Sally Forth and get funky. Rex Morgan M.D. funky.
Toot Toot. Open wide. The Update Train is a-coming!
Marshmallows, Pixies, and Jug Bands all a-mingling together.
2003-05-21 - 3:30 p.m.
Rock'Em Sock'Em Robots Bust Bootylicious Beats.
Invisibles unite under the tree of knowledge! Hold hands and form a prayer circle! Prepare the loaves and fishes! An update is here. Fresh from the oven.
So today is a bleary, rainy day. It's the kind of gray day that begs you to stay inside curled up under a thick comforter, pondering deep and dreary things. "Play Dead Can Dance," it cries, and you have no choice but to do as it says. Unless of course your cd player is broken. Then you are shit out of luck.
My cd player went on strike two days ago, and I am a sad little lady indeed. Left with nothing but bad local radio I have discovered some unsettling facts about myself. So buckle up and prepare for the shattering of illusions!
1) I know all the words to Circle of Life by Elton John.
2) Sad Circle song makes me sing along in my super-sappiest emotional voice whenever it plays on the radio.
3) A strange out-of-body experience immediately follows in which I realize that I have not only dropped my cool, but kicked it across the room.
4) I will then attempt to stop singing, at which time I realize I am powerless against the Circle song, that I must...sing...I can't...stop...singing.
5) I will then wonder if Elton John is really a secret agent spy with his weird hypnotic vocal powers.
6) I will then go running full speed on a mental tangent in which Elton John is the ruler of some evil underworld and his plans of world domination include slowly dumbing down the collective American consciousness with his sappy sweet songs.
Ibid for Whitney Houston's I Will Always Love You, Christina Aguilera's Beautiful, and ANY Celine Dion song. I know. I know. I've got a problem.
Speaking of songs and problems (check out my groovy segue), I recently discovered another unsettling fact. Now I'm not (I repeat NOT) a Destiny's Child fan. I care not about their Survivor status, nor do I care about the trials and tribulations these three young women have faced on their road to fame (although the VH1 Behind the Music bastards will bring a tear to my eye with their emotionally manipulating background music and tales of woe). But that's another entry. No, today I want to talk about lyrics. I recently discovered that the lyrics to Bootylicious are even more RIDICULOUS then I thought. I always thought it went something like:
"I don't think you're ready for De-sti-ny,
I don't think you're ready for De-sti-ny,
I don't think you're ready for this,
My body's too bootylicious for ya baby."
Right? Stupid, but not inanely stupid. But oh no! Unbeknownst to me I was giving these three daughters of destiny too much credit. (Of course what did I expect from a song called Bootylicious?) The lyrics are actually:
"I don't think you're ready for this je-lly,
I don't think you're ready for this je-lly, I don't think you're ready for this,My body's too bootylicious for ya baby."NOT De-sti-ny. THIS JE-LLY.
Hmmmm. Um, come again? Your jelly? (Now I'm not the heppest cat in town, but isn't this a stupid, stupid thing to say?) You are right, Destiny's Child. I am not ready. I cannot handle your creepy ass-jiggle jelly. I do not want this jelly of which you speak. And I have another problem. During the song you ask each of your members if they, themselves are ready. Why would you ask yoursleves if you are ready for your own creepy ass-jiggle jelly? Is it a monster jelly? Is it going to angrily attach itself to your bootylicious area? Do you need to prepare yourselves? I do not understand. So if you could kindly explain it all in another song I would be greatly interested. Thanks. And God Bless.Grrrrrr:
So as I've already mentioned, I am currently reading Susan Faludi's Backlash. To say that my feminist side is all riled would be an understatement. So picture me, all fanged and grrrly without an "i", watching what might qualify as the most inane of all reality-based television shows. Following the season finale of Buffy was the show: America's Next Top Model.
Oh dear God, no. Look everyone it's Tyra Banks! She's the host! Hey this is great! Yummy sexism! Wash it down with a tall glass of unachievable ideals! Delicious! Like SlimFast with less calories! Yay America!
It made me all grumpy and amused. One contestant was sure that God was going to help her become a model! Now maybe I misunderstood and she has an Uncle God in the business or something, but I'm pretty sure she was referring to the creator of the Universe. That's right....the Almighty God.
I'm sure he is Heather. I'm sure your career as a model is right up there on God's to-do list. He cares about you Heather. He truly, truly does, and he wants you to become a model so that you can make lots of little girls across America feel fat and ugly. God is nothing if not a consumer, Heather. And he loves your bootylicious body. Oh yes he does.
-The Fanged Faerie is shaken, not stirred.
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