Dear Lorne Michaels: 
As if it wasn’t bad enough that you continue to subject your, umm… “audience” to the eternally stale Paul(s) Mc Cartney and Simon, that you have hog tied Colin Jost, who was actually kind of funny as head writer his first season, by forcing him to obviously and humorlessly publicly support that aging windbag Hillary Clinton, that you have made your once cutting edge show so politically correct, so dull, so irrelevant that it is merely the embarrassing inbred bastard child of it’s ancestors, you have now reached a new low. Tonight’s hackneyed umm… “tribute” to Prince was the most pathetic, strained, juvenile entertainment offering I’ve seen since my nine year old nieces forced me to listen to them sing ten different versions of the song “Call Me Maybe” during Thanksgiving dinner in 2012.

To wit: the terminally unfunny Jimmy Fallon, the kid in high school who is so fucking dorky that he pisses himself at every opportunity to breathe the same oxygen as the other, marginally less dorky pretentious assholes who are in drama club. I mean, this guy has made a career out of admitting that he’s incredulous that anyone pays attention to him. It’s way past time that we take him at his word. He sucks! Ok? He’s not funny. He’s enthusiastic. In the way that Downs Syndrome kids are enthusiastic about the Special Olympics. Only instead of evoking genuine emotions of warmth and happiness at the fact that Downs Syndrome kids have a venue in which to excel, Fallon comes off like your cool boyfriends little brother who would give ANYONE a handjob just to stay in the room and watch everyone else actually live their lives. I mean, I’m good with watching Downs Syndrome kids SUCCEED. But watching them kiss the asses of other, marginally less challenged kids and call THAT success would be tedious, at best. 

So… in the condescending fashion that has become SNL’s trademark, Fallon was tasked with delivering what was supposed to be a “sincere” public eulogy to a great American artist by tossing out a bunch of rambling non sequiturs, which mainly amounted to him in various stages of a boner, name dropping one irrelevant hack after the next. Dan Ackroyd! You know, that one fat white guy from that Morgan Freeman movie where Easy Reader has to ask that old bitch if he can take a piss! Yeah! That guy! Jack Nicholson! You know, that one fat white guy who threatened Leo in that one movie where Marky Mark ended up shooting Jason Bourne for killing Charlie Sheen’s dad! Yeah! That guy! Miley Cyrus! You know, that one non binary gender flexible stoner whore who was on that show where she pretended she wasn’t famous and then somehow inexplicably got super famous but then, unfortunately, acting famous didn’t have the same effect of blasting her back to obscurity? Yeah! Her! Elvis Costello! You know, that one fat white guy who got famous in the US for refusing to play the song that SNL wanted him to play live on the air and then got “banned” from the show but somehow was inexplicably at this amazing after party for their fortieth anniversary? Yes!!! HIM, TOO!!! Plus TOM HANKS! You know, that one fat white guy who makes the same fucking movies over and over because we need to know that fat white guys can still survive even under the most dire circumstances that fat white guys ever get themselves into in the post colonial America which they, themselves, created? Yes!!! THAT Tom Hanks. Guess what, America??? While you were living your boring ass, peasant lives, all of these egomaniacs were together in a room with (gasp) a stage!!! And they all took turns performing! And apparently, now that Prince is the only corpse fresher than the current ratings of SNL, Prince was the mack daddy of the evening! So Lorne decided to slap together the most boring tribute show to hit the airwaves since the cast of Family Ties reunited and tried to not speculate about the absent Tina Yothers sexuality! (Hint: She’s a eunuch. Mystery solved.) 

Lorne, it’s truly sad that your show has deteriorated from a relevant commentary on American culture to, as my husband brilliantly put it “a bunch of writers who read internet memes written by kids during the week and then form them into humorless jokes to tell people who are in their seventies every Saturday night.” You’re kind of like the Lawrence Welk of comedy. Except that Lawrence was in on the kitch. He knew he was uncool, and that made him cool. You think you’re still relevant and that it’s your job to get Jimmy Fallon to come out and tell America that Michael Jackson, Madonna and Prince are the new Paul Simon, Paul (barf) McCartney and James Taylor. 

To be clear. They are not. 

Stop trying to speak for my generation. You know nothing about it. Zero. Those three artists have sold a lot of albums. But they aren’t the troubadours of Generation X. At all. Think harder, fucker. Listen to the Beastie Boys. Rush. Nirvana. NWA. Beck. Gwen Stefani. Tupac. The Chili Peppers. Then you might have some idea of what people our age care about. Maybe. No one needs to hear a fucking lecture you wrote for that doofus Jimmy Fallon to deliver along with the promise of “previously unseen footage” of Prince performing at your frat party, which really amounted to the amazingly untalented Maya Rudolph, who boned her way into a post SNL career by getting knocked up Paul Thomas Anderson while he was still banging Fiona Apple, (Yay! Feminism!) hogging the stage, Prince surrendering all the most difficult guitar work in his song to some incredible chick guitar shredder, and Shawn Carter looking like a total fucking nerd selfying with Jimmy Fallon. It looked like the most excruciating remnants of a failed Citigroup top producers meeting where all the resident social misfits get drunk together and let it rip by lip syncing to old Elvis songs and awkwardly hugging from a distance. 

In short, if you want to keep your “legendary” after parties “legendary”, don’t show films of them to the public. Because we all have that one drunk ass ho who keeps hogging the mic.  And the smarmy asshole emcee who doesn’t know when to quit. And the black friend who seems gangsta but is really Ben Carson. And the drug addicted musician friend who was once great but now phones it in. We all know those people. We don’t need to waste ninety minutes meeting your version of our posse. 

Your show sucks. Watch South Park. Or Workaholics. Or Veep. Or this one Tourette’s guy who sings karaoke online. We get it. You’re super famous and fabulous! You’re just not funny anymore. 

PS. Bring back Stefan. He’s your only hope. 


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