The Book of Gaga
Yeah, I can’t believe I’m devoting a post to Lady Gaga either. Don’t worry. It’ll be swift and painful.
Given the chance to pontificate on, you know, selflessly serving the universe and what’s not best for her vagina in a T Magazine interview for the New York Times, our talentless, hypervisually-challenged Gaga, freshly acquitted of hermaphroditism at the Grammy’s, gives us quite the candid peek through the keyhole into the delusions, narcissism and absolutely fantastic bullshit whirling and swirling about her bewigged, Heaven’s Gate of a head.
On why she allegedly quit drugs:
Of course, it’s because her “greater mission is my fans.” When the interviewer says “Really? That sounds very selfless for a pop star,” humble petal Gaga replies “It is selfless.” For Gaga, her fans are the new Haiti and selflessness is nothing if you can’t go on the record and splash it around ever so meekly in print.
On her personal thetan spiritual guide:
“What I like about him is that he doesn’t speak to me like I am a normal person. He understands that I have an eccentric way of life and personality. And he also understands that I am famous, and I appreciate that. He tells me that I no longer serve my life in the normal way that people serve their life, that I must serve the greater good in my service to the universe. And for me, it’s my fans. I only serve my fans.”
Oh, where to begin! Servant Gaga acknowledges only those who acknowledge her fame. Only those who worship her cameltoed christness are worthy of salvation. I don’t know what kind of communion she’s serving her sycophants, but I bet a hundred bucks it looks and smells distinctly like something I wouldn’t want my Louboutins stepping in.
“To be completely honest, every relationship I have built is based on a genuine and authentic sharing of dreams and aesthetics.”
Translation: Everyone I let adore me is a superficial, famewhoring freak show too.
On why she wrote no psalms on fleeting celebrity in – get this junk! – the “book of Gaga”:
”In the book of Gaga, fame is in your heart, fame is there to comfort you, to bring you self-confidence and worth whenever you need it. I want my fans to love themselves. It’s almost like I want to hypnotize them so when they hear my music they love themselves instantly.”
The decadent, inanimate trappings of fame are the warm, loving arms wrapped ‘round our eccentric, selfless, servant girl Gaga at night. They alone stoke the fires of her worth, and in some mystical, musical way, embrace us too in their absolutely bullshit witchy love spell. If all our love is Gaga’s fame, the smoldering ash heap of the music industry is the bastard child of our hate. Group hug, everyone. Group hug.
On why Gaga the artist and her vagina are better serving fans and shaming us anti-martyrs in the third person:
“I talk about myself in the third person all the time. I don’t live my life in the way someone like you does. I live my life completely serving only my work and my fans. And that way, I have to think about not what is best for my vagina but what is best for my fans and for me artistically.”
WTF is this bitch on?
You’re right Gaga. You don’t live your life the way ‘someone like” us does and it has nothing to do with your bizarro hallucinatory fame-martyr rhetoric about serving servants with wack fashion and shitty dance music! We live in Reality, a place your cult of fame doesn’t let you visit very often. In Reality, we know a MAC-caked face and Skittle-colored plastic wigs and shiny, avant gear does not a savior make. Serve your fans with all the lame, lesbian make-out prison music videos you want, but know that we know you’re not some divine second coming of the poor man’s Madonna your crazier than bat shit false prophets have brainwashed you to believe.