**Editor’s Note: If you haven’t read Part 1 and Part 2, do so now! But, remember they only scratch the surface. The true insanity begins to surface right here in Part 3

It took an hour’s worth of navigating around Beverly Hills, wandering among the streets of the rich and famous, but soon enough I was staring at the face of Casa de R. A sprawling Gothic mansion gleaming in the California sun. Expansive windows hinted at vaulted ceilings kissed with the beams of a setting California sun. Did I already use the sun? Fuck. Uh. House was nice. And real big. Anyway.

My borrowed cab skewed halfway across the sidewalk, I approached the oasis of R. Kelly’s porch. Grasping the oddly phallic door knocker, I rang the doorbell because who uses door knockers anymore?

A few seconds passed. I did that thing where you start looking around as if you’re going to notice something new on the porch or somehow look aloof and distracted when the person comes to the door instead of staring lock-eyed on them as soon as they open it. But then, it opened. So I stared lock-eyed into the face of Big Slippery, as I suddenly named him, himself.

We stared at one another for what felt like eternity. Sweat formed on my brow. My breathing quickened. My erection died down a bit.

Then, R. spoke.

“Can I help you?”

His voice was like chocolate syrup dripping onto the body of a recently molested transient.

“Yes. I need to see ‘Trapped in the Closet.’ It isn’t on the Internet because of copyright bullshit and nobody will sell it on eBay because they’re waiting for it to go up in value like Pokemon cards.”

R. was unimpressed and seemingly confused.

I continued “I need to write an article about its content and how–” I paused. “Uh, fantastic it is.” My face muscles ached just from saying it.

“Who do you write for?”

“Mmmrmlbuh ahhemurr” I shuffled my feet.

“What was that?”

I moved on. “I figured if anyone still had a copy of such a *sigh* monumental hip-hopera it would be its creator.” I focused on not bursting a vein in my neck as I let the words sink in.

R. mulled it over.

“What do you need the videos for? Can’t you just get a CD?”

I narrowed my eyes.

“No.”

R. paused, then let out a hearty guffaw.

“You’re alright. I’ve got some peyote and weird frogs that you lick to get high. Come on in.”

He led me through his labyrinth home like an episode of Cribs except tolerable. Past gold tinged furniture, over mahogany floors, I think I saw a diamond studded cat. And the penises. Just so many penises on the statues.

A half mile later, R. opened a set of double doors into a cavernous movie theater.

“You like movies?” I joked, like an asshole.

R. chuckled, then his face turned to stone.

“No. I like me.”

We sat in two leather recliners in the front row. I noticed that all of the seats were leather recliners. To be expected, I guess.

He handed me a frog from a suitcase he had open on the floor.

“Lick this frog and get ready to live.”

To avoid certain rape, I did as he said.

The curtains slid away from the mammoth screen revealing the title card to the first segment of ‘Trapped in the Closet.’

“You just, uh, had that queued up, huh?”

Settling into his seat, R. replied, “Can’t get off without it.”

The lights went down. The screen came to life. My boner came back. It was time.

1-7

Okay. So the music’s in. Pretty generic R&B beat. Oh, there’s a closet. SHIT IT’S R inside. And he’s singing. But kind of talking. Now there’s a black girl. But apparently he doesn’t know who she is? How does someone do that? I bet this is a PSA against meth or some shit . Now he’s trying to leave but she won’t let him. There’s some weird bitching. He’s trying to leave from a 5th floor window. Oh my God. The lyrics were just him saying ‘shit’ a bunch of times. Her husband’s home. This is so awkward. R. is in the closet watching them about to bang. Oh, they bleeped ‘fuck.’ WHAT. His fucking phone just rang in the closet. Are you kidding? Her husband can’t figure out where it came from. This is bullshit. He opens the dresser? Who can fit in a dresser? R HAS A GUN?! Why do you take a gun everywhere you stereotype? Jesus. And that was Part 1. Did you know that was a radio single? Peaked at #22 on the Billboard Hot 100. Way to go America.

Now it looks like a Tarantino film. Strings and a guy pointing a handgun at another. Drum roll. Shit. Same music. More sing talking. Not much rhyming. Not even really a song. Except he’s managing to use the words ‘bogus’ and ‘mack shit.’ Why can’t we handle this Christian-like? And now there’s abuse. This is shenanigans. Plot twist. Oh, here it comes. Pastor husband on the phone. Someone else is coming. He/she must have been close or driving real fucking fast. Oh boy. Build up. Well, it took him over 6 minutes, but there he just said ‘nigger.’ Great, now I’m racist for watching this. Counting. Knock on the door. Oh shit. Here comes the lover. IT’S A MAN. MOTHERFUCKERS BE GAY. I just pray each of these ends with some garbage twist like this.

Strings again. Slow motion. Drama and whatnot. Drum roll. God, same music. Everyone’s in shock. ‘I close my mouth and swallow spit as I think to myself this is some deep shit.’ That’s poetry. Now R.’s impossibly homophobic. He can’t even handle this. 3 minute ultimatum from R. to get the entire history of this bizarre situation he finds himself in. HOLY SHIT THE PASTOR’S NAME IS RUFUS. What could the gay lover be thinking right now? He doesn’t know what’s going on. And R. just shoved him? He should just leave. Ah, now he’s talksinging. HIs name is Chuck. I like Chuck. Now R.’s pointing his gun around like a dick. Great. It seems she told R. her name was Mary, but her name’s Kathy. And that is enough for R. to threaten to shoot everyone. That seems rational. Great, there. He just shot through the ceiling. Now am I supposed to believe that nobody lives above them? He just put a bullet in an elderly lady’s foot, guaranteed. Yes. Another cliffhanger. R. calls home, but a man answers.

Now R’s driving in front of a green screen. Let’s be honest, it looks like shit. And he’s about to get pulled over. And he sang the siren noise. Perfect. JESUS FUCK IT’S OMAR FROM THE WIRE. HOW DID HE GET OMAR. OMAR COMIN! AREN’T THERE ANY CAPS BIGGER THAN THIS?! 20 mph over the limit R? Come on. That’s points on your license Brohemian Rhapsody. Dramatic string pause. Shower titties, but not full on titties. She’s alone. WTF, R? Just her brother Tuan, R., you jackass. So let’s celebrate your lack of trust with sex, she basically says. Piece of shit. Do you think he puts his own music on their stereo before they start fucking? I do. This looks like rape. And he admits he’s trying to give her a baby. That’s just merciless. He’s got a cramp. She’s fucking him into a coma. This sucks. BUT THEN. A condom under the sheet. No one gets out without a twist.

STRINGS. Aaaaaaaaand……… Same music. ‘Fuck’ bleeped again. And again. Casual death threat. ‘Shit’ bleeped. Now he’s like Matlock looking for the source of a cigarette smell. He has his fucking gun in his pants. He had sex with a gun in his pants. Nice work, Plaxico. Now she’s flipping it on him because she caught him cheating the night before. He somehow believes that’s different. It better be a woman she cheated with. That’s the only way this can go. Please. It didn’t. Not a girl. Way better. MOTHERFUCKING OMAR.

R.’s just laughing like a maniac. I think he’s gonna kill her. Now they’re both laughing. And now they’re friends again. What the fuck. He’s summarizing hard. ‘Plus I got a ticket’ he mentions casually in his sing talking (salking?). OMAR’S BACK YES YES YES. He’s gonna kill everything. OH SHIT OMAR’S GONNA SHOOT R. NOW R.’S GONNA SHOOT OMAR. They’re wrestling. And then. BANG. Gunshot.

Drum roll. Same. Music. Omar and R. are staring. Someone’s bleeding. But I have no idea who’s been shot. Oh my God. It’s Tuan. Tuan just got out of prison but now R. killed him because he always has a gun like an asshole. He just rhymed ‘home’ with ‘home.’ Oh, Tuan’s talking. Oh yeah. Tuan’s just gonna clean that shit up in the bathroom. Gunshot wounds and hospitals are for pussies. He doesn’t give a fuck. There’s knocking on the door. But everyone’s already in the house. R. refuses to answer. Omar’s gonna get it. Nope, R.’s gonna get it. But not without a gun. Tuan takes Omar’s gun. They go to the door, guns blazing. It’s an old woman. Rosie the Nosey, I learn. And that’s how we wrap this shit up. Cut to black.

I snapped back to the reality of R.’s theater.

Looking smugly confident, either in his musical prowess or the progressively lessening amount of clothing on his body, R. spoke.

“What do you think so far?”

“Well,” I began, “it’s a thing. A thing I watched. That, for some reason, I’m going to continue watching.”

R. seemed caught off guard.

“Oh you are, are you?”

I looked around, suddenly having a feeling of paranoia.

“Yeah. I mean, I’m here already and if I leave, I’m just going to commit a crime. I’ve had like eight frogs.”

R. still appeared wary.

“Okay. Let’s keep it rollin’.”

Continued in Part IV

If you haven’t read Part I, you really should do that. This won’t make a lot of sense otherwise. Once you’ve finished it, come back. Then it still won’t make sense, but at least you’ll be better prepared.

I had to start by finding R. Kelly’s personal information. Searching ‘R. Kelly’s address’ in Netscape Navigator’s search bar gave me his fan mail address. You can do it too and you’ll know where to send those severed fingers and hair clippings. I noticed that his main fan mail address was in New York, but his secondary was in L.A. I decided that New York’s weather sucks, so he’d better be in L.A. I spent the next nine hours on Hipmunk checking every conceivable travel opportunity to make sure my flight to Beverly Hills wouldn’t break the bank. It was $900. Turns out I don’t know how to do math.

I didn’t pack anything for the trip because where we’re going we don’t need clothes! Halfway through the flight I realized it was roads we didn’t need. Embarrassing.

I deplaned at LAX into gorgeous sunshine, a slight breeze, and an overwhelming sense of self importance from everyone around. He had to be here. I paid a homeless man $6 for a few syringes. This will be important soon.

Outside the airport, I hailed a cab. Remember the syringes I bought from the homeless guy earlier? I stabbed the driver with one and rolled his seizing body out of the car. I didn’t need anyone following me. After a cross-town hell-drive through L.A., as they all are, I found my way to William Morris Endeavor Entertainment in Beverly Hills.

Entering the foyer, I approached what I was forced to assume was the secretary’s desk. The young blonde behind the counter was occupied with some paperwork and failed to acknowledge me. To get her attention I politely stood tall and yelled at the top of my lungs “AAAAAARRRRRRR!!!!!” She jumped back in her seat.

“What the fu– Oh.” She looked at my chest then up at me. “Very funny.”

I realized that my ‘I am a Butt Pirate’ shirt was sending mixed messages.

I tried to remedy the situation. “No, I’m sorry. Not “ARRR” like a pirate.” I gathered my breath and belted again “AAAAARRRRRR!!!!! like R. Kelly.”

“Sir, please stop yelling. Pirate or otherwise, you’re being very loud.”

“Well, if i was a pirate I would have just stabbed you and taken your money.”

“Are you threatening me?” She reached for the phone on her desk. “I’m calling security.”

“No, wait! It was hypothetical. My shirt is a lie. It was just what I was wearing when I bought my ticket to come find R. Kelly and I didn’t pack anything because ‘we don’t need clothes,’ but it was roads and I need to watch “Trapped in the Closet” and there’s a cabbie near the airport who should probably get medical attention.”

She stared blankly.

“Sir, there’s a free clinic a few blocks down. They treat addicts and–”

“No, look. I’m sorry. I just really need to see Mr. Kelly. R. Kelly. The flying guy.”

She patiently explained: “I know who R. Kelly is, but he isn’t here. This is just a talent agency. He’s one of our clients.”

I eyed her skeptically. “So you’re saying he doesn’t live here?”

She eyed me flatly. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

I pressed. “Can you give me his address?”

“Sir. No. Even if I had it, you don’t seem like the kind of person who would do anything good with it.”

“Despite resenting that, I can see your point. Can you at least tell me the name of his agent so I might get in touch with him?”

She mulled the prospect over for a bit. Pulling a binder from under the desk, she sighed. “Sure. His name is Jeff Frasco. He probably isn–”

Before she could finish, I was already sprinting up the stairs, cackling as all R. Kelly hunters should. I had noticed office numbers on the building plaque and knew I would find Jeff Frasco on the 8th floor.

Security reached me at the landing for the 6th. Following a scuffle that was mostly me whimpering and them tackling, I was dragged back to the lobby and unceremoniously tossed to the streets of L.A.

I stumbled about blearily, wiping the tears from my eyes as constant failures are wont to do. The toxic L.A. air permeating my nostrils was soon replaced by a more fragrant scent. Pausing my sobbing momentarily to track its source, I was greeted by the sight of a gentleman hunched before me, adorned with the finest garbage bag.

“Wrrebaggj hoobabidacebbnnnnn” he said.

Once I was able to look past the scraggly beard, glassy eyes, and puke-stained garbage bag, which was the source of the scent preferable to the air, I noticed a Map of the Stars sticking out of his pocket.

“Dearest Earth Scum” I began, “I will give you all of the change in my pockets for that map.”

He vomited.

As he was doubled over, I seized the opportunity to seize the map from his pocket and sprint down the street like Charlie Bucket with my Golden Ticket seized in my hand. Why a hobo with nothing to his name but a rank garbage bag carried a Map of the Stars was not the point.

Turning the corner, my heart was racing. I pried open the map. William Shatner. Gladys Knight (no Pips). Rob Schneider. As soon as I saw his bitch ass name, I knew this had to be it. If he was a ‘Star,’ everyone is a star. A few more names and there he was. R. Kelly.

I hailed the nearest cab, which actually took four phone calls and 25 minutes to find. For a giant city, there just weren’t very many around. Entering the car, I greeted the driver, then stabbed him in the neck with another syringe. You can never have too many syringes.

Continued in Part III

**Editor’s Note: BTV is not quite dead, but I would say it’s definitely on life support (at least until January). Good thing Jon.TheYellowDart is resuscitating BTV for the next few days with his 5-part series documenting, well… I’ll let him explain…

 

We ain’t talkin’ bout the game. We ain’t even talkin’ bout practice.  We talkin’ bout R. Kelly.

Before I even start, let me give you an unbiased history of R. Kelly

 

Ok, great.  Now you know everything you need to know about Robert Sylvester (Stallone) Kelly.  If you need to know more, check out his Wikipedia, the other clearly flawless biographical history of the “World’s Greatest.” A quick glance will teach you that he has won three (3) Grammy Awards.  All in 1998.  All for “I Believe I Can Fly.”

Apart from ensuring us of his avian capabilities, R. Kelly brought to/forced on the world his magnum opus: the 22, count ‘em, 22 part series ‘Trapped in the Closet.”  As of this writing, I have not listened to any of it.  I’ve actually only listened to the Weird Al parody “Trapped in a Drive-Thru,” (about a dozen times) which is a delight, as are all Weird Al offerings. In fact, before reading this, just go watch ‘White and Nerdy.’  It’s just great. That guy is the best.

Did you watch it?

GO WATCH IT.

Anywho.

For the next what I’m sure will feel like millennium, I will watch “Trapped in the Closet” in its entirety in the hopes of learning why it took 22 parts for someone to come get him.

Did he not have a cell phone?

I’m sorry; I imagine it’s deeper than that.

This group of articles is a labor of love.  In reality, I will likely spend twice as long discussing ‘Trapped in the Closet’ as it took R. Kelly to write it. My goal is to try to make the phrase “____ is the R. Kelly of _____” be the de facto standard for saying something is the lowest of the low.  Like “Knees are the R. Kelly of genitals.”  Or “R. Kelly is the R. Kelly of everything.”

A dear, sweet friend of mine drunkenly called another dear, black friend of mine one night to relay what is perhaps the most accurate and profound statement ever uttered about R. Kelly: “When R. Kelly starts a sentence, he doesn’t know how it’s going to end.”

With that in mind, I give you the first in a million (probably) part series:

“R. Youfuckingkiddingme.”

Part 1

I began as one tasked with writing an article about videos should: I sat down to watch the videos I was supposed to write about.  The videos in this case were the first six installments of R. Kelly’s “Trapped in the Closet”  I figured a half dozen videos is enough R. Kelly for one sitting and it only makes sense to start at Part 1.  And if there’s anything I want to be consistent throughout this, it’s things making sense.

Dragging my laptop behind me like a caveman pulling his wife to some miserable cave sex, I sluggishly slid into my seat on the loveseat in my living room.  Pouring a gallon of Jager, I cursed myself for wasting a container when I could have just drank from the bottle.  Stupid.  After spending the next two minutes funneling the Jager back into the bottle, I put the container in the dishwasher and slumped back down on the couch.  Like you don’t have gallon containers in your dish repertoire.  You pompous ass.

To prepare myself for what lay ahead, I drained eight ounces of sinner juice, mumbled hatred against each of the religions’ deities in alphabetical order, and opened the lid to my computer. It’s a Mac, but it’s too soon for a Steve Jobs joke. (I’ve obviously been writing this for a while).  He’s dead is all.  Opening my browser of choice (read: Netscape Navigator) I went to the Wikipedias.  I began with R. Kelly’s Wikipedia article because I wanted to learn all the bullshit I mentioned earlier.  Grammy winner.  Really puts those awards in perspective.  Then I went on to read about “Trapped in the Closet” specifically. Here’s as good a time as any to point out that “Trapped in a Closet” is referred to as a hip-hopera, which is a term you can now use any time you would like burned with a cigarette.

Armed with my newfound R. Knowledge, it was time to watch “Trapped in the Closet: Parts 1-6″  Finding my way to Youtube, I typed in my query, my spirit getting weaker the closer I got to finally seeing the videos.  And then it happened:  ‘This content has been removed due to copyright violation.’

WTF mate?  I changed my search terms around a bit.  Same shit. I changed them again.  Nothing.  Not even an awful fan video of a TV screen recorded with a Handicam while a fourteen year old breathes into the mic.  I knew they existed online since I’d been in my apartment when my roommate and our mutual friend (man lover) watched all 22 parts in what has to be the saddest morning on record outside of the day after Kristallnacht.

So I went to the Googs. I scoured their infinite void. It couldn’t be: No one had it.  I started searching online stores for DVD versions.  Nein.  Was it possible that “Trapped in the Closet” was the Dead Sea Scrolls of music videos?  Does that make R. Kelly Jesus?  I don’t actually know anything about the Dead Sea Scrolls but I always assumed they were Jesus’ diary.

It was either the shock of the situation or the recently finished gallon of Jager, but I started to get lightheaded.  I just couldn’t believe that after months of intentionally not watching these videos, now that I was finally ready, they were nowhere to be found.  Suddenly, I remembered eBay was a thing.  Maybe there was a VHS or LaserDisc version for sale.

Of course not.  Nobody would sell that; it’s too valuable.  In a last ditch effort, I went to Craigslist.  I found four trannies in my neighborhood and have a weird group sex thing scheduled for next weekend, but no videos.

Beginning to accept defeat, I poured another touch (read: half gallon) of Jager.  While wondering just how I had obtained so much Jager and why I had twice wasted containers for no reason, I had a revelation.  The Internet isn’t everybody. People live IRL too.  I could go door to door asking people if they had recorded versions of R. Kelly’s “Trapped in the Closet.” That’s a thing people can do, right?  Solicit others for their old hip-hop music videos?  Is that some kind of rape?  It seems like it would be.  But it might have just come to that.

No. Think.

I didn’t have time to go to every door.  There were at least five I could see from my porch and gathering the courage to see my neighbors in person would take at least the afternoon.  There’s only one door I needed to go to.  There’s only one person who would still have a copy of R. Kelly’s music videos.  One person who loves R. Kelly enough to keep a copy of each of the 22 parts of “Trapped in the Closet.”  The world’s biggest and most vocal R. Kelly fan.  Of course.

R. Kelly.

Continued in Part II.