As the entire goddamned planet knows by now, Madonna frenched Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera two nights ago on MTV's Video Music Awards show.
For the past hour, I've been trying to concoct something witty or prescient to say about this, a trenchant piece of pop culture commentary, but I can't, because I'm too pissed off.
First, we must now brace ourselves for the monkey-see-monkey-do spectacle of Gwyneth Paltrow--Gilligan to Madonna's Skipper--osculating with Jessica Simpson. (The mind reels.)
Secondly, we know the inevitable, cringe-inducing interview is coming wherein Madge states, "Everyone's projecting their own prurience onto this. A kiss can be a sacrament, or a baptism." It's too late to swim: I hear the shark music, and we're going to get eaten.
Lastly, I will now endure the bang and the clatter as pieces of my broken heart rattle around inside my chest. The woman who captured my imagination for the past twenty years--who gave me such a hyper-joyful night two years ago in Madison Square Garden--has apparently run out of ideas, and songs. (She's yanked the girl-on-girl crank so many times before, and generously estimated, "Hollywood" is a piece of blockheaded crap.)
This song is over, say goodbye.