Spencer Pratt’s I’m a Celebrity: Judging An Album By Its Cover

They say you should never judge a book by its cover.  Because we respect our elders, we take that antiquated idea to heart.  But notice, it mentions nothing about music.  Therefore, we reserve the right to judge any and every album in the history of recorded music based solely on the images that inhabit that album’s cover.  Today, we pass judgment on I’m a Celebrity by Spencer Pratt.

Fortey: I’m going to go out on a limb and suggest that Spencer Pratt, whoever the fuck that is, is not actually a celebrity.  I know this because if any giant, blonde douche nozzles stomped through Hollywood and they were famous, it would have made the news.  Wolf Blitzer would have told me about it because Wolf Blitzer is a fucking celebrity.  This guy looks like he’d blow me then give me an 8X10 glossy of the money shot.

Luis: I’m certain he had to give that money back to a prop guy after the picture was taken.

Adam: I’m certain the prop guy was Satan.  Also, why does “Hollywood” look so dark and depressing in this picture?  Is he trying to get deep on us?  If you look closely, those lights aren’t even coming from Hollywood.  Furthermore, he doesn’t appear to actually be in Hollywood.  If I had to guess, I’d say he’s probably at a Carls Jr. grand opening in Sacramento.

Luis: Spencer Pratt calling himself a “celebrity” is like an ape calling itself a human. I understand why the ape is calling itself human – what with the genetic similarities and all – but at the end of the day, the ape still throws its shit and masturbates fanatically during long subway rides, or during a poker game, or while in its cubicle at work, or performing literally any other normal human activity.  The ape will always be just an ape, just as Spencer Pratt will always be just a shit-stain with the intellect and verbal capacity of an ape. An albino ape, at that.

Fortey: I think Spencer, or maybe Spencer’s over protective mother, made this entire album cover on the home PC.  It’s likely one of those shit ones you buy on TV for only $9.99 per month and it comes with over 100 software titles!  No credit check required!  All you need is a job and a checking account!  It has that stench of quality about it.  They probably should have used some of the budget it took to buy that pretend money and invested in a grade schooler with a functional understanding of Photoshop.

Luis: That probably would have helped.  It looks like he went to Six Flags and paid the exorbitant price of 9 bucks to hold a stack of fake money just to get his picture superimposed on to the “Hollywood Superstar” backdrop. I guess we’re lucky.  He could have gone with the “Wild West” setting instead, which would have had Spencer holding a brown sack with a dollar sign on it in one hand, and a six-shooter in the other; and that vapid girlfriend of his, Heidi, would have been dressed like either an ultra-Christian famer’s wife, or a burlesque dancer.

Adam: But it would have been sepia toned, that has to count for something.  Anyway, I’m still hung up on how goddamned depressed Hollywood looks.  It’s all gray and black and defeated.  That’s why I know there was not a Photoshop professional employed on this project.  If there was, Pratt would be shooting fire out of his mouth as if to imply that he just torched the shit out of Hollywood and reduced it to ash.  That would have been awesome.

Adam: Fixed.

Luis: Fixed is right.  It’s a Godzilla-sized Spencer Pratt, ready to wreak havoc on the tiny world below his giant feet. It’s kind of like how great horror writers take what we fear the most and make it physical. Fear of death = Zombies. Fear of losing our civility and becoming savage = Werewolf. Fear of douche bags that will destroy society with their stupidity = the world’s tallest douche bag that destroys society with his giant feet and comically oversized money and undeserved fire breathing skills. In the metaphorical sense, Godzilla-Spencer would accidentally kill millions and destroy the lives of any survivors by simply walking the earth in an attempt to get a new reality show titled “I’m a GIANT Douche.”

Fortey: Sometimes when I go by a Starbucks, or an Old Navy, I wonder where douche comes from.  Like is it a disease, or a fungal infection, or do they make them in labs or whatever, but it seems like, based solely on this album cover, that douche comes from Spencer Pratt.  He’s not really a massive Godzilla-esque twat stomping Hollywood, he’s the Douche God, towering over his popped-collar asshole supplicants, blessing all their frosted tips and seashell necklaces with his vinegar and water touch.  This guy has totally tried to suck his own dick.  And he probably succeeded.

Adam: If that’s true, then he has the ultimate gift.  We can hate him all we want, but he masturbates like a damn champ.

Fortey: Speaking of gifts, this album would make a really good gag gift for the holidays though.  Like you get it for that guy in the office you hate, or if your brother slept with your girlfriend last summer or something, you can wrap this up and they’ll open it and be all “Oh…huh” and then you can be all “Ha!  That’s what you get for being a cock gobbler!  Eat Spencer Pratt, bitch!” and then the rest of your family or coworkers or whatever will high five you for being such a wicked joker.

Adam: You’re totally getting me a Spencer Pratt album for Christmas, aren’t you?