Look at that fucking face. Look at that doofy grin and closed eyes and bro jewelry and hair that he undoubtedly spent hours tousling in the bathroom and ask yourself: Is this the future father of my children? My life mate? My astral co-pilot?
There’s little doubt that Ed Sheeran is talented. The red-headed British singer/songwriter just made 2012 his bitch, bursting onto the music scene with a mega-hit debut album, despite its obliquely hip unpronounceable name: +. He also nailed a Billboard charting single and a Song of the Year Grammy nod. You could play me his album or his singles or even his collaboration with Taylor Swift or the songs he written for One Direction and I'd agree on their artistic merit. But just because he’s talented doesn’t mean he isn’t tragically pathetic and the least fuckable guy in music right now. He collaborated with Snow Patrol, for Christ's sake. If that’s not a cry for help what is?
Anyway, he makes me want to puke my guts out. Here’s why Ed Sheeran will never come close enough to my lady bits to make a baby inside me.
HE HAS A TAYLOR SWIFT TATTOO
On his arm. He has her record's title, Red.
Eddy has a lot of tattoos. While normally this is an attractive trait, Ed collects tattoos like merit badges in his own personal Cub Scout Troop. The tats covering his arm include a cup of tea and souvenirs of tour stops. The saddest ink he has, though, is the Taylor Swift one on his arm. Sure, he’s joining her on 45 dates of her North American tour next year, but Ed, you know that’s "Never Ever Ever" coming off, right? Even more pathetic, he got the tat when there was a (slim) chance that Taylor was into him, but she passed on weepy Romeo and opted for One Direction’s Harry Styles instead. So now the Red tattoo makes Ed look even more sad and needy. Let’s all listen to Chromeo and pour a little out for Ed’s manhood.
HE'S TOO FUCKING NICE
Ed is the nice guy who would show up sweaty on your porch on prom night clutching a corsage that matches your dress, an Iron and Wine CD playing soothingly in the limo and no hotel reservation. He’s the guy who says things like, “I'm a very cheap date. I can't really handle too many beers." When he heard he'd been nominated for a Grammy, he told MTV News that he "had loads of giggle fits."
Giggle fits? Fuck off. I'm hoping that’s a euphemism for anything other than tweeny tee-heeing, but considering he’s written lyrics like ““You've never loved your stomach or your thighs/ the dimples in your back at the bottom of your spine/ But I'll love them endlessly,” it’s probably just that.
HIS FRIENDS ARE DOUCHEBAGS
While the boys won’t let Ed into their boy band, they will let the guy do their homework write songs for them. Ed once wrote a song called “Little Things,” and he gave it to One Direction who made it the second single off their album. They’ve been wooing the knickers off of teenage girls with it ever since.
However, since no one but music critics read the liner notes of albums, very few people (read: teenage girls) are aware of the fact that Ed wrote the song. So he keeps performing the tune in concert to try and wring a little bit of credit out of that washrag of a song. It’s especially sad because most of the concert-goers think he’s performing a cover of One Direction and the end result is the aural equivalent of a an over eager nerd jumping up and down in the front row of the classroom yelling, “Teacher! Teacher! Call on me!”
HIS LYRICS ARE AWFUL
"And I know you love Shrek/ 'cause we've watched it twelve times.”
“And I've always been shit at computer games/ and your brother always beats me."
I've seen better lyrics on Burger King placemats.
HE'S ALREADY WHIPPED
With lyrics like “cuddle me in” and “I should run you a hot bath, fill it up with bubbles” (from “Kiss Me”) littered throughout his songs, it seems clear that Ed’s not the type of guy who'll push you up against the wall in a grimy nightclub and rip your Liturgy shirt off (if you’re into that sort of thing).
He may as well be barfing kittens and unicorns and wearing a sign that says “Let’s Talk About Our Feelings.” Ed would get your father’s blessing before he planted one on you. He would offer you back rubs with vanilla scented oil that he bought at the farmer’s market and have sympathetic PMS and cry at chick flicks.
In a spate of self-centered assholism, he once wrote a song about his feelings about his friend’s miscarriage. Do you want to fuck that?
I rest my case.
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