Tripping Balls on the Light Fantastic

Dear Lady G,

I kind of wish you really did have a penis.

Does that sound strange? I mean, I’m not gay (although I’d probably let Mickey Rourke **** me if he asked nicely enough), but every time I find myself faced with a quandary that I can’t overcome alone, my first action is to ask myself: What Would Lady Gaga Do? and time and again the answer comes back to: Thrust penis at it.

It just seems like the Gaga-thing to do, doesn’t it? I can’t really imagine the shenanigans that go on in the Haus of Gaga, but gun to my head, it’s hard not to visualize a collective of sequin-bedazzled lady-boys running around to Abba and thrusting their penises at each other.

But that’s just me.

Anyway, I don’t get you. I’m a 25-year-old alcoholic Hemingwannabe who grew up to Velvet Underground and the Cowboy Junkies, worships Iggy Pop, buys his jeans at Wal-Mart and whose last answer to everything is to “Just Dance.” By all accounts I should hate you and your music and your ridiculous fashion sense and everything you stand for. At the very least, I should wish that you didn’t have a peener, so that the possibility of a good hate-****ing would be kept viable.

Sorry, I was aiming for your mouth.

But everyday on the drive to work, when every single goddamned radio station I tune to is playing one of your songs (You know, the ones that all sound exactly the ****ing same?), instead of flying into a rage and steering my car into the closest group of untended children I come across, I can’t help but wave my hands in the air like I just don’t care and shout “YOU GO, GIRL! I WILL SUCK YOUR COCK!” at the top of my lungs.

Do you know how much I want to hate you? Like, so ****ing much, G. You don’t even know. I want to hate you so much that it keeps me up at night. There I am in bed, not getting laid, and I’m going “God, I wish I hated her.” I want nothing more than to be able to put you in the category of people whose deaths I am positive would vastly improve the quality of the world. The Dane Cooks, the Chad Kroegers, the Stephenie Meyers, etc, etc. I want to be able to look at you like I’m looking at a cancer that needs to be excised before it can spread further, like a scab that just needs to be peeled and thrown away, like something the existence of which can be cured with a large enough dose of penicillin.

Like this asshole, pretty much.

But Carl Sagan save me, I just can’t. For whatever reason, those guttural “raa-raa”s and “muh-muh”s and endless repetitive beats and electronic bloop-de-woos that make other artists sound like talentless hacks when they utilize them are somehow sublime when they’re pulled from your repertoire. I mean, how the **** did you make Ace of Base sound good? That’s the question, isn’t it? How? How did you do it? How did you convince the entire world that you’re actually a good thing? In an era that suffers from a crippling permadrought of artistic creativity and talent, a decade that didn’t have the pioneers of the fifties or the acid of the sixties or the experimentation of the seventies or the glam of the eighties or the ****ing Mountain Dew of the nineties, in a day and age dominated by those goddamn Nickelback assholes you decided that the best way to breathe new life into the floundering music industry was to dress like a retarded Cruella de Ville and give us even more of the same dance-pop bullshit, and it ****ing worked.

How in the Nine Hells did you do that?!

Is the secret in the bubbles? TELL ME.

I suppose I shouldn’t fret so. Some mysteries are better left unsolved, after all. For example, you probably wouldn’t want to know what I’m wearing while I type this, and my roommate won’t want to know why the computer chair is so sticky once I’m finished.

Let’s just say that, against all reasoning, I’m a huge fan, and with every ounce of sincerity I urge you to tone it down. At this point, you’re still more bombast than brilliance, more Paris Hilton than Edie Sedgwick, more noise than funk. And though you’ll undoubtedly get to that level of immortality one day if you pace yourself, you’ll only burn out otherwise. And we certainly wouldn’t want that. Especially when I’ve yet to have the pleasure of jerking off while spying on you from your bushes.

Which really makes the fact that I wish you had a cock all the weirder.

Just another of those mysteries, I guess.

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Originally posted at http://hobojesus.wordpress.com/2010/...-to-lady-gaga/