Madonna Has Gone to the Dogs? Think Again, Ye Doubters!
Yahoo news outlets seem to consider moldering pop-tart Madonna’s attempt to stoke the fires of publicity by hogging a dog’s bowl to be “edgy.”
Hate to break it to those alleged Arbiters of Subversion, but that would only be true if the dog’s bowl were perched on the very edge of a ledge atop the Empire State Building and America’s SweetFart were braving the winds to get a little quaff. Just imagine her, spider-like and feral, a parched tongue flicking in and out with little hisses, as that deformed face maneuvers into position above the stainless steel receptacle. Her lumpen, jacked-up fake ass wobbles this way and that in the capricious gusts above metropolitan NYC, the cartilage in her kneecaps cracking under the pressure of supporting such a grotesque keister. Against the merciless power of gravity she struggles to lower her chin into the dog bowl as dozens of media drones capture the Transcendent Artistic Moment. Clinging to the concrete before the Abyss, Madonna begins to lap at the dogwater, desperate to quench an insatiable thirst borne of decades long since spent.
Then, just before the work of creative genius has been accomplished, she lifts her soulless eyes toward the hovering drone-cameras, unable to resist the urge to make sure that her greatness is indeed being photographed. Her raison d’etre depends upon the functionality of those flying media tools.
But the need to reassure herself proves a fateful mistake; the lifting of her eyeballs sets in motion a tectonic shift that shudders through her dilapidated body, suddenly disrupting her already tenuous command of balance. A leather corset explodes. One drone is hit by the shrapnel of a silver Lagerfeld buckle. The drone wavers and wheezes in the sky, 1000 feet above Manhattan. Madonna grunts with displeasure when she notices the distress of this camera, this mediator of her Enlightening Artistry. The demise of the drone reminds her that there will be one less photo of her magnificence, one less angle from which her courage might be documented for the eagerly waiting masses.
The remaining synapses in her brain misfire. Equilibrium flies the coop. A malevolent tendril of errant wind coming from the wake of an uncaring jet far above wraps itself around Madge’s buttocks as they jiggle unnaturally in mid-squat.
My Lady croaks but one, telling word: “Whuh?” and then tumbles forward, butthole over pendulous bazooms, plunging like an ASS-teroid toward the pavement below. Trapped by the cruel forces of physics, the crooner of Papa Don’t Preach spins and flails, screaming out to the media drones above:
“Come to me, O vassals and conduits of relevance! Turn your lenses hither and vouchsafe my immortality by capturing the moment wherein I become a Picasso-type smear upon the fetid sidewalk!”
But the drones pay no heed, their cold eyes still affixed to the dog’s bowl still on the ledge, a true work of art which was spared such an ignominious end when its mistress lost her grip.
Madonna hurtles down down down, her heart defeated and the silicone bags filling every rounded portion of her physique bracing themselves for impact.
“Will they be able to salvage and reuse us in the body of another strumpet? Perhaps one of the lesser Kardashians?” these bags begin to ask themselves. Alas, all conjecture is in vain.
Madonna crashes, but not into the indifferent cement of the city. No no. In a divinely inspired twist of fate, Lady Gaga happens to be strolling by in three-foot high heels that match the exact length of her actual body. The Material Girl lands directly upon Gaga’s nose, whereupon she is both impaled and defenestrated, with no damage whatsoever to the Gaga schnoz, obviously.
The final Vogue is danced upon the walkway, strewn for nearly half a block in a colorful melange of gore. But this slurry of intestine and burst saline-bags does not give one the disciplined-yet-mischievous impression of Picasso. It looks more like a Basquiat.
Gaga ponders the mess for a moment, barely stunned. Her rhino-horn has withstood the very machinations of Destiny itself and she shrugs before moseying on about her day, sidestepping the wayward lobe of an overtaxed liver, one thought passing briefly through the acorn rattling in her own cranium:
I don’t know who that poor thing was, but she sure as hell left behind some edgy art. I could NEVER.
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