“5 O'Clock” by T-Pain feat. Lily Allen and Wiz Khalifa

Last week introduced us to the wonderful world of Nicki Minaj's medical fetishism. This week we get to find out all about T-Pain's somnophilia and Lily Allen's rape fantasies! Also, wizards casting spells on they dicks.

“5 O'Clock” by T-Pain feat. Lily Allen and Wiz Khalifa

[Lily Allen]
It's 5 o' clock in the morning
Conversation got boring

[Well, what the fuck do you expect? How long have you people been talking? Since...what? Ten PM the day before? I don't think anybody is much of a conversationalist at 5 AM.]

You said you'd go into bed soon
So I snuck off to your bedroom
And I thought I'd just wait there
Until I heard you come upstairs

[I hope this song is about sex. 'Cause right now it seems like it could be about some sort of horrible home-invasion murder. Seems like things could go either way.]

And I pretended I was sleepin
And I was hoping…

[Uhhhhhhhhhhh. What a bad place to put an ellipsis. I don't really think there's anything good that could follow from “I pretended I was sleepin'/And I was hoping...” You would bring me a glass of milk, maybe?]

[T Pain]
It's 5 o'clock in the morning, and I want ya
And you want me, don't ya? I can see it

[T-Pain is out at the club, while Lily is in T-Pain's bedroom. How can he see her? Is T-Pain some kind of wizard? Or a creepy paranoid person who has hidden cameras everywhere? If your girlfriend is going to hide in darkened rooms and hope you stumble in on her while she feigns sleep, maybe the paranoia is justified.]

Cause you've been waiting on me
Since I said that I was hittin' the club

[You went to the club alone, knowing you weren't going to be hitting on any of the women there? Why did you do that, T-Pain? Man, I don't even understand the clubbing experience if you factor in the trolling for casual sex, but if you remove that element, you're just at a place where the music is terrible but at least it's so loud you can't actually hear it and a glass of generic wine costs you a week's salary. Fuck that noise.]

Something coming up on me
And I know you be getting so horny

[Now that is a rhyme I must admit I have never before seen. Up on me + horny (pronounced “hoe-knee”). I am impressed and nonplussed in equal measure.]

Cause you be sending me texts
Like boy just get your ass up in that car
And come get all of this love

[My wife has never acted this way. I'm thinking she never will. I'm thinking most peoples' wives will never send such text messages after getting all hoe-knee. This kind of sexuality is just as much a fantasy as anything involving liches, socketed gems, or midichlorians. I really have to devote a significant portion of my cognitive energy to telling myself that this is not normative, this is not normative, this is not normative, this is not normative, this is not normative.]

(It's 5 o'clock in the morning)
You ain't got to remind me

[Of course you ain't. We've commented on the time, what, four times already? And we'll do it probably a dozen more before the song is over? Yeah, I think we all know what time it is.]

She already said if I don't come home on time she might go crazy
And she'll be waiting on me naked
With one of my chains on

[What the fuck? You're T-Pain, not Mr. T!

[Now I am envisioning Lily Allen naked and wearing nothing but Mr. T's assemblage of gold chains.

[I think my imagination just melted.

[Moving right along.]

She might come and find me
And then ask me kindly
Do I want her to go crazy?
We do this every night and then we always wake up singing the same song

[Hook - Lily Allen]
It's 5 o' clock in the morning
Conversation got boring
You said you'd go into bed soon
So I snuck off to your bedroom
And I thought I'd just wait there
Until I heard you come up the stairs
And I pretended I was sleepin
And I was hoping you would creep in

[Wait, what? What did you just...? Eh, must've been a fluke. Let's keep going.]

[Hook 2 – T-Pain]
It's 5 o' clock in the morning
Conversation got boring

[I'm sorry, but repeating this lyric just makes you guys sound petty, catty, and greedy. You sound like some sated, jaded 19th century London aristocrat who has grown tired of excess and surfeit while the peasants he uses as furniture are fainting from hunger.

[To be read in an over-the-top fop voice: “Eaaaaaa-ohhhhhhhhhh. You are a terrrrrrrrrible borrrrrrrrrreeee. Hauwwwwwwww undrolllllllllll.]

You said you'd go into bed soon
So I snuck up to your bedroom
And I thought I'd just wait there
Until I heard you come up the stairs
And I pretended I was sleepin'
And I was hoping you would creep in

[This song is like 80% chorus. Writing new words is hard, I know. I feel your T-Pain.]

[T-Pain]
It's 5 o'clock in the morning
And you calling
And these females got me stalling

[Jesus fucking Christ. Lily Allen is waiting naked and willing in your bed, and somehow you're getting distracted by girls at the club? Do your normally forsake reading The Iliad for reading the text of penis enlargement spam emails? Do you put Seven Samurai in your DVD player but then get distracted by all the awesome Jack in the Box commercials on TV and then completely forget about watching the movie? Fucking A, T-Pain. If you're trying to express that you have such a superfluity of sex that you can't even have sex for the sake of all the other sex that sexy women are trying to have you, then mission accomplished. But that seems less awesome than it does supremely wasteful. You remind me of those images of people at Medieval feasts who take a bite out of a joist of meat and then inexplicably spit out the meat after one or two desultory chews. O to be a dog at your table, T-Pain! We should all be so fortunate as to have our pick of your sexual leavings!

[Fuck a duck.]

I can hear your voice in my head like
"What is he doing?" Oh what is he doing?
Cause I keep checking my cell phone
And these missed calls
You texting me like I'mma kill y'all If you don't get your ass up out of that club
And you do know what time it is

[Whenever anybody else uses autotune, I tend to think the person is doing a poor T-Pain impression. If it's possible to actually use the technology well, T-Pain is the one person who, in my estimation, is able to do so. That's damning with faint praise if ever a thing had been damned—it's like saying you are a good chef because you make your shit sandwiches with rosemary focaccia bread and slices of heirloom tomato—but I think T-Pain is actually able to exploit the musical possibilities of autotune. You will probably never hear me say that about any other artist, so make the most out of this observation. And if you even think about taking that quote out of context, I will make it a point to figure out how to trace IP addresses just so I can come to your house and ring your doorbell and then smack you in the face when you open the door. Call my bluff; I dare you.]

(It's 5 o'clock in the morning)
On my bed, girl
And this Nuvo got me trippin

[We allow product placement to pass without comment, lest we give it more attention than it deserves.]

And I know that you mad, girl
But you ain't got to worry about nothing
Girl I got you, girl I got you
She might come and find me
And then ask me kindly
Do I want her to go crazy

[I imagine this is a different crazy than the crazy she was threatening to go three verses ago. This is a good crazy, and that was a bad crazy, right? Yeah...crazy...crazy addicted to your sex.

[This is not normative, this is not normative, this is not normative, this is not normative.

[Isn't it nice of her to be kind and considerate in her inquiries as to whether she ought to suspend her faculties of rational judgement?

[“Excuse me sir, but would you mind terribly if I were to slather lukewarm oatmeal on your mailbox and then proclaim, at the very tippy-top of my voice, that your house is now the sovereign territory of Emperor Maxillofacial Surgery XXIII of Hollow-Earthed Pelucidar? No? Why thank you, sir. Most considerate of you.”]

We do this every night and then
We always wake up singing the same song

[Does your partner ask you if you would like him or her to go crazy every single night? No? What's wrong with you? Your sex life sucks. Clearly, you can't live up to the standard established in this song.]

[Hook - Lily Allen]
It's 5 o' clock in the morning
Conversation got boring

[My mother always said, if you don't have anything interesting to say, get some slight girl with a posh British accent to whisper-sing it like she's whispering post-coital pillow talk straight into your ear.

[I really resent it that I'm such a sucker for slight whispering girls with posh British accents. Damn if I don't get hoe-kneed every time that refrain comes up.]

You said you'd go into bed soon
So I snuck off to your bedroom
And I thought I'd just wait there
Until I heard you come up the stairs
And I pretended I was sleepin
And I was hoping you would creep in

[Again? What is this weird shit? She's trying to seduce him by pretending to be asleep? Is this some sort of weird date rape fantasy? Ick. I find it hard to imagine that T-Pain can get off by having non-consensual sex with a unconscious woman; I expect better of him.]

[Hook 2 - T-Pain]
[Wiz Khalifa]
You ain't got nothing on
But the t-shirt that I left over your house
The last time I came and put it on ya
Too many thirsty girls up in this club for me to

[The Surgeon General of Aural Analysisa has determined that consumption of alcohol actually increases dehydration, especially when combined with vigorous physical movement (i.e., dancing) in a closed, crowded, poorly-ventilated area (i.e., da club). Remember: for every alcoholic drink you consume, drink at least one glass of water. The life you save may be your own. Or Lily Allen's. Girl looks like one kiwitini would lay her out. But I guess that'd save her the trouble of feigning unconscious, and save T-Pain the trouble of putting her on the floor in order to bone her.]

Leave here with one of them
That's why I call her
And you'll be right at home waiting for me
Iphone plugged in the wall, just waiting for me

[You know what conversation got boring? The conversation where you name-dropped brand-name products over and over again. That shit got real old real quick.]

Club closed at 6, left around 4:30

[Your chronology seems a bit mixed up here, Mr. Khalifa. If you left at 4:30, why are you commenting on how the club closed an hour and a half after you departed? And why would you discuss what happened at 6 before you mention what happened at 4:30? And isn't it 5 o'clock anyway? So how can we be talking something happening an hour from now in the past tense?

[Unless...Wiz Khalifa, is the “Wiz” short for “Chronomancer Specialist Wizard?” Do you simultaneously exist in all times and none?

[I'm onto you. Right now I'm making that gesture whereby I curl my index and middle fingers into the approximation of spider fangs and point them at my eyes, flip my wrist, and then jab my fingers toward the computer screen. Just so you know.]

Yeah so by the time I'm at your crib...
(It's 5 o'clock in the morning)

[Or after six. Whatevs.]

And you yawning
But I've been drinking all night and I feel like performing

[Hate to break it to you Khalifa, but if you've been drinking all night, I'm thinking the performance isn't actually going to be standing-room only, if you catch my meaning.

[Yeah, I'm talking about penises there. Wizard whiskey dick! Well, maybe he can cast a targeted Petrificus Non-Totalus curse on his wand, but I wouldn't trust my aim after all that drinking, if I were him.]

With you in the bedroom
Flooring to the dresser
Don't want nothing less cause I'm sure you're the best

[Ah, yes. I show my esteem for you, acknowledging that you are the best, by fucking you on the floor. It's how I show my appreciation for all persons who are the acmes of their chosen pursuits. Why, just last week, I had the least-burnt Starbuck's coffee I'd had in some time, so I showed my gratitude by pulling the barista's pants down and doing him right there on the floor of the Starbuck's in front of everybody. It is a standard expression of apprecation among the time wizards.]

You're the one, so I let you
Thats how you show me love
And when we finish you like
“Damn, babe you woke me up"

[So...she was asleep during all this?

[Somnophilia—it's rape, but you can convince her she's only dreaming!]

I like you way you put it down likes its for both of us
The sun ain't the only thing thats coming up

[Oh, is the other thing your penis? I bet it's your penis, isn't it? Wizard penis! Expecto patronum!]

[Hook]
It's 5 o' clock in the morning

[Hold up. This song is four minutes and forty-seven seconds long. If it was 5:00 at the start of the song, when Lily sang the first lyric, how can it still be 5:00 now? It should be 5:04 and change. In the video, your iPhone says it's 5:01, which means that one minute has passed in the time it takes almost five minutes of objective time to pass, while the lyrics indicate that no time has passed at all...

[Are you guys traveling at the speed of light? Have you achieved relativistic velocity? Is your sex that crazy that it causes physics to break down?

[Khalifa! Teach me your chronomancy! I must have this power!]

Conversation got boring

[Dude, you just fucked time itself into submission. If you find that boring, you people need to seriously sit down and reassess your thresholds for novelty.]

You said you'd go into bed soon
So I snuck off to your bedroom
And I thought I'd just wait there
Until I heard you come up the stairs
And I pretended I was sleepin
And I was hoping you would creep in

[Somnophilia—it's like corpse rape, but she's still warm!]

Look, people. I'm not kidding when I say that pop music is pretty much just aural porn. It's music to fuck to, it's not really good for anything else, and I don't even think it's all that good for that. I readily recongize that there have been songs about fucking for as long as there have been songs—I've got one disc in my iTunes [product placement!] library that's a bunch of ribald songs from Renaissance England laced with double-entndres. This kind of thing exists. Blues albums are largely ways of talking about boning by not talking about boning—every time a bluesman mentions a “back door man,” he's not just looking for something an end rhyme for “understand.” This kind of thing is very real. But when you make your song pretty much the same eight lyrics repeated over and over again, lyrics that are explicitly about people boning and without any admixture of narrative or character or psychological complexity beyond mentioning what brands of toys these people like, I'm sorry, but I find it to be pretty damn shallow. Bleh.

Now I'm going to rinse my ears out by listening to a Medieval Trio album. No autotuning in sight—or earshot, rather. And I don't know what the songs are about—I don't know Medieval Norwegian—but at least they don't make me fixate on Lily Allen lying in bed, wearing nothing but Mr T's gold chains, daring me to violate her. That is not a temptation I need in my life.

"Turn Me On" by David Guetta and Nicki Minaj

Our inaugural entry comes from David Guetta, some French techno guy about whom I know nothing, and Nicki Minaj, whom I know only from that other song in which she felt it was acceptable to rhyme “And yes I call the shots, I am the umpire” with “I sprinkle holy water on the vampire” and “We done did everything they could think of” with “Greatness is what we on the brink of.” Now I know Ms. Minaj much better. And I hate her for the stupid bizzaro-human that she is.

She's actually not a terrible vocalist, though, for what that's worth, and for what you can actually hear through the auto-tuning. And that's not worth much when it's coupled with a lyricism that would make the graffiti carved into the bark of that tree next to the bus stop at the high school seem like the odes of mother-fucking Horace by comparison.

Here is the video. I still can't figure out why I can't properly drop links onto the Blogger page; if anybody could help me troubleshoot that, I'd be right grateful.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YVw7eJ0vGfM

Bring on the aural equivalent of softcore medical fetish porno!

Verse 1
Doctor, doctor, need you bad, hold me babe

[Let me stop you right there, Nicki. This seems like a real breach of medical ethics here if you're sexually involved with your doctor. That shit might fly in Grey's Anatomy, but for those of us out here in the non-McDreamy Universe, getting felt up by your doctor is pretty icky.]

Doctor, doctor, where ya at? Give me something

[Wasn't your doctor just there holding you? And now you don't know where he is? So your relationship is unstable in addition to being unethical. Way to go, Nicks. Also, “give me something?” Like you're just straight-up asking him for any and all drugs? “Doctor, I have an unspecified medical ailment, and I'm going to circumvent your diagnosis and tell you that the cure would be physical affection and all of the drugs.” I don't think you understand how medicine works, Nicki.

[I do, of course. I've been watching Star Trek!]

I need your love, I need your love, I need your loving

[This is like Monty Python's “Medical Love Song,” but more weird because it doesn't actually realize that it is weird.]

You got that kind of medicine that keeps me comin'

[Cover your eyes, kids. The following text is only for adults: THIS IS A DOUBLE-ENTENDRE. SHE MEANS “COMING” AS IN GOING TO THE PLACE WHERE THE DOCTOR IS BUT ALSO “CUMMING” AS IN HAVING ORGASMS. IT IS A VERY CLEVER AND SUBTLE PLAY ON WORDS THAT IS TOTALLY ORIGINAL AND NOT USED IN JUST ABOUT ALL PORNOGRAPHY EVER.

[You didn't cover your eyes, did you children? I'm sorry I had to shatter your innocence, kids. But sooner or later, we all have to learn that pop music is full of uncreative and repetitive euphemisms for sex.]

[Also, if any medicine makes you experience spontaneous orgasm, call your doctor...oh, wait.]

My body needs a hero, come and save me

[So first it's this whole doctor thing, and now you're looking for some hero to save you, huh? What is it with these songs where the female characters either abase themselves and actively seek subjugation or else express their absolute power over their suitors? You know what there's not in pop music? Reciprocity, equality, fairness, respect—the kinds of things any actual love ought to be built upon.

[Ha ha. Nobody would ever write a pop song about that crap.]

Something tells me you know how to save me

[From your asymptomatic and unspecified medical condition? That's some doctor who could treat that disease! Maybe we are in the magical realm of McDreamy medicine after all.]

I've been feeling real low, oh I need you

[Oh, so we've got a symptom. Depression! You don't need me, you need regular exercise. Maybe get a dog. Drink more caffeine.]

To come and rescue me

[Man, if I had a dollar for every time a gorgeous pop starlet asked that of me.

[I would have zero dollars.

[And so would you, gentle reader. Don't kid yourself. The Nicki Minajs of the world, dim lyricists that they are, nevertheless have no need of anything you or I could offer. Which is probably for the best. Because I think we have no need of anything they could offer, either.

[Other than the torrid, tawdry, tabloid sex.

[But we don't need that, do we?

[Of course we don't.

[No, really, we don't.

[We don't.]

Chorus
Make me come alive, come on and turn me on

[Let's break this down a bit. “Make me come alive”—so...you're dead? You sing pretty good for a dead person, Nicki. But then you follow that with “come on and turn me on,” as though you were turned off, like a robot (a theme the video certainly runs with).]

Touch me, save my life, come on and turn me on

[You were dead in the last lyric, now you have a life that needs saving. Make up your mind!]

I'm too young to die, come on and turn me on

[Nothing turns me on like a woman telling me that she is going to literally die if she doesn't get my love. Nothing turns me on like that, because that has got to be the most stalkerish, unsettling, unhealthy, unsane thing you could ever possibly tell a person, and it completely turns me off.

[But, hey, it's got a good beat and you can dance to it!]

Turn me on, turn me on, turn me on, turn me on

Make me come alive, come on and turn me on
Touch me, save my life, come on and turn me on

[Yes, yes. Etc., etc.]

I'm too young to die, come on and turn me on
Turn me on, turn me on, turn me on, turn me on


Verse 2
Boy, I'm achin' , make it right

[For aches, I prescribe an analgesic, a hot shower, and rest. You're welcome. That'll be $90.]

My temperature is super high

[High enough to cause brain damage, if the lyrics of this song are to be believed. So I'm thinking about 106.]

If I scream, if I cry
It's only cause I feel alive

[Ah, yes. Of course. You know, I feel alive right now, but I can somehow manage to experience that condition of being alive without screaming and crying. Crazy, I know. Hey, gentle reader—when was the last time the experience of being alive, independent of any and all other stimuli, made you howl and weep?]

My body needs a hero
Come and save me

[Oh God, back to this crap again. Heroes save those that save themselves, Nicki. Well, that's not actually true. But if I were a hero, I'd have better things to do than save clingy, codependent girls who cry just because they're alive. I'd be leaping over tall buildings in a single bound and being the darkness that flapped in the night and other such heroic shit.]

Something tells me you know how to save me
I've been feeling real low, oh I need you

[You need something, that's for sure. Whether modern medicine can actually offer you what you need, I would not hazard to guess.]

To come and rescue me

Oooooooooooooo, ohhhhhhhh, ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh, ohhhhhhh

Chorus 2
Make me come alive, come on and turn me on
Touch me, save my life, come on and turn me on
I'm too young to die, come on and turn me on
Turn me on, turn me on, turn me on, t-turn me on

[THIS IS ALSO A CLEVER AND SUBTLE DOUBLE ENTENDRE. SHE MEANS TURN HER ON AS THOUGH TO IMBUE HER WITH ANIMATION, BUT ALSO TO AROUSE HER SEXUALLY. THIS IS VERY CLEVER AND SUBTLE.]

Bridge
You've got my life in the palm of your hands

[Oops! Dropped it! Butterfingers! Can we be done now? No? Okay.]

Come save me now I know you can (I know you can)

Uhnh, Uhnh

D-D-D-D-Don't let me die young
I just want you to father my young

[After due consideration, this unit has concluded that an exchange of gametes would be beneficial for both species, resulting in the generation of a hybrid with all the strengths of either genetic material donor but none of his or her weaknesses.

[No, seriously, what the fuck. “I just want you to father my young?” That's the kind of thing Lady Gaga would say right right before she ritualistically bit the head off of her inseminator. You pop stars are responsible for defining sexuality for the rest of us, but you seem to only know about human sexuality from reading the Engrish text of the owner's manual for a discontinued North Korean model of ice cream maker.]

I just want you to be my doctor,
We can get it crackin' chiropractor

[So it's a back problem, then. Glad we cleared that up. I don't think having a maladjusted spine can be responsible for stuttering or fever, though. If you were indeed taking all of the drugs, that might serve as justification for this the worst reggae rap it has ever been my misfortune to hear, but I think even that justification might be a bit thin.

[Note that when she sings this lyric in her Caribbean accent, it sounds like “chiroproctor.” I don't even want to think about how a chiroproctor would get cracking.

[I just looked Nicki Minaj up on Wikipedia to learn whether that Caribbean accent is fake or not—it's not, I suppose, since Minaj lived in Trinidad and Tobago when she was growing up. But apparently when Nicki slips into a different voice like this, it's an “alter-ego” taking over, like “Roman,” who is a “demon inside of [Nicki]” and who is the “boy that lives inside of Nicki; [h]e's a lunatic and he's gay.”

[Oooooooooooooooooookay. Well, now I don't even feel like making fun of this stuff anymore. Now I just feel sorry for her. Maybe she really does need some serious medical attention.]

I, I, I, I, I, I, I, I, I
I know you can save me

[Scratch that. Back to being offended again.]

And make me feel alive

Chorus 3
Make me come alive, come on and turn me on
Touch me, save my life, come on and turn me on

[I would only turn you on if I could turn off your obnoxious auto-tune function. Is that more of the whole Pinocchioette thing—singing like a robot? I almost wish you'd get to be a real girl just so you'd stop singing like a Speak-and-Spell.

[And as long as we're on the subject of robots, is it just me or was the director of the video for this song working from notes he jotted on his hand in the coffee shop after watching Hugo instead of an actual script?]

I'm too young to die, come on and turn me on
Turn me on, turn me on, turn me on, turn me on

[Turn this song off, turn this song off, turn this song off, turn this song off!

[Thank God that's over. Time to go listen to some motherfucking White motherfucking Zombie. Or listen to some of Janelle Monae's stuff. Robot sex is a prominent theme in her work, believe it or not, and it's actually some really good R&B, the kind that shows Nicki Minaj to be a shallow singing head—less of a singing head, really, than singing tits and ass.]