Adele, for those of you who never leave the house, is a white British pop singer who sounds exactly like a black American soul singer when she belts out one of her many hit tunes, all of which have to do with her sorrow at being left by a man. Adele always takes the high road when her heart is squished by yet another ungrateful troll. She moves on nobly, building a memorial to the love that might have been with lyrics like:
"Never mind, I'll find someone like you
I wish nothing but the best for you too
Don't forget me, I beg you"
"The scars of your love, they leave me breathless
I can't help feeling
We could have had it all"
Never lyrics like this:
"Hit the road, Jack,
And don't you come back no more."
Or like this:
"I'll be waiting under the steps for you when you come home,
With a .45 in one hand and a machete smeared with excrement in the other,
You lying, ungrateful, faithless, diseased, unemployed , emotionally crippled
Man-whore who deserves to die."
That's why I feel safe in making this offer, Adele. I will break up with you. You have to realize that this run of good luck can't continue. Sooner or later you will find a man that wants to stay by your side until the end of time. From your pictures I can tell you're a pretty billionairess, young, a trifle zaftig maybe, but there are plenty of guys who like that. Maybe you do have peculiarities that turn some men off, like insisting on wearing oven mitts when you are forced to touch any other person's skin or sleeping in a raincoat. Don't despair. You're a superstar. You'll find someone anyway.
And then your career will be over. That's why you need to have me break up with you. No matter how much you shower me with gifts—cars, clothes, jewelry—whatever you can afford after you pay those confiscatory British taxes—I will leave you. I promise. I'll make it your fault, too. If you quit touring to be alone with me, I'll say you're suffocating me. If you circle the globe putting on shows so you can afford to buy me castles, I'll say you're neglecting me. If we have sex at a torrid rate, I'll say you're too demanding. If you slack off in satisfying me, I'll accuse you of being frigid. I'll do it all in a wry, sensitive, witty, intelligent way, too, so that you'll realize that I am the only man you could possibly ever love, but that for some ineffable reason, I find you sadly loathsome. Or that I have another girlfriend. Which I do. And I'll promise to leave her for you. Then I won't.
Already you're thinking I'm the perfect man for you, right? My arms are wide open, Adele. Take that future full of more Grammy Awards out of them now, before I fold them and walk away coldly. You made me cry, girl.
It's only fair I should return the favor.