Dear Lady Gaga

Posted on October 25, 2010

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Dear Lady Gaga,

So I was recently watching some throwback Fraggles episodes (I was high.) (On cake batter.) and I realized that I have decided what your new name should be. Not looking for a new name, you say? Well, I’m not looking for god awful eurotrash pop songs on my TV every time I turn it on, but thanks to you, well. So deal.

I have decided that henceforth you should be known as Madame Trash Heap.

It works. Follow me. Madame Trash Heap was basically just made up of everybody else’s discarded shit stuck all over her, and she was constantly surrounded and supported by two effete sort of icky sycophantic creatures with high pitched laughs:

I mean, could it get any closer? The Fraggles (aka The Gays) thought that the Trash Heap (aka YOU) was brilliant, so they sought her out for advice. She usually sang some really terrible song, hit a couple of off-key notes, had her goons condescend to the Fraggle in question and succeeded in saying absolutely nothing that made any fucking sense. Again, the parallels? Frightening. Then the wide-eyed, kinda dumb but really colorful – and inhumanly skinny – Fraggle bounded off to tell all his similarly glass eyed friends what you’d said. They oohed and aahed and occasionally even shared the revelations with their industrious little Doozer friends (aka The Lesbians) who were nice enough to pretend to care but really thought the Fraggles were, essentially, retarded.

I think that meat dress probably cinched the deal. Like Marjory the Trash Heap you had yesterday’s dinner stuck all over you. And I have no problem with pushing buttons or being shocking for shocking’s sake. But just own it for what it is. Using it as symbol of civil, and specifically gay rights? Yeah, but no. I fail to see how anyone’s civil rights are being represented by you wearing steak panties. You are not some gay Harriet Tubman leading us to the Promised Land via cold cuts. You’re more like the rich girl in high school who had no real problems and was kind of bored with being, you know, like, privileged so she clutched onto the drama freaks and the homos to give her some edge, a niche even. So you love The Gays. And The Gays love you back. Because, well, they don’t really get many options. Two thirds of the world hates The Gays, one sixth just tolerates them, and the other eighth are Hare Krishna. (Also, I can’t do fractions.) So they take what they can get.

You scraped together the discarded bits and bobs from Leigh Bowery, Grace Jones and the discount bin at Lots-For-Less and became this generation’s Madonna Deluxe. Good for you, Madame Trash Heap, good for you. But until Uncle Traveling Matt shows up with something better to distract everyone else, I’m staying away from the garbage dump.

This Fraggle is sticking with the Doozers.

Hurricane kisses,

the moody box fan

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Posted in: moody ramblings