<Intro Voice>
And now, somewhere in Los Angles . . .
<End Intro Voice>
Christina Aguilera?
Who are you? More importantly who let you get this close to me?
I'm -
Certainly not stylish. I mean all that gray, what are you thinking?
I -
It's not like it's ever going to be an in color, like red or black, or when I'm done with it, pink.
I -
Yeah, actually, that might work for you, go hot pink, get rid of the robes, the cape, the mask, the boots, maybe something lacy -
That's not my style.
Babe, I don't think you have a style period.
Babe?
Oh, you're a dude, sorry, I don't pay much attention unless the wrong dancer's rubbing up against me in a music video.
Okaaay. So you are Christina Aguilera, "singer"?
Yes I am Christina Aguilera, most talented female vocalist in the world.
No you're not.
Yes I am.
I hate to tell you . . . Well, actually I don't hate to tell you that the name Christina Aguilera and the word talented do not belong in the same sentence.
Then how come my albums keep selling?
Too many stupid little girls and horney teenage boys and disgusting old men with too much money.
How come I win awards?
That's industry masturbation. They have to hand out awards to people like you otherwise the public might realize you're not in the least bit important and stop paying money and attention on you and all your clones.
Hey, I'm important!
Just keep telling yourself that.
I am important! And I'm talented.
Sure you are.
Look, who are you and why are you here? What happened to my security?
Your security all made the mistake of driving SUVs.
So?
So they're not in much of a position to stop me.
Well who are you anyway?
Let me ask that of you.
Huh?
You're Christina Aguilera?
Yes, I mean, who else would I be?
I could offer several suggestions. But you're also the supposed "singer"?
What's with this supposed thing? I'm an amazing singer.
The only thing amazing here is just how long you've kept selling these vapid, bubbly, nonsensical noises you call songs.
Hey!
You're a pop tart. More tart than pop I believe, at least for the moment. I'm sure that you and your career will soon go pop, so there you go.
No I won't. My music is immortal!
The only thing that makes this junk your music is that you're the one who sings it. By and large other people write it, do all the hard work, the brain sweat -
Aha! Brains don't sweat! Uh, I think.
Good grief, you have to be a dyed blonde. Real blondes aren't this stupid.
Hey! My real hair color is a carefully guarded secret!
Right. Okay. At any rate what you should realize is that you have all the timeless appeal of John Travolta.
Hey, John Travolta's great!
Only in a select few films.
He's great!
He was great. Then he got bad. Then he was great again. And now he's just plain annoying.
I'm certainly not like that.
No, you were only ever annoying.
I am not. My songs make people's lives better.
How?
By being bright rays of sunshine.
You gyrating in little more than shorts and a bikini top is a bright ray of sunshine in people's lives?
Yes.
Well, maybe some people. But I am not so easily placated.
You're sure?
Yes, I'm-
Here, let me demonstrate!
Look . . . Uh, well . . . Uh, . . . I suppose that is rather hypnotic.
Oh yes it is. Now just imagine if my jeans were tighter.
I don't think that's physically possible, you'd lose all feeling in your feet.
It's nothing, very simple. Besides, if I can't feel my feet they won't hurt form the shoes so much.
Well, uh, eer, uhhhhh . . .
Now how can you hate someone who can do this?
Uh, well, uh, er, it's not so much a matter of hate, uh, it's more that -
And see what happens when I start moving my arms about in this wavy motion.
Well that is, uh, well, I suppose that is pretty, er, alluring.
Yes, isn't it?
With the sway of the hips and the bouncing . . .
Yes, that's right. Now aren't you sorry you said all those mean things about me?
Actually, uh, I'm having some trouble thingink with the swathel and dermal. I don't suppose you could be a little less distracting so I can, uh, use, uh, soundy things?
I'm better trained than that.
Uh, yeah, I suppose you are. In dance anyway.
Yes, but my true talent is in singing.
Okay, that's it.
That's what?
You almost had me there, then I was snapped right back to reality.
What? Reality? But what about my swaying hips and bouncing -
Not enough to distract me from that horrific screeching you think is singing.
WHAT?!?!
All that bouncing, bubbly, mindlessly happy noise. You add nothing to the world, you're nothing but a parasite. A pretty face to front other people's skill because you lack any real talent of your own beyond looking pretty and sounding tolerable.
Hey! I'm brilliant and talented.
The nearest thing you have to talent is the ability to be blonde, skinny and thrust your pelvis in suggestive manners.
And the singing, and the good I bring to the world! I'm beautiful and famous!
You're nothing. You're fluff. You're a useless piece of flotsam standing in the way of real life.
And just what are you going to do about it?
This.
THWACK
<Intro Voice>
And so Grey marches off into the sunset, swinging The Mighty Trout high, sure to encounter stupidity again. Well, that's given, think of how many of these pop tarts there are. What we really need is someone with real talent to go into the music industry. Really get things rocking, rolling and jumping.
<End Intro Voice>
