I don’t like Taylor Swift. I don’t like her music (unless it’s sung by goats) and I don’t like her face. Seriously, enough with the bangs, people. I hate that she’s this big and influential, that her popularity has blown up from a role model for little girls to the darling of middle aged, Voice-watching adults. I’ve always hated pop country, so anyone that made that music more popular was going to make me cringe already, but there’s something else pushing Swifty to Photo-on-the-Dartboard Status. Maybe it’s the overdone make up. Or the creepy eyes. Maybe it’s because she writes lyrics for 12 year-olds that people over twelve still embrace. And it is possible that some of my hate is just my inner contrarian that needs to dislike everything that everyone else likes a little too much. Whatever the main reason is, I drew a line in the sand a long time ago, and me and Tay Sway are never, ever, ever, getting back together.
But I won’t deny that she is talented. And no one can deny how successful she has been. If being wealthy and loved by millions isn’t enough then what is? Needing my approval? Of course not. I’m sure she can ignore all the haters pretty easily when Scrooge-Mcducking into in her vault of pop-star level riches. Aside from the more existential questions she may confront in her personal life like “How does singing about boys repeatedly breaking my heart help really make a difference in the world?”, what does she have to worry about? Isn’t her life the glamorous one that we all want?
Sure, there are obvious downsides to someone being that famous: the criticism from everyone, the pressure on your appearance and everything you say or do, the requisite stalkers, etc. If only you could benefit from being filthy rich and loved without having to worry about the dangerous perverts that want to either bone you or tear off your skin and wear it like a Freddie Mercury jumpsuit. Fame and fortune without privacy (or skin) vs. the ability to be hassle-free while living your nondescript (albeit skin intact) life. Tough dilemma, I know.
But what if you were Taylor Swift’s dog? This is strangely a conversation that came up today and there was no immediate consensus. You’d still benefit from being that connected to someone rich and famous, but you’re not going to have to face the media. Also, you’re a fucking dog so you are almost guaranteed to be happy no matter how lousy your life gets. A dog with T-Swift perks? Sign me up.
But I’m only one man and his ill-conceived dream to be Taylor Swift’s hypothetical dog. (She does apparently have dogs, but we’re not going to psychoanalyze them specifically before diving into this question) How does the rest of the world feel? Well, I’ve done extensive research (asked a few friends) and this is what I found:
Who would you rather be?
“Taylor Swift’s dog. You only have to live with yourself for 12-16 years”
“Taylor Swift- Because I just want to shake it”
“Dog…might actually get laid”
“Taylor Swift because I’m young rich pretty and thin, I bang lots of hot guys and I have lots and lots of money. It’s better than the alternative, someone picking up my shit and feeding me the same meal everyday.”
“I’d go with the dog. You gotta think, all that pent up affection associated with past (self inflicted) heartache (that) in a woman with a functional relationship tendency would be going to the boyfriend, would default back to the dog”
“Dog gets treated like a king and humps those preying mantis legs … Plus, she has to deal with these annoying and possibly creepy fans. The dog has to deal with just her. It’s a good deal.”
“The dog- I’d probably eat gourmet meals and people would pick up my shit. Plus she repels men so much that she’d probably leave all of her money to me”
“I don’t understand the question but the answer: I’d rather lick Carrie Underwood’s @$$#^%$ than get a blow job from Taylor Swift.”
“Dog. Because you’re living the life of royalty and pure bliss but you’re not in the limelight so you don’t have to deal with the bullshit. Dog all the way.”
“Other than Tom Brady, I’d rather be pretty much everyone else’s dog. This includes Michael Vick. At least those dogs, they put out of their misery. Vick is still on the Jets”
So there you have it. Some of these led to longer discussions on why she blows up her own spot and self sabotages her sex life where a dog wouldn’t. They also touched upon if her hypothetical dog is neutered and if she is a closeted sex freak that might get busy with her own dog. Riveting and confusing. A Google search about Swift’s sexual habits reveal almost nothing, other than she doesn’t like to talk about sex. While an internet search for information about her dogs genitalia has been inconclusive.
There seems to be strong indications that for all the money, talent, and adulation of people of all ages, getting laid is more important. And for reasons that are not yet clear Swifty is not rolling in the D the way that someone of her celebrity appeal and at least passable attractiveness should be. It’s possible she’s just modest, but that just gives credence to the dog argument. Would you rather be someone who has to hide their sexuality or someone who will lick their own nuts in the middle of a crowded room? The debate will continue but for now, it’s clear to me at least that Taylor Swift’s dog is far more deserving of our jealousy.