Right, I had to look them up because I thought it was just a This Is How We Do rewrite. And since it's a Tayloose stan, they'd know all about rewriting other songs.
A dingy hole-in-the-wall jazz bar that doubles as a brothel on the weekend. On the window hangs a “C” Sanitary Inspection Grade. Inside, a cockroach scurries across the bar floor and onto the stage. A high-heeled boot STOMPS it dead. The boot is imitation leather, the scuffing filled out with a black marker. Lady Gaga looks down at the roach she just killed and imagines it’s Katy Perry. Her short, corpulent frame is squeezed into an ill-fitting Nordstrom Rack sequined “mermaid” gown.
“Hey fellas!” she calls out in her best Mae West impersonation. “What’s a girl gotta do to get a drink around here??” She thinks talking like this makes her more sound more “old-school showbiz.” A waiter pours cheap boxed Costco scotch-whiskey into a chipped glass and brings it to her on the stage.
She takes the glass with a pudgy arm covered in a giant “Lady Gaga Is Over” tattoo (the “ironic” title of her 5th and final pop album). She takes a big gulp of whiskey and starts hollering “DID YOU EVER KNOW THAT YOU’RE MY HERO” in a raspy voice ravaged by alcohol. Behind her a sign reads “Bette Midler Tribute Night.”
About a dozen middle-aged drunks sit at the bar drowning their sorrows in $5 beer. Lady Gaga’s voice rises — “YOU’RE EVERYTHING I WISH I COULD BEEEEE” — in a failed attempt to get their attention. “Oh well,” she thinks to herself. "At least I got paid for this gig." An $80 check is stuffed in her bra.
Suddenly a black transvestite wanders into the bar and starts cheering for her. Lady Gaga's eyes well with tears. "I am remembered. I am known," she thinks to herself. Encouraged, she downs the rest of her whiskey and goes for the kill: “CUZZZZ YOU ARE THE WIIIIIND BENEATH MY WIIIIIIIIIIINGS!!!!!” she wheezes and shouts and growls, thinking she ended the song on a triumphant note.
“Homegirl, you done snatched my weave and strangled me with it! I am deceased!” calls out the transvestite in praise. (later that night, he will be killed in a hate crime in the alley behind the bar.)
One of the guys at the bar nudges his drinking buddy and points to Lady Gaga (who’s refilling her glass with whiskey). “Who was that?” The drinking buddy squints his eyes at her. “Liza Minnelli, I think.”
“Hey fellas!” she calls out in her best Mae West impersonation. “What’s a girl gotta do to get a drink around here??” She thinks talking like this makes her more sound more “old-school showbiz.”
Beyonce sits in her palatial dressing room, examining herself in her vanity mirror and preparing for her morning routine. Breakfast? Exercise? Dance training? Vocal runs? No. First order of business every morning is acting.
She composes herself, takes a moment, then WHIRLS around in her chair, a look of horror on her face.
"No, I found her like this!" she exclaims. "She must have tripped down the stairs! Her neck…it looks broken. No, she's not breathing! Send someone right away!"
Her acting coach who's been in the room all along steps forward. "Much better. I really believed it this time. After 4 years you've finally gotten it down."
Suddenly the door flies open and Blue bursts into the room, playing with her Princess Elsa doll (mommy said the Princess Tiana doll was way too dark). Beyonce glares at her. "What did I tell you about interrupting my morning routine?!"
"Sorry mommy."
Beyonce grabs her arm and twists it. "When the police officers show up, what will you say?"
"Auntie Rihanna fell down the marble staircase! It was an accident." (her performance is more convincing than Beyonce's.)
Beyonce softens. "Good girl. You may have your father's face but you have my wits."
The acting coach paces the room. "If only you could cry. Then they'd never suspect foul play. Try thinking of a deeply emotional experience. Like your relationship with your father coming to an end. Or your miscarriage."
Beyonce rolls her eyes at him. Like she cares. That's not gonna do it.
"Well then I'm afraid I have no other choice," says the acting coach. "Think about your Hot 100 performance this decade."
Beyonce's eyes immediately moisten.
The acting coach goes for the kill: "And think about how your songs have performed outside the US."
Beyonce's hand flies to her mouth. Hot tears pour down her face now. Her body is wracked with violent sobs.
"Finally, you're ready!" the acting coach declares.
Beyonce picks up the phone and dials. "Rihanna, Blue's been asking for you all morning. She misses her Auntie. Could you come over please?" And with a sly, evil grin, she hangs up and begins her other morning ritual -- applying copious amounts of white foundation to her face.
A dingy hole-in-the-wall jazz bar that doubles as a brothel on the weekend. On the window hangs a “C” Sanitary Inspection Grade. Inside, a cockroach scurries across the bar floor and onto the stage. A high-heeled boot STOMPS it dead. The boot is imitation leather, the scuffing filled out with a black marker. Lady Gaga looks down at the roach she just killed and imagines it’s Katy Perry. Her short, corpulent frame is squeezed into an ill-fitting Nordstrom Rack sequined “mermaid” gown.
“Hey fellas!” she calls out in her best Mae West impersonation. “What’s a girl gotta do to get a drink around here??” She thinks talking like this makes her more sound more “old-school showbiz.” A waiter pours cheap boxed Costco scotch-whiskey into a chipped glass and brings it to her on the stage.
She takes the glass with a pudgy arm covered in a giant “Lady Gaga Is Over” tattoo (the “ironic” title of her 5th and final pop album). She takes a big gulp of whiskey and starts hollering “DID YOU EVER KNOW THAT YOU’RE MY HERO” in a raspy voice ravaged by alcohol. Behind her a sign reads “Bette Midler Tribute Night.”
About a dozen middle-aged drunks sit at the bar drowning their sorrows in $5 beer. Lady Gaga’s voice rises — “YOU’RE EVERYTHING I WISH I COULD BEEEEE” — in a failed attempt to get their attention. “Oh well,” she thinks to herself. "At least I got paid for this gig." An $80 check is stuffed in her bra.
Suddenly a black transvestite wanders into the bar and starts cheering for her. Lady Gaga's eyes well with tears. "I am remembered. I am known," she thinks to herself. Encouraged, she downs the rest of her whiskey and goes for the kill: “CUZZZZ YOU ARE THE WIIIIIND BENEATH MY WIIIIIIIIIIINGS!!!!!” she wheezes and shouts and growls, thinking she ended the song on a triumphant note.
“Homegirl, you done snatched my weave and strangled me with it! I am deceased!” calls out the transvestite in praise. (later that night, he will be killed in a hate crime in the alley behind the bar.)
One of the guys at the bar nudges his drinking buddy and points to Lady Gaga (who’s refilling her glass with whiskey). “Who was that?” The drinking buddy squints his eyes at her. “Liza Minnelli, I think.”
