Spider tried to make me go to rehab/I said No no no.
Whenever I see a picture of Amy Winehouse, I can't help thinking of that urban legend about the girl who was so proud of her beehive hairstyle, she never changed it. Eventually, a spider nested in her hair and laid eggs. Come the day of the baby spider's birth, they burrowed into her skull and ate her brains. It's like a modern Grimm's fairy tale.
Anywho, yesterday Mike and I were driving around, and I heard "Rehab" for the first time. Yes, it's true. All I listen to on the radio is classical music and the 70s retro station. This trip, Mike decided to listen to WXRT, our local "You're old now, but you can totally still rock!" station.
"Is this Amy Winehouse?" I asked Mike. Mike confirmed it, and I told her about my Amy Winehouse/Tarantula Death connection.
"Maybe we should start a rumor that she's the woman the urban legend is based on," said Mike.
"It would explain a lot, wouldn't it?" I replied
Then I imagined a Goliath birdeater spider, burrowing through the mousse- and hairspray-encrusted jungle of her bouffant, driven mad by nicotine-saturate follicles as he inched closer, ever closer to her egg-like skull. Along the way, Herr Spinne gobbles down and fortifies itself with the flora, fauna, and fungus already making their home in the confines of that sunless cavern of protein, dandruff, and scabrous tissue.
Finally, it cracks the skullbone, reaches whatever remains of the portion of her brain that controls arousal and aggression, and chews up the grey matter like soggy popcorn.
Meanwhile, performing onstage at the Hammersmith Apollo, Winehouse's eyes suddenly roll up into her head and she begins to bellow humanly inappropriate sounds. Shredding her threadbare and odoriferous garments from her emaciated frame, she leaps from the stage and tries for the eyes of a Lincoln Park Trixie on a UK vacation with her four best buds. Now the Trixie will never see where U2 recorded The Unforgettable Fire.
A gaggle of shrieking Australian tourists are next to suffer, feeling Winehouse's barbed fingernails sliding into their skulls through the eyes. Winehouse becometh a harpy of old, seeking a vengeance she can no longer name or sate, since whatever made her human is since devoured by the ruthless fuzzy-wuzzy spider. Soon after, its pedipalps munch down and connect with her remaining braingoo in an abominable way that offends nature and all that is holy. Spider becomes Winehouse, and Winehouse spider. She leaps with the proportional strength of an arachnid and latches onto a stack of Marshall amps. Turning her posterior to the crowd with a vile, horrific animalism, she fires vast, sticky strands of webbage from her netherlands at the screaming masses, trapping them in their seats. Soon, the Winebeast will feast, and feast well.
And that's as much as I ever want to think about Amy Winehouse from now on. (Curtain)