Dear DJ James Kennedy,
Hey girl… it’s me, Jackie. Again. Hope you’re doing well. Just kidding, you are literally the worst. Before I begin my second attempt at contact, I would like to clarify that your hAtErZ are not your MoTivaTeRz because you are a fucking busboy at Sur. Also if you are reading this and telling yourself that shit like this makes you relevant, please know it doesn’t… I am simply low on material and love an easy target that is not intelligent enough to defend themselves and proudly displays their douche-ness to an extent that I am able to comment on it without repercussions.
As a journalist I find it my civil duty to make contact with you. Like Carrie Mathison risked her and Brody’s livelihood by hunting Abu Nazir and Diane Sawyer ventured to the Middle East for a nationally publicized sit down with Sadam Hussein, I too am reaching out to sit down face to face and go over some of your questionable behavior. My problem is not the fact that you dress like Kate Moss, think you are headlining Coachella (#saharatent) because you can make playlists on Spotify OR the derogatory way you speak to and about women. It’s your inability to acknowledge what an asshole you are. Perspective is everything… did I just give you your album name?
From one slender physiqued young lady to another, help me, help you, help myself, help the world, you’re the help. You is not kind, you is not smart, you is not important. I wish Octavia Spencer delivered a shit pie to your shared apartment. When you told Lisa that you are responsible for her burgeoning business at Pump, I almost vomited. Just because you have a free 30-day trial of Garage Band, a disappointing H&M blazer and a Yelp profile does not mean you are Calvin Harris. “You can read the yelp reviews, they are waiting for a cd.” I literally want to get this tattooed on my forehead. And then stab myself in the forehead.
I understand that you were probably very perplexed upon learning that you inadvertently ate another mans ass… the true shame is that he was a football player and not LA Reid or someone that could get you an internship at a record label. Music executives need their dishes cleaned too, share your gifts James.
Sometimes I think I am being too hard on you James. But then you start speaking and I feel complete permission and validation in my words. Please know you have an invitation to discuss our issues face to face perhaps over some mini bottles of Seagrams. Dance like no ones watching, rap like no ones listening and eat ass like you have never been hurt.
There are a myriad of reasons I dream about hitting you in my luxury European vehicle that I don’t take selfies with because #decency. Firstly, I truly envy your ballerina body. I have always dreamed of having the same body type as Maureen from Center Stage minus the whole bulimia factor. Cooper Nielson would totally fuck you and give you the Swan Lake solo so congrats on that.
The way you talk to not just women but human beings in general is appalling. I don’t know how to politely tell you this but I’ll give it a go … you are a mediocre looking busboy with an entry level BMW and a laptop with some fucking stickers on it. You have no physical, mental, emotional or social qualifications to behave the way you do. Nobody does, but especially not you. Who spits on somebody’s door and then justifies it by saying “it wasn’t even a loogey”. I am so embarrassed for you.
You say you were born into the music industry, not sure if anyone told you this but having George Michael as an estranged godfather and rubbing peanut butter on the backs of your arms so your bff aka George’s dog can lick/bite it off and give you an erection does not make you some musical prodigy. I am fairly positive you will not be in consideration for a Grammy with this shit.
Payne? Cuzzi in the SWEET (*suite)? Dumb or dyslexic? You decide.
Watching you on Watch What Happens Live officially sent me over the fucking edge. I can handle your butt chin, your size 23 waist, your delusional ego and even your Jimmy Nuetron hairdo but NO ASSHOLE FUCKS WITH MY DAILY NIGHTCAP ENTERTAINMENT. You and Lala are like a cautionary tale for our generation. I burned 3,000 calories just from pure rage watching that nightmare.
I am hopeful this letter finds you well. I can imagine my thoughts will inspire some new smash hit “fuCk dA hAteRz feat LaLa KenT” and you will headline Coachella this year if someone can cover your shift at Sur. The invitation to appear on The Bitch Bible podcast is on the table if you would like to settle our beef before the New Year. I will bite the shit out of your arm. Ain’t nobody that I’m feeling like I’m feeling you.
Love you forever. Never change.