VideoPhone

I like my moments of consumerism. Capitalist whoredom. Moments when plain brainless commercial songs fill my elitist heart with joy. No, really, I like Timbaland’s The Morning After or Rihanna’s Rude Boy. I keep it a secret, but I like those songs. Surprise, surprise, ever since Let’s Dance, like a plastic Jessica “Is it chicken or fish” Simpson, I jumped on the Gaga bandwagon (and made no secret out of it). I’ve played Bad Romance at parties and rejoiced when NME gave The Fame Monster an 8/10. I admire her for writing her own lyrics (imbecile at times, but her own) and for being able to pull some off-the-hook outfits.

But my elitist self decided that backlash is upon us. There is only as far as I can go and the name “Beyonce” is one of my limits. I hate that woman. She is nothing but a talentless, vulgar attention whore. And she has ugly legs. Now Gaga brings upon us The Apocalypse and records a song with this woman I would gladly put down using a shotgun. The end is near, my friends. Save yourself and your Smith vinyls while you can.

Bad taste? Tacky? More like plain stupid. Ok, I love the cans. But the rest is awful. God awful. There are too many abrupt cuts in the evolution of the song (forget about remembering the song after you watch the video), the story line is boooooring, the lines are so cliché it hurts. And, can you bail someone from a prison? Not a simple police station, but a state prison. Gaga is embarrassing in her attempt to reinvent herself once more (forget that Bowie-esque chameleonic ability), Beyonce is over-whelmed by it all.

Verdict: OFF WITH THEIR HEADS!!!!

P.S.: The video is also further proof Beyonce can’t act. The song is

proof she can’t sing (or at least can’t pick the instrumentals that fit her

voice). Gaga can’t act either, but at least she can sing.