*A tiny black stage in a near empty coffee house. A spotlight downstage left. Nothing lit but a mic, a stool, and a pair of bongo drums. Missy emerges from the darkness, dressed in nothing but a black beret...a black turtleneck...black scarf...black gloves, black pants, and black boots...but nothing else. She inhales. And begins.*
A voice that speaks on behalf of the millions of trashy, white, female, homeless rappers, who have been kept silent for too long.
Silenced no more.
*bangs bongo drums*
Speak Ke$ha.
*hits bongo*
Speak for your people.
*hits bongo twice*
Brush those vodka-stained, diamond-injected whites with your Jack because he's the only reliable man in your life!
*grabs unseen bottle of Jack from behind stool and throws it into audience with a scream & a crash. somewhere, a child cries.*
And use your voice to speak those revolutionary words that your people need to hear!
"Blah."
*bongo hit*
"Blah."
*bongo hit*
"Blah."
*bongo solo and then silence. she rises. the audience snaps. she leaves the stage.*
Ok, so seriously. What's up with this chick? The only thing more annoying than her voice (which sounds like that little brat you're itching to slap who's been wailing & whining for the past ten minutes in the cereal aisle at Albertson's because the mom won't buy him/her some Lucky Charms), her hair (which perpetually looks like its just been vacated by a den of small to medium-sized woodland creatures), her solitary expression of a radiation-poisoned, dead-behind-the-eyes, fat child who's smushed his/her face up against the microwave to watch the frozen corn dogs one too many times, or the fact that she looks like she would smell like the inside of a County Fair dumpster, is her horrible excuse of lyrics. UGH! What is our world coming to?
mjl.
