Lady Gaga Is My Master Now

You’re scavenging in the wasteland. You’re fighting with a rat over a Zagnut bar. The water all tastes of uranium, or the Super-Smallpox Strain, or Cthulhu urine. Everything sucks.

Hey, it’s the end of the world. You expect nothing more.

And then you see her.

Or maybe it’s a him. Who knows? Who cares?

She doesn’t. He doesn’t. It doesn’t.

(But “she” is convenient for your human tongue.)

She emerges from the vapors of heat, a dress made of solar panels clackity-clacking as she goosesteps toward you. Her hair, black as the Devil’s seed, is sculpted into something that looks like a dolphin and a shark wrestling, with lasers coming out of their eyes, crossing, forming a red ‘X.’ Her lips smell of pomegranate. Her breath smells of plastic.

Behind her, an armed guard of dildo-headed robots. The dildos that comprise their heads are purple, sparkly, wobbly. They do not carry weapons. They do not need to.

You stand in her shadow.

And yet, despite the darkness cast across you, you feel it: her light.

She exults in your exaltation. You have been chosen.

She tears away her solar dress, unfurling it away like a pair of mighty metal bat wings reflecting the harsh glint of an uncaring sun, and beneath her dress is a second dress. It is a dress made of babies. They are real babies. Living, not dead. They do not squall. They do not squirm. They wriggle only a little, and they wriggle with glee, for they are the future. They know what it means to be chosen. They are familiar with good fortune.

And then the wasteland goddess touches you on your brow with a magic wand made of old cell phones and bound with braided whip leather, and you feel yourself shrinking inside your clothes. Your hands go tiny. Your hair is sucked back into the follicles like spaghetti through eager lips. If you have balls, they crawl back up inside of you.

She handles you easily — after all, you only weigh nine pounds, maybe less. She finds the blank spot on her baby dress, a spot on her lower back, and that’s where she puts you.

The dildo-headed robot guards applaud. It is a clanking sound. clank clank clank.

She takes you and your other goo-goo-gah-gahing brothers and sisters, and she carries you toward her spaceship, which materializes out of nothing. The air shimmers when she touches the diodes upon her chartreuse fingernails, and there it is: a craft that looks like a Winchester lever-action rifle, covered in sequins.

You enter through the ammo chamber.

The lever cocks.

The rifleship levitates.

It is time to go home.

You are the future.

Lady Gaga is your master, now.

34 comments

    • The post I was originally going to write was actually a post about why you should check out Lady Gaga because, frankly, I used to think she was a total put on. But then I actually listened to her music. And dang. Me likey.

      So, you might like her. Try it. You can listen at lala.com, probably. (Gaga at Lala?)

      This apocalyptic opening was just supposed to be a quick paragraph preceding the rest of the post.

      But… it gained strength.

      And it seemed like enough.

      — c.

  • February 19, 2010 at 7:41 AM // Reply

    I’m not a big fan of her music, but I respect the shit out of her. She’s got more talent in her cardboard eye sparkler than any of those jokes have in their whole bodies.

  • No, I am not saying your post was worthless – I am saying that I thought I knew something about shim, and now apparently I don’t, and I might be inclined to find out more.

    • But it’s Lady Gaga. She defies belief. I don’t even think she exists. I think she’s a construct of our imaginations. Or some kind of demon-angel hybrid birthed from the elastic snakewomb of Ouroboros.

  • Strange. It seems to have eaten my comment, even though it wasn’t particularly long or well thought-out, and it won’t let me post it again because I already did. Murphy’s law would lead me to believe that these things only happen to long, thought-out posts, but I guess single sentences work too.

    What I had tried to say was: “What the fuck.”

  • I love her subversion, and the complex parody/love-letter relationship she has with pop music and fame in general.

    Also, she genuinely seems to appreciate the people who make her shit happen, fans and crew both.

    Also, that last picture you posted puts the whole hermaphrodite thing to rest. You can see her hoo-hah. 😛

    • @Chris —

      I did not know that.

      I did, however, know that you could see her Vagoogoo there. I was wondering if anybody would pick up on it. 😀

      — c.

  • Unabashed vag. Awesome. And people threw eight kinds of snitfits over Titgate at the Superbowl a few years back. I didn’t watch the Superbowl and I still heard about it. Yet not a whisper of this until now.

    Does this mean we’ve grown as a society?

    Also: The first pic reminded me of Marilyn Manson (only he pulls off the transvestite thing a whole lot prettier).

  • As an unabashed Gagaphile, I say – all hail our vag-flashing, pearl-studded, Nosferatu-haired, galaxy-unto-herself mistress.

    Have you heard her song “Teeth”? So weird, so fabulous.

  • I listened to her a little today – not bad, but not my cup either.

    It does occur to me I am picked the two songs at random though. I see “Teeth” mentioned, and I’ve listened to “Bad Romance” and something… else. Anything else I should hear?

    Also – thanks to this and the wife, I can’t get the Pussycat Dolls out of my head either. Ah, pop music, you irritating bitch.

  • “As an unabashed Gagaphile, I say – all hail our vag-flashing, pearl-studded, Nosferatu-haired, galaxy-unto-herself mistress.”

    That is priceless.

    — c.

  • @Maggie (or Rick) – I don’t like pop music either, but for me it’s not the style or the catchiness of her music, but rather her Diane Arbus view of the world that attracts me. (Which the poppy sound of her music actually enhances in an ironic sort of way.) Bad Romance is actually a good example of this, I think… Just Dance and Paparazzi as well.

  • As much as I wince at saying ‘me too!’ to Palmer, I gotta say… I do agree, and have half-assed my own take on it. Now that Chuck says the same thing, I can be happy and secure in my opinions! 😛

    Seriously though, I’m really at this place where I’d rather be naive than jaded. Weird, no? A total shift from previous years, but now? Damn. I like her. She looks interesting and creative and daring. There should be more awesome people. Who cares if she likes making empty pop music? Whatever. As Tom Waits wheezed once, ‘It’s allriiiiight with me.’

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