The Kardashian BenedictionJean Baptiste Lacroix/WireImage
For the (former) bride, let us bow our heads in prayer:
This is no op-ed, father. We know your feeds only relay news pumped directly to our hearts. We ask you, oh heavenly host, to lead us through these shadows. Guide us around the perimeter of our heavy, curvy soul.
We ask you, our timeless guide, to teleport us through Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Kim Kardashian, where we text our friend Kim Kardashian, talmbout: Yo, Kim Kardashian just Kim Kardashianed! Can you Kim Kardashian this shit? That’s incredibly Kim Kardashian of her. I’m about to go Kim Kardashian on everyone. Straight out of Kim Kardashian. ZOMG!!!
And we ask you, our divine spirit, how many Trending Topics must rise to heaven’s door before we acknowledge your provenance? How many emails, posts, and tweets must flood the cubicles of our mind before we surf the wave, comfortable knowing She is no Inception. She is a blessing. She is no less a gift than Freese in the 11th. A human story no less impassioned than the legend of Michael Vick in a dog fight with Cam Newton’s potential.
I beg of you father to lend me the strength.
For I must confess to you, my generous giver of life that, nay, do I watch her show, nor its variations. And nor have I seen her sex tape. Neither, my all-knowing consiglieri, have I speculated on her future betrothed. And nada en particular, my bilingual majesty, am I among her 10 million followers on Twitter.
Oh heavenly B-Boy above, as you know, I just clean up the bottom of the Grantland homepage and spread your hip-hop gospel as best I can. So I ask you, oh savior, for the fortitude to convey the Rapture you intend when ordaining the Jennifer Lopez of Paris Hiltons to file for divorce. Indeed, shine your light on this blog minister so that I may overstand how Kim Kardashian, your Helen of Troy of Halloween photos, encroaches on a space better used for facilitating civil revolutions in Egypt and on Wall Street.
I know nothing of Kim Kardashian, except the flutter of my heart when she stares at me from many locations on the Internet. Is she an angel sent to die for our media-narcissistic sins? Hers a name to open doors, and engage editors for minutes? Mull our eternal paradox: photos or text. I don’t know, sensible CEO of the universe, what her art is; or even if she thinks of herself as an artist — a Steve Jobs of socialite design. But I do know that her ass, shaped by your heavenly hand, is one that changed America, her hips the unrequited love of our nation’s soul.
I see your grace in her. And I pray to you, father, son, heavenly ghost, and Kris, that you fill her mind with soaring notions such that she lift her countenance to the sky, and return to us once more, tanned and beautiful.
Patrice Evans is a Grantland staff writer. Check out his (excellent) book Negropedia: The Assimilated Negro’s Crash Course on the Modern Black Experience. And for more on TAN, see his Q&A with The New Yorker.