If there are two people less equipped to escape an erupting volcano than these two, they’re probably wheelchair-bound, conjoined twins. I mean, as a rule, GaGa’s either naked or wearing something so impractical that even Bjork would look at it and yelp “What the hell, woman?” (She would likely follow this with “I like sardines. Are you a monkey vest?” Because Bjork is insane. And Icelandic, which is like insane, only colder.) And Kanye? Ah… just insert your own “Krakatoa had the best eruption ever” joke here.
In other news, GaGa’s ongoing efforts to force me to find her attractive continue. She’s bound and determined to eye-rape me until I start to like it, and heaven help me… I think it’s happening. This stuff isn’t Spank Bank-worthy, but it’s at least eligible for a certificate of deposit at First National Savings & Minor Boners.
All these years you’ve been avoiding me, ignoring my phone calls, marrying rich, scary black men without even a thought to how I might feel about it… it’s been tough. I’ve kept quiet and soldiered on through the countless sleepless nights and humiliations, all for the sake of the beautiful dream of us.
PICTURED: Beyoncé Knowles-Z holding her metallic spaceman
I mean, when you started singing songs about me? That was low. Single Ladies? Like “put a ring on it” isn’t a clear reference to that time I showed up in your backyard wearing nothing but a leather thong and a cock ring. You didn’t even come to the door! Yeah, “I wasn’t home” is always your excuse, isn’t it? Fucking Christ, it’s not like I haven’t sent you macramé puzzle pieces made from my pubic hair that –once assembled– made it bloody obvious that I would be there that day! Feh! And don’t get me started on knowing what it’s like to miss you, ’cause God knows how many times I’ve wasted perfectly good, GHB-coated darts on your housekeeper, just trying to get my aim right with the blowgun.
(Sorry, Rosalita.)
But I’m a big boy, and I’m prepared to let the past be past. Because you have shown me that there really is something inside you other than the sexomagnetic cyber-uterus that the future-aliens implanted in you specifically to draw us together so that we might breed a race of superbeings charged with protecting this galaxy from the encroachment of otherdimensional plasma beetles. And that something, I’ve found, is a heart.
PICTURED: Kanye West, holding his robo-alien love doll
Last night, when the entirely sane and reasonable Kanye West leapt on stage at the MTV VMAs to defend the honor of that little video you made featuring the hand-crafted Gauntlet of Infinite Stabbiness that I sent you in the mail back in 2005 (I’m not bitter), and in the process plunged country singing teen (and part-time nightmare of Lilliputians) Taylor Swift into a bottomless well of backstage tears… well, you could have just let it go.
But you didn’t.
So, all is forgiven. Water under the bridge. I’ll even go so far as to rescind the fatwa I issued concerning Jay-Z a few years ago. May you both live in peace. Until the beetles get here, anyway.
