We are gathered here today to mourn Ratchet as she is laid to rest between her mentors, Hot Mess and White Girl Wasted. It seems like just yesterday she became known as the only way to properly ridicule those who wore ill-fitting weave or subjected an entire megabus to Rihanna by way of cellphone speakers. She was, at her core, the very essence of revulsion.
Other terms inspired me, but it was Ratchet who showed me how to truly influence a generation. When I visited her in those final days, she pulled me close and hoarsely whispered, “People are tired of negative nancies like me and Negative Nancy. They’re ready for someone like you, On Fleek. Be the On Fleek you wish to see in the world.” I will never forget her words, or her, as a word.
Our good friend knew the end was near. Ratchet tweeted, “Once you go mainstream, you turn back into a socket wrench,” after a CNN anchor used her to describe a congressional budget negotiation. She wasn’t the first of us to be destroyed by an out-of-touch traditional media outlet, and she won’t be the last. Our thoughts and prayers go out to Dope, who has been hospitalized again, this time with a case of Being-an-Answer-on-Jeopardy. You’ve survived worse, buddy! You can beat this!
This tragic death has made me consider my own mortality. How long before I go from the perfect adjective for a bedazzled big toe on Instagram to getting thrown around by political pundits complimenting one of Hillary Clinton’s aubergine pant suits? If it can happen to Da Bomb, it can happen to me. Until then, I will honor Ratchet’s memory by taking every available opportunity to check myself out—on the security monitors of bodegas that sell money orders.
The dearly departed will be remembered as a titan of terminology. Even her funeral guest list is a who’s who of colloquialisms. She would be happy to see that both YOLO and Carpe Diem came to pay their respects, despite that public falling out last year. The same can be said for Swole and Buff. Even in death, she is bringing us together as a lexicon. It is in that spirit that I’d like to announce that Ratchet’s beautiful daughter, the pretentious hatemonger Ratché, is going to be raised by her godparents, Mr. and Mrs. Basic Bitch.
A future without Ratchet is an uncertain one. We do not know what phrase will fill the venomous 7-inch stilettos she leaves behind, or how we will ensure that women who venture outdoors in torn leggings are met with the appropriate amount of hostility. All we can know with any certainty is Throwing Shade, who is also in attendance, will never be the same.