Pull up a chair, plumpkin.
I feel like I can talk to you, seeing as we’re almost family now. Your brother and I have this THING going, you know. And it’s getting serious. I expect to be Mrs Brandon Davis ANY DAY NOW. Just as soon as I make mischa-mash out of that mewling little TV star.
But that’s not why I’ve called you here. Take my hand. Look into my eyes. I want you to believe me when I tell you that I think of you as the fat, obnoxious little brother I never had. Yes, I do. I really do.
That’s why it hurts me so much to have this little talk.
The other day I posted a picture of the Davis brothers – Brandon, Alex, and you. And seeing you there, in the background, looking like a big old gay sea cow, well, it just about broke my heart. BROKE MY HEART.
I think it speaks volumes about the whole family dynamic, doesn’t it? Look again.
DEEP BREATH, JASON.
You need to come to grips with a basic, unalterable fact of life: There is only one superstar in the Davis family, and baby it ain’t you. You can wear as many feather boas and glitter hats as you want to, girl, but the camera will always focus on Brandon. Always. That’s just the way it is. HE’S THAT HANDSOME.
It must be hard having a SUPERSTAR SEX GOD as a brother. I know, dumpling. It must make you dive into the Pop-Tart pile by your bedside. I’ve been there too. BUT POP-TARTS ARE NOT THE ANSWER, JASON. Not even the new Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough ones. POP-TARTS WILL NOT MAKE YOU A SUPERSTAR SEX GOD. Not ever.
That doesn’t mean you can’t be happy. It doesn’t mean you can’t be loved. Somebody will love you. Someday, somebody will embrace your inner sea cow. They will love you for you. Leather jumpsuit and all. Now – and this is very important – LISTEN TO ME JASON – that someone will probably NOT be a C-list actress clawing for some face time on the red carpet and trying to establish a boldface identity for herself. She won’t be America’s Most Fugly, and she won’t embarrass you by wearing her bra over her shirt to Mummy’s charity balls. You need to deep-six the social climber if you want to get any cred back. Nobody believes you’re actually fucking her anyway. It’s hard enough just getting her to touch it through your pants, isn’t it? I know, baby, I know. Once again – I’ve been there. Replace “ambitious blonde actress” with “skanky mulatto hustler” and it could be the St. James version. I’m just sayin’.
I have some vague ideas about who might be the right fit for you, but that’s another conversation entirely.
First you must work on YOU. That’s why I’m here.
I, too, went through many years where I tried to hide my misery behind a hearty veil of sequins and cocktails. I, too, thought fake fur might make me more desirable, more photo-friendly.
It doesn’t work. In today’s high-powered world of celebrity branding, sometimes less really is more.
You need to reevaluate your whole sense of style. Ditch the “wacky” clothes. Gimmicky clothes only work on little people. Don’t try and distract us from your weight. Big is beautiful, baby. Embrace it. You’re a handsome man. Stick to simple, well-cut suits. You don’t need frippery to get noticed. You’ll get all the attention you need just being you.
All I’m saying: Dial it back a bit, bro. Don’t try so hard. You are Jason Davis, for god’s sake. Say it out loud every morning in the mirror, or whenever you are tempted to wear a fluorescent Hawaiian shirt to a party.
Of course, you’re other choice is to just go the WHOLE HOMER.
I only have your best interests at heart, baby. After all, you’re going to be family soon, and I don’t want you ruining the wedding album.
– James St. James
