Kanye West, Here's Why You Should Hire Me as Your Twitter Beef Consultant

First up, I am not fucking around: pay me one million dollars, Kanye West. That is my price for being the best beef consultant in the world. I could have won this Twitter war for you. We could have done this. If you had the foresight to pay me one million dollars (cash) then the internet would not currently be talking about Kanye West's butthole. The internet, had you had me in an office with a whiteboard and your Twitter password, would be saying this: "Wooahhhh! Hot shit! I am not thinking about Kanye West's butthole even at all! He won! He won this! Retire right now, Wiz Khalifa! Fold it up, Amber Rose! Kanye won!"

If you are not familiar with the butt-related three-way Kanye beef that erupted this week, you are culturally devoid and I cannot help you. I am serious: if you don't know Kanye swung for Wiz Khalifa and then Amber Rose did the most perfect emoji response of all time, along with the hashtag #FingersInTheBootyAssBitch, then congratulations, I suppose, from emerging recently from your coma; I hope your brain and muscle heal alright. Everyone else: you know what's up, so let's move forwards.

Here is Kanye's official, 24-hours-later-than-is-cool fingers-in-the-butt statement:

Here, Kanye is doing three things: i. he is asserting that he does not, it turns out, enjoy an ass full of fingers; ii. he is married, you guys, to a human woman!; iii. he is weaking out and losing the beef and it is pathetic.

As soon as you say the words "I never let them play with my ass" you have lost, because that's the kind of thing people who are ashamed of Amber Rose playing with their ass might say.

First fucks: who on Earth would be ashamed of having Amber Rose play with their ass? If Amber Rose played with my ass I would probably hire an extremely visible illuminated billboard with the message "AMBER ROSE PLAYED WITH MY ASS" and a photo of Amber Rose on it and a photo of me looking both shocked and elated, and I would never be able to walk down a residential street without a dude randomly high-fiving me for that ever again in my life. I would be going on talkshows about that shit. I would never be able to have a conversation with someone again that didn't circle back around to that time Amber Rose played with my ass. I would get a back tattoo of it happening!

Anyway, the point is not to castigate Kanye West for his subpar response to booty-filling accusations, but instead educate, change and inform, and hopefully collect one million dollars (cash) from Kanye for the privilege. Here, in my humble yet professional opinion, are just five little ways Kanye West could have owned this butt show:

With no explanation, no acknowledgement. Just imagine it. Because Kanye's album was called Swish: this was the worst album title of all time. Then he changed it to Waves, which sounds like something a one-album wonder indie band – the album cover is a swimming pool in front of the sea, water on water, a single fern plant over to one side to add a little disruption – would do. They have singles called, like, "Feel Warmth" and "Emotion Hotel". They are terrible. Their drummer briefly dates Ellie Goulding. That is what Waves sounds like it is, album-wise. It's not a Kanye album title. But just imagine: he takes that tattered piece of note paper, lines up the camera app on his phone, takes a red Sharpie and swoosh: his new album is called #FingerInTheBootyAssBitch. And he doesn't explain to anyone why. He refuses in interviews to acknowledge his album is called #FingerInTheBootyAssBitch. But he knows silently that he has won. He knows silently that newsreaders have absolutely no way of saying his album title on air when they announce it shot to number one.

Don't want to jinx this one, as Kanye is still nominally doing GOOD Fridays and there's still a chance, but: if he just released a Wiz Khalifa diss track over the piano bit from "I'd Do Anything for Love (But I Won't Do That)", a song I'm pretty sure we can all agree is about fingers in the booty, then Kanye West would win. Forever. Nobody would ever question him again. Everyone would buy his album. He would instantly be voted President of the United States.

[Kanye, in a neat Oxford shirt and lens-less glasses, enters a wood-panelled doctor's office]

"Hi, I'm Kanye West."

[Kanye takes a seat on a laminated chair]

"I'm a rapper and a father and, most importantly, I'm staring down the barrel of 40 years old!"

[Turns gravely to second camera]

"And that means I need to start taking my anal health seriously. Not just for my peace of mind, for my family's peace of mind. For my fans' peace of mind."

[Old, kindly doctor enters, shakes Kanye's hand]

"Hi, Doctor Miller. Guys: Doc here is about to insert a lubricated finger into my tenderness. I don't want you to see this, but please know it is important."

[White card reading: "GET YOUR BUTT CHECKED with Kanye West"]

(v/o) "I'm Kanye West. Get your butt checked."

Fuccbois as far as the eye can see, fuccbois spiralling up the block and round the corner, fuccbois littering the roads and footpaths, all of them breathless and panting the word "Yeezy", desperately queuing to buy a pair of £250 adidas trainers.

Now: just imagine that Kanye West launched an all-black line of sensitive care wet wipes. Moody advert where Kendall Jenner throws a load of wet wipes one-by-one off a high bridge in a futuristic city. The claps-and-choir bit from "Power" playing in the background. And then Kanye West's strong, powerful voiceover: "Kanye Wipes – for your Yeezus." Instant sellout. You could charge £50 per pack of wet wipes. You could be a wet wipe billionaire. Richer than Dre. And then you could give a million dollars (cash) to me.

A follow-up tweet like "I'm also married to Kim Kardashian and I'm richer than God" would have quieted everyone down, but there's really no need. Imagine being married to Kim Kardashian and being richer than God and (allegedly, according to Amber Rose, but denied by Kanye) being able to conjure, when you close your eyes and sleep soundly at night, the image and the feeling of Amber Rose mauling your butt, and still thinking: 'I really need to prove myself to Twitter, here.' To wake up in the middle of the night, feverish and sweating, and typing out: "I never let them play with my ass." What do you have to prove, Kanye West? What are you trying to do, man?

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But, fundamentally, he didn't do any of those good suggestions. Instead, we're all still just imagining Kanye West on all fours, nervous but excited, nude and shiny, Amber Rose coming at him with fresh nails and a latex glove. We're all thinking about Kanye West, with his diamond teeth and his gold chains still on, going, "No, it… I'm going to shit! I'm going to shit! Wait: I am not going to shit!" Kanye West holding a wine bottle and thinking about it. These are the mental images we're all currently conjuring up. Pay me a million dollars (cash), Kanye West, and together we can stop this happening to you ever again.

@joelgolby

More stuff about Kanye and / or his butthole:

Kanye West Just Wants to Be a Human Being

The Only Way Britain Can Process Kanye West is Via e-Petitions

Let's Be Honest, Straight Guys: We All Like Butt Stuff