There are those moments in time when the World stands still and focusses on one event and one event only; the Hindenburg Disaster, the US military dropping of the atom bombs ‘Fat Man’ and ‘Little Boy’ on Nagasaki and Hiroshima, the Cuban missile crisis, Neil Armstrong’s famous first steps on the moon, the September 11 attacks (the anniversary of which is today in the United States), the assassination of Osama Bin Laden (well I didn’t really pay too much attention to that one), the list is endless. At these moments in time, those who were there can tell you exactly what they were doing down to the minute details, as their activity for that day is forever linked with something that will linger in the public consciousness for all of eternity. So, if you were hanging out the washing when the Twin Towers fell, you’re going to remember if it was a whites or a colours load that day, let me assure you.

Now this is all well and good, but let me ask you this…

What were you doing and where were you doing it, on that day, that fateful day… when Pink released, ‘Dear Mr. President’?

Pink’s song, which she stated wasn’t to be released as a single in the United States because it was, “…too important to be perceived as a publicity stunt” (by the way, she was happy for it to be released as a single in Europe, Australia and Canada and has allowed a live performance video of her singing the song at Wembley Stadium to be added to the main rotation on VH1 but remember, it’s important) is an open letter to the then US President George W. Bush., basically shit-canning him for being a ‘whiskey smoking, cocaine snorting lonely boy’ who sleeps while ‘the rest of us cry’. The song is so heavily dripping in condescension and piety that it makes you feel like you’ve swallowed a partially dissolved urinal cake when you listen to it.

Oh so difficult to swallow, so difficult to chew…

My favourite passage (read: my absolute least favourite passage) of Pink’s lumbering, overflowing turd-bucket of a three-chord pop ballad is the following excerpt where she extolls the virtues of hard work and infers that she is an authority on it  to the point where she will educate little old George Dubwya about it:

‘Let me tell you ‘bout hard work

Let me tell you ’bout hard work

Minimum wage with a baby on the way

Let me tell you ’bout hard work

Rebuilding your house after the bombs took them away

Let me tell you ’bout hard work

Building a bed out of a cardboard box

Let me tell you ’bout hard work

Hard work

Hard work

You don’t know nothing ’bout hard work

Hard work’

Vote 1 Pink – She’s got the expertise and the know-how to turn this country around.

I mean, sure, she has taken notice of politicians and used repetition to try and get her point across, but she has made some significant grammatical errors throughout the course of this thoroughly awful verse of what I would politely term, “gladhanding, pandering, self-indulgent tripe that should be punishable with death by hanging”.

The inference Pink makes in regards to George W., “You don’t know nothing” actually infers that he knows something, as the two negatives effectively cancel each other out. In addition, ‘Rebuilding your house after the bombs took them away’ is incorrect as ‘house’ infers singular, whereas ‘them’ infers more than one domicile.

All of this talk about hard work. I’m sorry Pink, I must’ve missed all that incredibly hard minimum wage labour you’ve been doing lately! What makes this incredibly bitter pill even more difficult to swallow is that the song itself is utter shit – a highly forgettable generic pop song that a ten year old with a $99 nylon-string Yamaha acoustic and a tattered edition of ‘Learn Guitar – Volume 4’ could have written after two weeks of clumsy play.

My advice – stay the fuck out of current affairs. Remember the time you spoke out against the mulesing of sheep in Australia without having done any prior research? How’d that end up for you? It’s ironic that you’re to pop music what Sarah Palin is to politics; utterly inept but headstrong in spite of yourself. Perhaps just continue to sing about how you’re ‘Trouble’, or something equally as self-indulgent and ‘bad-ass’ to support your self-styled ‘bad girl’ image.

However, if you must insist on writing political protest songs, perhaps you should ask Neil Young for a few tips, you could use them, you self-righteous cunt.

Fuck you Pink.

/end communication