful. Some may argue that you never saw it, but I believe this to be false. You took the time to respond to an account whose picture is that of multi-colored ‘Happy Pills,’ you clearly are invested in what people are saying about you.
A small part of me wonders if I should feel bad about the jab. Did I go too far by bringing your ex-husband into our public feud? Perhaps. But then again, you cheated on him in the most public and horrible way possible and I am reminded of the fact that no matter what anyone else does, you, Ms. Rimes, will forever be the bad guy in this. Rehab: 1. Rimes: 0.
Until next time,
P.S. Lifetime movies are my favorite; tell Eddie to hit me up if he needs a costar.
- Image via The Associated Press