An Open Letter to David Guetta

We're worried about you, Pierre.

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Aug 11 2014, 5:00pm

Hi David. No! We have to be honest here. Hi, Pierre. It's THUMP here.

How are you? Are you okay? To be honest, we're a little concerned about you. You've been acting kind of weird recently. You're not favoriting our tweets these days, the hue of your tongue suggests a vitamin deficiency, and you're not even wearing sunglasses indoors anymore. That's not like you, David.

We know things have been tough with Cathy, but, now that it's over, we can finally say: She was wrong for you. You need a woman who accepts the fact that, deep down inside, you're a ginger. We know that in 1992, when you got hitched, that was something you had to hide. But we live in a post-Sheeran world now, David.

Don't worry about Cathy. You're the guy who wrote "People Come and Go," you're emotionally prepared for this, you're "Titanium," you're a "Sexy Bitch" and you "Wanna Go Crazy." Your songs have been leading up to this moment for years. But we saw that video, David. We all saw that video.

This sums up our feelings on it pretty concisely:

Maybe some of this is our fault. All those years ago in Ibiza, when our love first blossomed, we didn't fuck you because you were famous. We fucked you because we loved you. Maybe we never told you enough.

Things stayed weird after that, though. When Liz Walaszczyk found you atop a unicycle and tried to interview you at Tomorrowland, you confused the name of the festival you've played ten years in a row, Tomorrowland, with a strip club in Miami called Wonderland. You claimed to have invented "hands in the air," David. We're pretty sure chimpanzees invented that.

Now let's talk about this Instagram, David.

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That sure looks like a crazy party. We're no anatomical experts, but we're pretty sure that's a cock peeking at you right there in them middle. And yeah, we get it: sometimes in the throes of house-induced ecstasy, a penis gets flashed. But do you really need to reward that man by flying him out to your gig, anywhere in the world? Do you really want that floppy phallus following you around the globe like some spectre of your past indiscretions? That cock will be your albatross, David. We're telling you.

We're not just here to criticize, though. We're here to help you get out of this rut. There's only one thing you can do to regain your inspiration, sense of purpose, and that twinkle in your eye...Move to Los Angeles, David...Make deep house.

It's time. A hi-hat on the upbeat could be the tappa-tappa-tapping of freedom knocking at your door. We'll be waiting.

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