I hardly ever read the news. Even when I do click on something out of boredom or curiosity or equal doses of both I don't so much read as I merely cruise my way through words that catch my attention. This tends to be things that are related to sex, violence or someones bowels. I don't normally blog about world issues either. Mostly because the term "world" is too universal for me and if it doesn't find itself happening in MY world then I just click on my own personal block and ignore feature called my brain. You can call me un-informed or even oblivious if you like. But the truth is that I could care less about anything to do with who is fucking who either in the political arena or in a bathroom stall somewhere. I don't like sports either. It's all fixed. If you don't believe that, then you are an idiot.
Quite recently I did find myself captivated by a story that begged to have me write a blog about it. In fact, I wrote TWO BLOGS about it. That is just how I roll with the necessary lubricants on my ball bearings. The story in question deserved mulitple shout outs because it not only fit the criteria for me to take notice but it became two stories in one and that alone deserves hand claps, head sways and knees banging together.
I am of course talking about Whoopi Goldbergs little outburst on television. This story not only grabbed my attention but managed to hold it because it twisted and turned wider than an episode of "Lost." (sorry I don't watch much television either so you will have to cut me some slack for a reference to an out of date show) but I mean, beyond myself becoming completely enthralled the rest of the country followed suit because for about a week I could not log into my computer without seeing newly found footage of facial expressions, instant replay and slow motion of Whoopi passing gas as Clair Danes babbled on and on about herself as if anybody cared. I knew what Whoopi was really doing. She was not just farting, she was making a statement. That show she is on.... I think it's called The New Zoo Review.... they have these extroverts and perverts on there and these people go on and on about this and that and them and you know what? Nobody cares! Whoopi had the cajones to say "Hey bitch! We don't care. Now check out my ass!" Before letting it rip.
That story alone would have been newsworthy in my eyes but it didn't stop there. The public then became fascinated with DID WHOOPI FART? A roar of sound emitted from underneath of the ass she was sitting on right in front of dozens on live television and then millions on yotub.... the evidence was there.... and yet still.... the public felt the need to ask itself.... DID WHOOPI FART? Orrrrrrrrrrrr...... not?
I don't know about you but I was aghast and I still am because I realize now that something such as this is a national threat to happen any hour or minute or second of the day or week or month and any year despite technology and advances in bowel relief medicine. Well, the country has moved on and as a new year quietly ticks and clicks with no farting or sharting only seeming to present itself I found myself taken back with my eyes front and center over a brand new controversy.
What is that brown runny liquid oozing down Christina Aguilera's leg as she belts out a song at some dead ladies funeral? I know the new year is fresh but this has managed to eclipse Whoopi's fart by gallons and miles. Stills and video have been endlessly scrutinized and speculation is at an all time high as to just what is that shit running down her leg? Is it shit? Is it blood? You would think someone like Christina Aguilera would be able to afford some maxi pads that work.... or even depends if the problem is more serious then we the people are lead to believe.
I have often times seen artists suffer for their art. Maybe Christina really suffers for her fart... I mean, art. Maybe .... just maybe... Christina, like the rest of us, was so taken by Whoopi Goldberg's statement that she decided to make one of her own. She figured she could upstage Whoopi by boldly displaying her skills at a funeral. I mean, funerals present somewhat of a captive audience, right? Obviously the dead motherfucker isn't going anywhere. Neither is the crowd of freeloaders.
People who speak at funerals have it made because those sitting out in the audience know good and well that if they don't stay put and recognize and show some respect they won't get to scarf up on all the lite beer, dirty vodka and pigs in a blanket that their blackened hearts desire back at the ole casa de' dead guy (or dead lady in this case).
Didn't Christina Aguilera used to be a singer before she became a game show host? I remember once seeing a vh-1 special about this cute blond haired pig-tailed little heartbreaker in training belting out a tune like it was nobodies business. This pint-sized powerhouse of a vocalist looked to have quite a career ahead of her doing headline tours of shopping center parking lots and mainlining stages in rehab. So, what happened? I mean, she has passed the 30 mark so she is well clear of joining that 27 club. She has had her share of scandle for sure. She said "I do" and "I don't" in the same breath. She squeezed out some puppies and packed on the pounds in efforts to follow in the hoof prints of her idol, the one and only lady marble cake herself, Aretha Franklin. By the way, does anybody else remember seeing Uretha a few years back on television in a divine yellow number that seemed to give new meaning to pork fatbackless and it not being over until the fat lady sings? Unless I am mistaken they actually did in fact roll her out in a wheel barrel to cap off the evening festivities.
I have to admit that I don't really follow pop music much here lately since when Britney went commando and then Rambo by beating up a defenseless automobile with an umbrella. As I have stated I don't read the news either. But I can recognize talent and I know a true artist when I see one and let me tell you that Christina Aguilera is a true artist with some hefty sized talent that is not just her mother jugs. This woman is headed for big things. In fact she is a BIG THING.
I would be willing to bet that as long as she doesn't choke on a buffalo leg she will even be afforded the dubious honor of wearing that same pork fatbackless ensemble that Aretha wore so elegantly when she sang the show into the end credits after they dust off the fleas and maggots and pull it from the vogue vault to commemorate the 50th anniversy jubilee celebration of whatever horrid shit people are listening to in the future.
Christina Aguilera is class personified. Sure, she doesn't know the words to the national anthem but seriously.... who does? Besides, they are gonna get rid of that song anyway in a few years. It was recently reported that Lil' Wayne and Lady Gaga are holed up in a crackhouse somewhere in an undisclosed location in the big sleazy composing what will become the new national anthem. Not much is known about the tune but there are rumors that it will feature a chorus consisting of more than one language. This being Spanglish and broken English. This labor of love was an idea first birthed by rapper Lil' Wayne while he was being sodomized over his bunk in prison by some misplanted trailer trash. The encounter left Lil' Wayne mesmerized and traumatized with an enraptured anal cavity but while he was bent over and forced to sing along to the second verse of what the violators believed to be the national anthem, Call me the breeze by Lynyrd Skynyrd, the genius rapper had an epiphany right there before he vomited his mac and cheese doodles. Meanwhile old Weezy was trying to fend off the inevitable homosexual fantasies that plague many of prisons finest inmates by picturing Lady Gaga in a thong dress made from squirrel meat and pig droppings.
The whole episode was life changing and Weezy will be doing a concept release that will be available on eight track and granite so that maybe the relatives of his ass slappers will have a greater chance to recognize how their deeds shall benefit the youth of today and tomorrow and even the days after all them shits. A life altering event if there ever was one because as he was being pounded in his poop basket the man who would be Weezy realized that nobody appreciates the national anthem anymore and so he would give the gift that keeps on giving to his bank account again and again by scratching that old ass record and giving up the new nappy dig out.
I guess my question for old man Weezy is why Lady Gaga and why not Christina Aguilera? She is way classier in my opinion. I mean, Aguilera is a woman. A diva. A superstar. She has never had to wear an outfit stitched together from recycled private parts to be noticed and I have so much respect for her as a person despite never having met her that I just know that she will never be forced to suck off park rangers in bird bathrooms or beat up on little old ladies with props that she stole from her tenure on the Mickey Mouse club like some of those other wanna-be pop stars.
The lives of a diva and pop icon tend to be riddled with enough cracks in the pavement to guarentee their mothers a stay in back braces forever or make like broken steps on that stairmaster their illegitimate brood thought was a potty chair and after filling it up with baby Huey spewey threw down the staircase. But what kind of world is it when a poop filled stairmaster being thrown down a staircase is considered a faux pas anyway?
I have nothing but respect and mad love for my girl Christina. But her wicked ways seemed to take a turn for the burst when she was photographed singing at a funeral with what appears to be diarrhea running down her leg. Conspiracy theories sprang up all over the internet and the globe. There was even a German fetish site called gunterpoopen (which roughly translates to guess the poop) that allowed people with way too much time on their hands and no lives to even whisper of a chance to speculate what Aguilera had eaten for her pre-funey banquet that day. I myself even got caught up in the festivites and guessed that she had some deep fried catfish tacos with extra on the hots in celebration of her Spanish harlem womanly heritage.
Some people might think it highly inappropriate of Aguilera to poop onstage at a funeral. But in reality I think her actions are a bold statement about the oppressions that bind the human condition under certain circumstances and what is expected of and what it means to be a woman who eats a mess of lard and hot sauce and then gets up in front of friends and family to eulogize their fallen compadre who doesn't have to foot the buffet bill back at the house party because they are no longer living and yet still giving. Christina did what so many of us have surely longed to do. Shitting at a funeral. This true enchantress and songbird of grace and grease did not even excuse herself to powder her nose and toes but she stood high and mighty and belted out a song with her emotions running high and the poop running low. I have grown whole new sets of respect for this dressed up and messed up lady of the grimey lime light who touches the heart and soul with her every being and comes out re-invigorated and classic fresh beyond the essence of what it means to be a woman with poop running down her leg. My largest thought was that as long as the poop ran only into her shoes and not on the carpet of the church of the Saint Peter, Paul and Mary of the immaculate concession what was the big deal? No foul no towel. R-E-S-P-E-C-T.
So yeah, imagine my great disappointment when it was reported yesterday that Christina Aguilera's drippy leg mystery was solved. In a story that forced the shutdown of guttenpoopen and squashed all conspiracy theorists like a turd underneath of a bowling ball it was reported by Aguilera's representatives that the substance was actually only spray-tan liquid. I was crushed and felt as if I must write out my frustrations and letdowns and yet I was so polarized that I couldn't form a single sentence just 24 hours ago. But today was good because I slept like a baby that shits in a diaper and has someone else to clean it and I ate like a pig in a pen before splashing my piggy balls in some mud for dessert. Life is good again because remember people it's not over until the fat lady who used to sing and now hosts some shitty television show starts to sing again. So until that happens many milk chocolate flavored kudos to a true icon of the pop music world. A woman in every sense of the turd.... sorry, word. She might not take any crap but if her people are wrong she sure does know how to make some.
*****Original post date 2/2/12*****
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