Backup Dancers From Hell: Lady Gaga and Beyonce - “Telephone”

Note: This is the explicit version. You have been warned. If unseemliness makes you itchy, perhaps you should just have a nice cup of tea instead. And, by the way, this video is LONG, as in 9 minutes. Brace yourselves.

Wow, looky here, seems we’re going to have us a big-ass production. We’ve got opening titles, a director, co-stars, and even the faint whiff of over-priced popcorn and annoying people who insist on yelling out “What do you think is going to happen next?” during the really dramatic parts. Somebody spent some money on this thing. Should be a good time. Here we go…

We start out with an opening shot of a chain link fence, topped with that razor wire that will slice off a limb in a mere second, so I’m thinking this is not going to be a laugh-filled comedy where people meet cute and have pretty hair. The credits roll as we see scenes indicating that this is one serious prison. Cut to inside the facility, where Lady Gaga is being escorted onto a cellblock by two of the harder-living Pussycat Dolls. (You’d think somebody would have mentioned to them that they should probably button their shirts. Seems a little unofficial to me.)

Then again, we’re not really supposed to be looking at the Dolls. We’re intended to focus on Lady Gaga, wearing an interplanetary outfit that would make her look like a zebra if she was standing on an African plain. The trio struts down the cellblock while we learn that the inmates in this place are all female and apparently are so horny that if a small earthquake tremor hit the building, the power of the unleashed orgasms would alter the alignment of the planet.

Gaga doesn’t care about the musk in the air. She’s more concerned with taking off her designer shades and handing them to one of the Dolls. Then the Dolls drag Gaga into one of the cells, and proceed to rip off her clothes. (Ever notice that Lady has no problem being naked in a public setting? I wonder if she went to private schools. They learn different things there.) Then the Dolls leave, probably so they can go learn some new dance moves. Their departure inspires Gaga to climb the bars so we can see she has electrical tape on her nipples and that there seems to be a pixilation issue with her crotch.

Now we’re in the “Exercise Yard” of the Big House, because everyone knows that physical fitness is the number one priority of people who have to shower in monitored groups. Lots of very muscular women are fiddling with barbells and hormone supplements. And here comes Gaga in another startling outfit, this one requiring that heavy chains be draped across her body and that her sunglasses be accessorized with burning cigarettes. (Can you imagine the pissed-off prop person that had to keep that thing going through hundreds of takes?)

The other prisoners stare at Gaga. Gaga stares at the other prisoners. This doesn’t resolve anything, so Lady sashays her way to a convenient table so that one of the butcher ladies can sniff Gaga’s hair. I guess Gaga used just the right conditioner, because this leads to a lusty kiss and requires that somebody’s hand (it’s unclear because there’s a tremendous amount of fondling and pawing) snatch up Lady Gaga’s cell phone. (Because everyone gets issued those in Alcatraz, right?)

Cut back inside the prison, where we seem to find ourselves in the midst of an odd daycare where the kids are really big. And felons. Now Gaga is sporting a hairstyle that involves Diet Coke cans and Gucci sunglasses. (Where the hell is the bitch getting all these accessories?) We watch an altercation of some kind, which involves lots of violent slapping and name-calling. (The Pussycat Doll guards don’t even bother to stop the ruckus, because they’re saving their strength to straddle stripper poles at a performance they have later that night.)

The intercom system announces that Lady Gaga has a phone call, so she and her studded-leather panties march over and pick up a receiver on the wall. Instead of having a normal conversation or confirming her pizza order, Gaga starts singing the song. (About damn time. We’re 3 minutes into this thing.) We don’t get to hear what the person on the other end of the line might have to say, but whatever it is, it causes Lady to hang up and break into a dance routine. One that involves Gaga tugging on her jacket and making Evil Hello Kitty scratching movements in the air. (I guess this is another private school thing that I don’t understand.)

Now we’re back on the cellblock, where everybody is wearing just bras and panties as Gaga tromps around and wails the song. (I understand that prisons can be pretty cold, so you know these thong-clad people are suffering for their art.) This goes on for a bit, with the strutting felons really getting down with their bad selves, and showing that some girls still firmly believe in the power of peroxide. (And where did they find so many pairs of hooker boots?)

Brief shots of Lady Gaga prancing around wearing nothing but “crime scene” tape. That girl can wear anything. She also likes to assume positions that prominently feature her pubis. She really loves that thing.

Next we have Lady Gaga apparently being bailed out by some unknown person. (A lawyer from Interscope Records?) She’s sporting an aerodynamic hat that could probably make it to Jupiter with the right wind thrust. She also performs some odd dance steps that one really shouldn’t do if they want to appear of sound mind and body. She sashays outside and hops into a tricked-out pickup being driven by…

Beyonce. Wearing black lipstick, an outdated hairdo, and no bra. Beyonce berates Gaga for her badness, munching on what might be a burrito or maybe the latest Billboard Hot 100 Chart. Then Beyonce offers a bite to Gaga, who takes a voracious rip at the thing, then they peel out and drive off to… I have no idea.

They roll down the highway, having a strange conversation about cows, burgers, cracked mirrors, and Lady’s ability to use the F-word freely. They seem to be plotting something, but it’s not clear if it’s a robbery, a drug deal, a murder or a Brazilian wax. Then Beyonce fiddles with the radio, and starts belting out her part of the song. (Lady Gaga, still wearing that stupid hat that takes up half the car, whips out a Polaroid and takes pictures of Beyonce and her lips singing the song.) I’m not sure what kind of issue Beyonce is having while singing and driving, but it requires that she lean over a lot so we can see that she is still not wearing a bra.

They roll up to some roadside diner, where we see a modified cowgirl wearing tight yellow leather making her way to a table, where some guy is sitting acting all street. Wait, the cowgirl is actually Beyonce, so I’m confused because I really don’t know when she had time to change her outfit. Home Boy, for no apparent reason, decides to wander around the diner and either rough up people or slap their butts. This allows Beyonce time to pour some poison into Home Boy’s coffee. It’s probably not a good day for Home Boy, which is fine, because he’s wearing a cap that is too old school for cool. It’s understood in Gaga videos that if your headwear can’t compete with the Lady, you have to die.

Home Boy, finished with his random molesting of the ladies, heads back to the table and swigs his tainted coffee. He starts to cough, and we cut to Lady Gaga somewhere else that looks like an industrial kitchen, with lots of pretentious queens flitting about and dancing with rolls of French bread. Oh wait, now Beyonce is in a skanky, badly-decorated hotel room, singing while wearing a jacket that she stole from Janet Jackson’s Rhythm Nation tour. The obvious theft doesn’t stop her from throwing her legs wide apart while sitting on the bed. Some things just come naturally no matter what you’re wearing.

Now we have some jump cutting, with shots of Gaga and the Queens making sandwiches, Beyonce apparently being given shock treatments while standing up, and a line dance in the industrial kitchen involving the waving of cookware implements and some breast touching (along with some choreographed hand-clapping). We don’t learn anything from this, but it’s fun and energetic, and Gaga gets to eat one of those sandwiches, so she should be able to keep her energy up regardless of what they stick on her head in her next scene.

Back to the diner, where Home Boy is still coughing. (I guess they didn’t need to use a fast-acting poison, since this video is tremendously long.) Whoops, now we’re in the industrial kitchen, where Gaga has decided to do an impromptu cooking show on how to use poison to kill people who piss you off or don’t understand the concept of turn signals. Then she snaps up one of her creations and marches out into… the diner. Okay, so this industrial kitchen was really the kitchen diner, which makes perfect sense, because all roadside diners have kitchens large enough to hold a chorus line of Desperate Housequeens with reality issues.

Gaga marches up to the table where Home Boy and Beyonce are pretending to like each other, and she slaps down her death-dealing patty melt or whatever it is. We watch while HB pours syrup on the entrée, gobbles it up, and starts choking again. (You know, it’s really time for Home Boy to head to the Pearly Gates, because they’ve been trying to kill him for a while now.) He finally kicks it, which allows Beyonce to also utter the F-word and then cover her mouth with fingernails painted with the American flag. (What the hell? And seriously, B-Girl. What’s up with those bangs?)

Now we see lots of people snarfing up their meals and proceeding to choke, while Lady Gaga strikes dramatic poses involving finger-pointing and close-ups of her vibrantly yellow wig. With all this sudden death, one would naturally resort to a line dance to move the story along.

So they do. Gaga is now in a hippie outfit and Beyonce is in a leftover costume from “Wonder Woman” while the surviving people in the diner bust some fancy moves while stepping over the sprawled bodies of the people who ate the Tuna Surprise. As the dancers shimmy and shake, we get shots of all the dead people, including a dog, so I’m thinking PETA is not going to endorse this video. As if Gaga cares whether they do or not.

While this very extended dance extravaganza is going on, we see more shots of Beyonce receiving shock treatments in that tacky hotel room. I’m not sure what we’re supposed to think about that, but based on the wide-open eyes of Beyonce while she vibrates, it looks like we might have a replacement for Botox therapy. (“Hello? I’d like to remove some wrinkles using a live electrical wire. Yes, I’ll hold.”)

We see the tricked-out truck peeling away from the diner, interspersed with shots of Gaga wearing something inspired by leopards and/or people who like to wear fur-covered hats. She appears to be standing in front of the tricked-out truck while prancing around in this latest outfit, so I’m going to assume that they are at a rest stop where they play disco music while you pee. This rest stop is probably not in Oklahoma.

Leopard Gaga dances for quite some time, long enough that we get to see her waving her fanny a number of times, so we’ll also have to assume that there’s not a “no loitering” policy at this rest stop. I don’t see any truck drivers, though, which is odd. But maybe Gaga has killed everybody here as well. (“Would you like a sample of my sushi?”)

Now we’re watching a “breaking news” story about a mass homicide at the diner. Cut to Lady and Beyonce dancing behind their “Pussy Wagon” truck, and wearing outfits that drug-taking nuns might choose. Then the girls hop back into the truck, have a conversation about going “far, far away from here” and “never coming back”. Then they clasp hands in a nice “Thelma and Louise” tribute, but they don’t actually drive off a cliff.

Because that already happened about eight and a half minutes ago.

Cheers.

　

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Dream a Little Steam of Me

  I answered the front door. “Yes?”

  A man stood there, clipboard in hand and tool belt on waist. “I’m here to fix your water heater.”

  Hallelujah. I immediately worshipped this man and all he stood for, nearly dropping to my knees and kissing his booted feet for finally showing up. We had been without hot water for two solid days. Not the end of the world, but by no means a good time. I practically ripped the screen door off and threw it to the side. “Come in.”

  We clomped through the maze of a hallway in our house, eventually reaching the door to the water heater closet (otherwise known as That Door We Only Open About Every Five Years). The man immediately set to work, professionally fiddling with this and that, snatching implements out of his pouch as needed, and clearly not requiring my assistance at the moment.

  This is the part that unnerves about having maintenance people in my house and touching my things. Are you supposed to just stand around in case these people need you in some way? Or do you just pretend that they aren’t really there and go about your business as if a strange man didn’t have his arm shoved in your plumbing?

  So I cleared my throat and announced “I’ll just in the office, other end of the hallway, if you need anything.”

  He just grunted, intent on making a lug-nut do something it didn’t really feel like doing. I guess in Plumber-ese, a grunt can be taken as “That arrangement suits me perfectly. Thank you for your thoughtfulness and consideration. Please enjoy your time in the other room.” I wandered into the office, listening carefully during my journey in case there were sudden pleas for urgent assistance from the water heater closet, accompanied by unsettling mutterings like “why is there so much blood?”

  I sat down at my desk and checked to see what was going on in Facebook, something I do with the regularity of breathing. Not much was happening, so I did a status update, some bit about strange men in my house wearing tool belts.

  Within seconds, there were 47 comments, all of them concerning lusty things one could do with maintenance men who were already in your house, since getting them there was half the battle. Wow, I had no idea that so many people had fantasies on hand concerning plumbers. Which proves that most of my friends are perverts. And apparently none of them have jobs if they were updating Facebook at 3pm.

  But it did get me to thinking, which is usually an ill-advised and dangerous thing, leading to surprise arrests and people named Buck wanting to live in your car. How does one go about seduction these days? I’ve been in my current relationship for over a decade, and we all know how that goes. I haven’t had to be sexy for years. Done got the milk, people. But really, what was considered hawt these days? Did I still have the goods to elicit “that look”? It’s all I wanted, a look, nothing more.

  Hmmm.

  I headed back into the kitchen, home of that Door We Never Open, which was now open, and the man who usually wasn’t there, but now was. Plumber Man was still fiddling with whatever, standing inside the closet, his back to me. Well, my plan to allure was already falling apart. It’s hard to be seductive when people aren’t looking at you. It’s hard to be anything when people aren’t looking at you.

  Just then, Plumber Man backed out of the closet, turned around, noticed me standing there, briefly nodded, fished something long out of a box I hadn’t noticed before, then re-entered the closet. Okay, then. This was still doable. I just had to wait until the next time he came out of the closet, and then make sure I was staged correctly.

  I glanced around for the optimal position for highlighting my assets. For some reason, my eyes were drawn to the sink, sensing that the smooth porcelain was subliminally sensual. I approached the double-sink and took stock. Perhaps I could use the sprayer hose in a naughty manner, pretending to somehow get it caught between my legs. Nope, didn’t stretch far enough.

  Maybe run the hot water, creating clouds of billowy steam that would make me look dewy, fresh, and consumed with dripping passion? Ixnay on that as well. There wasn’t any hot water. That’s why the damn plumber was here in the first place.

  Were giant butcher knives sexy? Probably not, or at least only for a certain segment of the population that watches slasher movies for all the wrong reasons. A rolling pin? No, might come across as too demanding. A spatula might work, wanting to be “flipped over” and all that. The coffee grinder could be intriguing. But I really didn’t know which props I should use. Being sultry takes a lot of planning.

  Plumber Man stepped out of the closet again, digging in his box of goodies once more, lingering a bit longer this time and actually sustaining eye contact when he noticed me still standing there. Then he smiled. (Oh? Did I have him already? Just with my mere appearance? I still had it!)

  Then things went back in limbo when he said “Not any fun taking cold showers, is it?” (What the hell did he mean by that? Was I being too forward and he was telling me to tone it down by mentioning “cold showers”? Or was he encouraging me by saying it was a negative thing to splash cold water on the smoking heat that was building between us?)

  Love was so complicated. Lust was even worse.

  Plumber Man went back into the sacred closet, twisted something, unlatched something else, then popped off the cover of the water heater (it’s tank-less, for those keeping score), and moved  backward carrying the cover and trying to keep from gouging the 60-year-old wood on either side of the doorframe. (This was a wise decision. Lust object or not, there would have been a very frank discussion if scratching had taken place) He bent over to lean the cover against the wall (oh my!) and his booty gently bumped the kitchen table.

  And that’s when it hit me. The kitchen table! That’s where our moment of wild abandon should take place. It seemed so naughty but oh so right. I had visions of Jack Nicholson nailing Jessica Lange in the remake of The Postman Always Rings Twice, right there on that creaky table while Jessica was just trying to make a nice potato salad or whatever it was. We would grovel and flounder, with me sexily wiping flour out of my hair as eggs smashed to the floor and homemade mayonnaise splattered the linoleum. “Take me!” I would moan to Jack, as a jar of pickles rolled under the stove and livestock mooed through the open window over the sink. “Make me one of your Five Easy Pieces!”

  “Sir?”

  My eyes blinked open. Had I drifted off while sitting in front of the PC?

  “Sir? Could you come in here for a second?” It was the Plumber Man in the kitchen! Aw hell, had I let my mind wander at a critical moment, and now he was lying in a pool of blood because I hadn’t paid attention? I raced down the hallway.

  He was standing outside the heater closet, throwing things back into his mystery box. “Can you check the heat?”

  I just stood there. Why did everything sound deliciously tawdry to me?

  He glanced up. “The sink. Can you check the hot water?”

  Oh. Damn. “Okay.” I stepped over to the sink and slapped at the faucet. Water began gushing, which did nothing to alleviate my inability to turn every innocent phrase into a lust-dripping invitation to bang a gong. I shoved my hand into the stream of water, waiting for things to reach a boil.

  Plumber Man absently scratched at his chest. Underneath the shirt he was casually caressing, nipples could be found, manly hotspots that could satisfy a well-trained tongue. He picked something up off the table and took a few steps closer. His voice deep and gravelly, he queried: “Is it getting hot?”

  I think I made a yelping noise. I couldn’t help it. “Yes. It is. Very Hot. Burning.” I tried to lean seductively against the sink, lips moist, my reddened hand becoming numb as nerve endings were seared by the scalding water.

  “Great!” said Plumber Man, shoving a clipboard at me. “That’ll be 180 bucks. Sign here.”

  I shut off the faucet, the last of my libido swirling down the drain…

Backup Dancers From Hell: Natalie Imbruglia - “Torn”

Editor’s Note: We have only one fixed shot in this entire video, a partial view of a few rooms in what we’ll assume is Natalie’s house. There’s no story whatsoever, just Natalie and her crew messing with us, so we’ll have to do the time-stamp thing. Here we go…

0:05 Natalie wanders out of her bedroom, wearing a cute little slacker outfit and an even cuter slacker hairdo. She takes her time walking toward us, because it’s her video and she can do whatever she wants.

0:17 Natalie disappears and some guy comes tromping up steps on the right. We’ll call him Ian, because that sounds like a nice Australian name. He must be something of a pig, because he just throws his jacket on a chair instead of hanging it up like any decent guest would do.

0:24 Close-up on Natalie’s face. Yep, she’s still cute.

0:27 The man comes up the stairs again, but this time Natalie comes out of her bedroom at the same time. This is where the video team starts jacking with us, we don’t know it just yet.

0:32 Ian pulls off Natalie’s cute slacker hoodie. She pretends to giggle and act like it’s fun, but you know she’s mad because you never mess with a woman’s couture.

0:39 Ian pokes Natalie on the chest with one of his incredibly long fingers. Natalie takes one look at the length of that digit and decides it would be just fine if he started taking his own clothes off.

0:41 Some short guy suddenly appears behind Ian and moves him over a little bit. Is he the cameraman? The director? Somebody who just likes to relocate people who are taller than he is?

0:46 Ian doesn’t understand how to do jumping jacks.

0:49 Other strange people are now wandering around on the set.

0:52 Apparently Natalie is headed to a track meet after this video thing is done.

1:06 Ian starts to kiss Natalie, but they are both distracted by something to their left. My guess is that the squat little director walked by again.

1:10 Some people are greatly concerned about the placement of a brown leather chair. Natalie is starting to get concerned that it may take three years to shoot this video.

1:13 Ian suddenly remembers that he’s late for his proctology exam.

1:16 He decides the exam can wait.

1:27 A hairdresser decides that it’s critically important that he fluff Ian’s hair right at this moment. The hairdresser must have caught a glimpse of Ian’s fingers as well.

1:36 Ian is bored.

1:38 Natalie and Ian both confess to not understanding quantum physics.

1:43 People are still screwing around with that damn leather chair.

1:47 An illegal immigrant sneaks into the country.

1:54 Natalie starts marching slowly toward the camera, wailing away. Tension builds as we wonder if she’s going to smack her head on the camera lens.

2:00 Quick pause while someone checks to see if Natalie is leaking radiation.

2:03 It apparently takes two stylists to work on Natalie’s hair.

2:05 She doesn’t care for their work, and makes some adjustments.

2:15 Natalie is marching toward the camera again, really close this time. She seems to enjoy doing that for some reason. Is there something written on her glossy lips that she wants us to see?

2:23 Apparently Natalie needs to use the bathroom.

2:27 Maybe not. She might be concerned about the fact that one of the walls behind her is wiggling for no apparent reason.

2:32 Now we can see that set people are trying to strike the set even though Natalie is still singing. These people must be on a really strict time schedule.

2:42 The dumb-ass set people nearly knock over the wall and kill Natalie. She’s a trooper, though, warbling away despite the nearness of death and union workers.

2:49 The back wall starts sliding away.

2:52 Natalie gives the workers a look like they need to get this part done because they’re really starting to get on her nerves.

2:57 Ian marches by with a broom. No idea.

3:05 Ian kisses Natalie. Natalie decides the set workers can do whatever they want as long as they leave the bedroom alone.

3:19 More of Natalie and Ian smooching. He suddenly turns away in disgust.

3:21 Natalie looks at the camera apologetically. Had Mexican for lunch again. Sorry.

3:25 Part of the back wall falls down. George Bush, Sr., is standing off to the side, hoping he can credit for it in the history books.

3:29 Natalie decides that the only thing she wants to do in the world is dance. So she does. Sadly, no one joins her. She doesn’t seem to mind.

3:35 Natalie watches while Ian writes his name on a Styrofoam coffee cup. He must be very anal and possessive. Perhaps you should save yourself some heartache, Natalie, and just nip this relationship in the bud. Control freaks are never sexy in the morning.

3:41 Natalie dances some more.

3:50 Natalie decides that she’s milked all the fun she can out of this gig and wanders off camera, hoping that her next single is a little more inspiring to people who write scripts for music videos. But if not, she’s still cute, and that’s all that really matters…

　

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Backup Dancers From Hell: Train - “If It’s Love”

We start off with a disclaimer that after years of touring, Train took some time off. And the following is what they did in their spare time. Okay, then, let’s see.

Zoom in on Pat sitting at a makeup station, while some specialist makes sure that his hair retains that “just got out of bed look even though I paid someone hundreds of dollars to individually place each strand of hair”. The technician finishes and scurries off, so Pat stands up to admire the work as well as his all white outfit. He then puts on a black jacket and goes off to apparently not tour.

He walks into a bedroom that might have been decorated by the first person kicked off of this season’s “Design Star”. (Vern would scream and run from the room.) He sits on the bed and starts singing. Right in the middle of his vocals, he decides to take a nap, pulling the blankets over him. Well, I suppose you can sleep whenever you want if you’re not touring, but seriously, dude, we’re in the middle of a video.

Whoops, Pat is sitting back up on the bed and the covers aren’t messed up, so maybe I only imagined that last little bit. Pat sings some more for a while, and it gets just a wee bit boring, so my mind wanders and I wonder about things like where did he find that old-fashioned TV tray and what the hell happened to that lampshade.

Cut to Pat singing with the band, which I thought they weren’t supposed to be doing right now, but everybody looks happy so I guess I shouldn’t quibble. They appear to be performing at some fancy shindig with velvet ropes keeping the unpopular people away from the good stuff. Paparazzi are dashing about and I’m sure Paris Hilton is around somewhere, trying to figure out how she can make this event about her.

Now we have the story of what Jimmy did on his down time, when he apparently “tried new and inventive ways to raise money”. We see him at a pawn shop trying to unload a guitar, and I hate to break it to good ole Jimmy, but that’s not really a new and inventive thing to do. People have been going to pawn shops since they invented expensive drugs. Jimmy does get some cash, but he’s dissatisfied with the amount and stomps out of the store, realizing that with a tight budget he can only get his head waxed every other week.

More of the band singing, and I notice that there are several people not even watching the band do their thing. These people get on my nerves at concerts. Why are you even here if you’re not going to hold your hands over your head and quiver like orgasms are wracking your body? And I don’t care if you are just an extra hired for this video shoot, not knowing the difference between Train and Caboose, get into character or you will never be hired for another fake audience.

Next up is what Scott did last summer, which involves trying to sell his songs while standing beside a busy road. (Just me, or is this band not all that creative when they aren’t making music?) Some rich guy finally pulls up in his fancy car, handing over some cash for one of Scott’s CD’s with its crappy album art. Scott then does a jig of happiness before racing off to meet his inbred relatives for the barn dance over in Vagina Holler.

And more of the band singing. This time the crowd seems far more enthusiastic, so they must have gotten the memo I sent earlier. The paparazzi go crazy with camera flashes when Pat does one of his signature moves, an interesting mix of street cool and Herman Munster changing a light bulb. One girl in the front of the crowd is so excited she nearly gives birth.

We now learn that Train “even made some TV appearances”. Oh? Cut to Pat wearing some farm boy getup, complete with ball cap. It’s not that attractive, but the other guys are dressed as giant chickens, so Pat should really keep quiet or they’ll find something even more embarrassing for him to wear. The show they are taping appears to be some version of “Dancing with the Poultry Stars”, with the giant chickens trying to pop-and-lock without tripping over hay bales. Pat is not impressed with any of this, so he just stands there and waits for the shame to recede.

The little director guy doesn’t like something about the scene (you might wanna start with the whole concept of animals that talk and dance, eh?), so he stomps up and waves his hands around. Pat doesn’t care, and signals the video editor to cut back to the band in happier times, which includes shots of Pat eating dinner and watching “his favorite TV show”, which is him and the band accepting a Grammy award. This vision thrills Pat so much that he can only chew on one side of his mouth.

We get to the quiet part of the song just before the grand finale, so we head back to Pat and his bedroom, where he’s had it with his fancy clothes and starts ripping them off. But instead of titillating partial nudity, we are treated to Pat wearing his regular clothes underneath. Pat wanders out of the room, and the next thing you know the whole band is performing at a real concert.

And that’s how we wind down the song and the video, with Pat and the gang giving the audience just what they want. (With a few shots of a poultry uprising back on the film set, with the giant chickens and Farmer Pat hurling eggs at the irritating director.) We fade to black.

But not before we see a fleeting image of Paris Hilton trying to storm the stage to warble her new single, “If It’s Not About Me, You Need To Leave”…

　

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Backup Dancers From Hell: Enrique Iglesias featuring Ludacris - “Tonight (I’m Lovin’ You)”

Oh my, this one gets a little steamy. If images of bodies writhing in ecstasy make you a little uncomfortable, you might want to skip this one and go talk to your pastor, therapist or overbearing mother. Then again, it’s not like there’s frontal nudity with glistening body parts shoved at the screen, so I don’t think the world is going to end just yet.

Anyway, we start out with Enrique on some street, looking a little sad, and then BAM, a quick glimpse of the mentioned writhing bodies. This kicks off a montage of Enrique, some blond girl who appears to be walking backwards, people getting off of planes, and more writhing. Cut to a sex club where Enrique, looking effortlessly hot, is wandering around. Nasty tramps in cages are waving their booties and all that. (Some of them are extremely limber, so we need to give them credit for that. Not so much for their apparent need to straddle metal poles.)

Enrique stumbles around a corner, and we are presented with a dark-haired woman sitting in a well-lit chair like some type of royalty. She runs her finger around the rim of her martini glass, so we know that she’s sexually liberated. Enrique doesn’t immediately go up to her, instead choosing to mosey through the crowd while throwing furtive glances, which is kind of stupid. If you look like Enrique, all you have to do is walk up to a woman and she will toss her panties skyward.

Appropriately, they manage to hook up right when the beat of the song gets to really thumping, and within 3 seconds tongues are being shoved where they shouldn’t be if you’ve just met. Before you know it, fishnet-clad legs are reaching toward the ceiling. Apparently Enrique doesn’t like to mess around once he comes to a decision. (It also appears that they might be playing squat tag in a bathroom, and I can’t really say that I find that intriguing. Or sanitary. Maybe it’s just me.)

Then the music starts doing a weird “underwater” thing, and we start jump-cutting around so fast that I have no idea who is doing exactly what. All I know is that there seems to be some issue with the electric bill, because it gets awfully dark up in there. And somebody seems to have a really bad case of asthma.

Cut to a fancy car driving down a city street. Inside we find Ludacris, and he’s typically surround by a bevy of horny women who normally wouldn’t even look his direction if he didn’t have a recording contract. Initially, they are listening to Shirley Temple sing “Good Ship Lollipop”, which would make anybody suffer a psychotic break, so Ludacris makes the chauffeur jack with the radio. Of course, the chauffeur (who is way too white and old to be Ludacris’ real driver) manages to find Enrique’s song right at the point where Ludacris does his guest vocals. How convenient.

So Ludacris does his rap thang, which includes manly hand gestures but does not include taking off his sunglasses even though it’s midnight. He seems to be crooning to the skanky women, but if you watch carefully, it seems that the skanks are much more interested in each other than what Ludacris might have to offer. (We probably shouldn’t mention this to him.) Oh wait, Ludacris pours everybody some cognac, which helps the girls regain their focus. They are once again fighting each other for the chance to rub their boobies on Ludacris’ designer suit. The world is now back in order.

(Quick shot of the old, white chauffeur jamming and getting down. There are just some things that old, white people shouldn’t do.)

Cut to shots of some resort, where Enrique has just arrived on an airplane. (Although it looks just like the same arrival shot we briefly saw earlier, so this might be a flashback. Or a flash forward. Or a flash sideways. Perhaps the producers of “Lost” were involved in the production of this video. Maybe Hurley will walk by munching on a chocolate bar.) We cut back to the old chauffeur, but now his passenger is… maybe… the aggressive asthma person from Enrique’s fun time in the public toilet. Not sure. She tells the chauffeur that she’s headed to Mexico “for pleasure”. Isn’t that why we all head to Mexico?

Now we’re in a casino of some kind, where Enrique is playing poker because, well, he’s the star of the video and has to be in a certain number of scenes. One of the ladies watching the goings-on is really pretty and smoking a clove cigarette, so we know she’s a tramp. Enrique realizes this, and we learn that even though he has the winning hand, he folds so he can follow Blondie to wherever tramps go when they want to lure away hot singers.

Turns out that tramps lead potential bedmates to a fancy room loaded with other hormone-blazing women. They all secretly watch while Blondie puts on lipstick and then jumps on Enrique like a wildebeest felling a gazelle. It instantly gets dark (somebody really needs to check into the electrical situation) and we have jump-cuts of Blondie and Enrique ripping off couture and fondling sensitive body parts.

Cut to the next morning, where Blondie is leading Enrique up a curving staircase because it’s really pretty and will look good on film. Halfway up, they encounter Bathroom Tramp, sporting a severe hairstyle and looking none too pleased that Enrique has moved on to the next stall. She glares at him, looking like Joan Crawford did just before she killed somebody in a 1950’s movie.

Now Enrique is sitting at the end of his hotel bed, singing, and we can see about 20 people having group sex behind him. Why he would continue to sing while this is going on, I don’t really know, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Oh look, I guess they need some fresh meat, because Enrique gets pulled into that undulating mess. Does this guy ever sleep? And judging by the free-for-all on the bed, he’s got more than just the music in him.

Another montage, this one of Enrique touching a window, expensive yachts racing about on pretty blue water, the grope fest on the hotel bed, rugged cliffs with birds flying and squawking, and blurred images of breasts, because it’s perfectly fine to kill people in videos but you don’t dare show an exposed nipple. Right.

Cut to Enrique on one of the yachts, currently trolling about in some cliff-lined harbor where the water is gorgeous and poor people are hidden from view. And, lo and behold, his boat companions are Bathroom Tramp and Poker Face Tramp. You’d think this would be awkward, but Enrique is wearing a stylish hat, so that makes things better. And then the tramps lean in to kiss one another. End video.

What?

　

Click Here to Watch the Video on YouTube.

Backup Dancers From Hell: John Mayer featuring Taylor Swift - “Half Of My Heart”

We start out with John wandering into a cocktail bar, mixed with quick glimpses of what might be a church. While John presumably swigs a beverage, he fiddles with a boutonniere and then tosses it aside. (Maybe he doesn’t care for baby’s breath.) Quick shot of a tiny flower girl, and then suddenly John is in another room with strange décor, strumming his guitar that he apparently had in his back pocket.

John sings for a bit, with the camera showing that, yep, that’s really him playing. Another shot of the flower girl doing something, then back to John in the bar, singing to himself in the mirror. He may not like little flower buds in his buttonhole, but he sure doesn’t mind studying his reflection.

Back to this church, where it becomes clear that people are getting frustrated waiting for someone to show up at a wedding. We’ll have to assume it’s John, because everyone else seems to be there: a bride, a secretly-lustful bridesmaid, a best man, and at least two women who look like they could fill the role of bitter mother-in-law. Back to John singing and playing and not showing up.

Cut to somebody wiping “Just Married!” off of a car window, but not really doing a very good job because they’re just smearing the shoe polish around. John’s still in the bar, proving in one scene that he’s a ventriloquist, and in another scene that he can drink while either sitting down or standing up, whichever makes us more happy. More shots of disgruntled people leaving the church, possibly calling people named Guido to come put a cap in John’s self-indulgent ass.

John continues to play his guitar in that one room with the outer-space thing on the wall and the weirdly-carved wooden screen. These things are totally distracting and they really need to get rid of them. Does John not understand that if we’re looking at the props in confusion then we’re not looking at him?

People are still leaving the church, which is also starting to get a little old. Everyone’s very pretty, yes, but they’re still just people leaving a church. I think we all understand that nobody will be getting to throw rice. Let’s do something else for a bit, shall we? Wait. The best man just made a smirk that no one else could see. Interesting. Okay, which one of them is he sleeping with?

John’s not telling. He just wants to play his guitar in the poorly-decorated lobby of the Chinese buffet restaurant. Oh, and he wants to drink, too. We keep going back to that as well.

Now we have the bride packing up her wedding dress and shoving it back in a box, while the bridesmaid looks a little peevish, irritated that her friend got to wear something so sparkly and she didn’t. They’re both wearing rubber bracelets, so they probably really liked Madonna back in the day, before she got super-famous and started buying entire countries.

Cut to the best man showing up in the bar, so it’s apparently not the first time that John either drank or avoided a matrimonial procession. He spies his buddy and wanders over. (The other John is still playing a selection for the all-you-can-eat diners waiting for a table.) The best man doesn’t stay long or even order anything, instead patting John on the shoulder and preparing to leave.

Once the pointless visit from his friend is over, John pulls out a piece of paper with the words “I can’t stop loving you” scrawled on it. We aren’t sure who may have scribbled this (did John write it to his mirror image?) but it cues Taylor Swift to start singing her bit of the song. John then wanders out of the bar. We don’t see him leave a tip, so he’s one of those people.

He walks down the street for a while, singing, interspersed with images of someone dropping flower petals. Turns out that those hands belong to the petite flower girl. The wedding may have been cancelled, but she’s still going to perform her floral distribution duties, damn it. Nobody puts the baby in a corner!

John continues to sing to unknown pedestrians passing on the sidewalk, while other people put out wedding candles and look dispirited. Eventually, John hails a taxi and hops in. Final shot is of someone with enormous lips blowing out a candle, the smoke drifting upwards.

Meanwhile, a thoughtful and musically-appreciative couple waiting in line at the Chinese buffet throws some spare change into the hat at the other John’s feet. He looks in the mirror and thanks himself…

　

Click Here to Watch the Video on YouTube.

The 12 Shots Of Christmas

  Editor’s Note: This is a cautionary tale of what can happen when you mix the gift-exchange process with excessive amounts of alcohol…

Round 1

  On the first shot of Christmas, my true love gave to me… oh, a copy of “Dead Rising 2” for the XBOX 360. He is SO sweet to do that, fully understanding my need to annihilate hordes of people that I don’t like. Granted, this game doesn’t provide a very peace-loving view of the world, insisting that you slaughter people in a shopping mall without getting a chance to really get to know them. But there’s a part of me that simply enjoys indiscriminate gore and bloodshed. Probably the part of me that also laughs when people trip over nothing and smash their face in the ground. It’s probably hormonal.

  And look at this, he also got me the Game Guide for Dead Rising, so I can be sure to track down every possible person that can be killed in the mall, even if they have nothing to do with the story or the missions. My guy is really thoughtful to include that. I’m just going to place these over here in a clear space on the coffee table, where I plan to stack all of my loving gifts, especially the ones that involve carnage. It can be my death pile. Everyone needs one of those.

Round 2

  On the second shot of Christmas, my true love gave to me… a Kinect for the XBOX 360! You know, one of those things where you don’t even need a controller, you just hop around in front of it and the thing interprets your actions and you either win or lose. It’s very sophisticated and high-tech, the latest gadget that everyone must have if they plan on remaining socially relevant.

  We got to watch folks using one of these at a party a month or so ago. They were leaping about, doing high kicks and such, so it was very exhilarating. They were also sweating, and that didn’t seem as festive. I’m not sure that I need to be moist in public. But I’m glad that my honey remembered that I was interested in the Kinect. Of course, I helped his memory along by declaring something along the lines of “this better be under the tree for me or there will be complications”. There’s a reason why I keep an attorney on retainer at all times.

Round 3

  On the third shot of Christmas, my true love gave to me… (what is in this drink?)… um, some new jammie pants! I love jammie pants! I have tons, but my absolute favorite pair was getting a bit worn out, with a large gaping hole big enough that you could drive a truck through, in a very personal place. Let’s just say that freedom’s just another word for bending over to change the DVD player.

  I think I’ll put these on right now. Oh wait. There’s tags and stuff. I don’t really have the energy to mess with that right now. I’ll just throw the jammie pants on my little pile and worry about things later.

Round 4

  On the fourth shot of Crispness, my true love gave to me… Crystal Bowersox’s CD! She SO should have won American Idol, not that other guy. What’s his name? Lee something? Crystal was WAY better, but I can see how she scared some of the budding Barbie dolls with her questionable teeth color and hairstyles that were not necessarily a wise choice. But that girl could sing. Especially when she did that one song. I can’t remember the name right now. Something like “Go Tell Pa On Walton’s Mountain”. And that other song, about Summer Breeze, makes her feel fine. Apparently her boyfriend stopped making her feel fine, cuz he got the boot. Sure did….

  What were we talking about?

Round 5

  On the fist shot of Crispy, my too love gave to me… This better not be underwear. Whoops. It’s underwear. But I really did need some new pairs. Some of my older pair are paper thin (you can see France!), and the elastic has been reduced to a fine white ash that leaves a chalk mark around my waist. So panties are good. Wait. Where did panties come from? I don’t wear panties. Do I? (Sound of underwear package being tossed haphazardly onto gift pile, with something skittering off the table and crashing to the floor. No one checks to see what it might be.)

Round 6

  On the…. what shot are we on? Six? Are you sure? I thought I already sang that one. Anyway, now we have… (sounds of difficulty with tape applied to resilient wrapping paper)… it’s… oh, an electric Scrabble game! It tells you your score and beeps and everything. This is SO cool. I love it! What’s next?

Round 7

  On top of old seven shot, all covered with cheese… I found my true love, when somebody… I can’t get this one open. Can you do it for me? I’ve REALLY got to pee. Be right back. (Sounds of slightly staggering feet, followed by the distant crash of something that was no longer on the bathroom counter, and the toilet seat being slammed downward with enough force to create a small mountain in China.)

Round 8

  I don’t remember the numbers any more. Just give me another present.

Round 9

  Why is it called tequila? Does it mean something to Spanish people? I wish I knew Spanish. I know French. Well, I used to know French. Somebody knew French, and I think it was me. I’m not sure. Do you really love me? Hey! I have two feet!

Round 10

  I don’t KNOW why I’m crying. That commercial was just SO sad. What do you mean the TV isn’t on? You’re a LIAR. A LIAR! Wait. Who are you? Do you know how to make margaritas? I love margaritas.

Round 11

  I don’t WANNA open nothin’ else and you can’t make me. And I am NOT slobbering on you! Boys are stupid. And plaid. Boys and plaid are stupid. And cars. Why are there so many cars? They’re everywhere. All over the place. With their wheels and everything. Does anybody have any croutons?

Round 12

  On the twev shot tequila crispy… gave me true… the something… LOVE! I love everybody. EVERYBODY! I just want happy and peaceness for Paul, the whole world. I’d like to teach the world to… what is it? Why are there nuns on the crispy tree? Penguins? Who puts… that stupid… I’m so tired… but I love everybody… and if I go to sleep, no more singing and love… for me… and that’s all I want. Peace for Paul. And to all a good… I’m just gonna lay my head on this Kenny box… just for a second… peace… love… all… and croutons…

Best wishes to everyone, wherever you may be and whatever you are doing at this moment in time. Embrace it.

Backup Dancers From Hell: Nicki Minaj - “Right Thru Me”

This one starts out with a very long intro, with Nicki and her current beau returning from what might have been a party, or at least some place that required the beau to wear a tuxedo and Nicki to wear puffy toilet paper instead of an actual blouse. They march into the kitchen, and she’s all fired up about something that Beau did, waving her manicured hands around and repeating phrases because Beau is apparently not listening. He fiddles with something in the fridge instead of validating her in any way, so she breaks a glass to get his attention. Oh boy.

(Side note: Beau is WAY hot, so he better have done something really major, or Nicki just needs to chill. Unless the police were involved, I’m thinking they just need to work it out.)

As Beau picks shards of glass out his face, Nicki lets loose with her issues. Apparently Beau has been disrespecting her in some way. We only know this because Nicki bellows “stop disrespecting me!” at least 20 times. Beau has finally either had enough, or he’s concerned that more leaded crystal might be headed his way, and he starts to leave. Sure enough, Nicki smashes another glass. (She might as well keep going, because now the set is ruined anyway.)

Beau almost makes it to the door, and then Nicki races up to clutch his arm and beg him to stay. (Okay, Ladies, this is NOT how you do it. Let his ass march on out the door and think about things for a while. If he knows that you’re always going to give in, he’s never going to change. Have you not been listening to Tyler Perry?)

Now that Nicki has changed her attitude and has moved away from other possible projectiles, Beau actually starts to listen. She starts up with that “disrespecting” word again, so she almost loses him once more, but within a bit they are snuggling and loving on one another and we finally get to the song part of the video.

And I guess they worked it out, because they are lying in bed, post-coital, or at least post-nap. Well, Beau is laying there, snoozing. (I get the impression that Beau probably sleeps a lot. When you’re pretty, you don’t waste a lot of time working or wondering what people think about how you look.) Nicki is sitting beside him, caressing his muscular bicep. Then she lays down beside him.

And apparently starts having flashbacks to times when she wasn’t yelling so much. We see Beau looking hot in a ballcap, the two of them strolling along a beach at sunset, more hot ballcap, embracing on the beach, ballcap. You get the idea. Back in the bed, Nicki is singing to Beau in between the shots of erotic headgear.

Then we have Nicki trapped in what might be a giant shower. It’s really not clear what’s going on, but she’s singing behind a glass wall and there’s steam everywhere. She tries to wipe away the steam, but it keeps coming back, which is symbolic of her love for a man that disrespects her. She tries to quit him, but she can’t.

Some new scenes with Nicki wearing an afghan and giant hoop earrings. She’s just trying to get in her car, but Beau seems to have an issue with that. He’s tugging on her arm and bickering. She’s realizing that it’s hard to yell back when big golden rings are banging against your throat. She manages to make it into the driver’s seat, but then he says something really uncalled for, and she hops back out so he can jump in. Poor thing can’t even drive her own car.

Meanwhile, Nicki is still wiping away the steam in the mammoth shower room. How her hair isn’t frizzing into an unruly bush, I really don’t know. She must use some really quality hair products. Whoops, we get a full-body shot of Nicki in this room, and she apparently takes her showers while still wearing her underwear. Perhaps someone should speak to her about that. If no one tells you you’re not doing something right, how will you ever learn?

Shot of Beau standing in some pretty coastal water, with loving droplets splashing up and sizzling on his nipples. Then he’s out of the water, possibly looking for his shirt. Perhaps someone should speak to him about that. If you don’t have anything that needs covering up, why bother?

Okay, he’s back in the water, with Nicki motioning for him to do something. He looks confused. Then she’s straddling him back on the makeup-sex bed, and they are intertwining hands. (He better watch out for those sharp nails of hers, he could lose a finger.) Wait, now we’re back in that kitchen again, with them wearing the outfits that started this video. Not sure why we’re seeing this again.

They go through the same fight once more, and I’m not particularly pleased. I like the other scenes better where people aren’t wearing as much clothing. She smashes the two glasses, then does the Sybil flip-flop where she begs him to stay, blah, blah. (Just in case you were wondering about the status of Shower Nicki and Makeup-Sex Nicki during all this, the producers helpfully give us little status updates during the replay of the glass-smashing. Shower Nicki is still dealing with that steam, and Makeup-Sex Nicki is still straddling Beau and singing like her life depended on it.)

Okay, things are looking up. They finish with the kitchen-fest, and we start seeing shots of Beau dripping wet, somewhere. This can only be a good thing. Oh, he’s in the shower. That’s a good choice. But he’s wearing underwear, which harshes the buzz a little bit. (Why do these people around here bathe without taking off their undergarments? Are they Catholic?)

Quick shot of Nicki sitting on the floor of her closet, her face full of anguish and dismay. I’m guessing that she can’t figure out which shoes to wear in the next scene.

Now we roll into a montage of Beau in the shower, Nicki in the Shower without a Door, both of them on the beach at sunset, and Beau giving Nicki a piggyback ride because she must have gotten tired wearing all that jewelry on the beach and trying to walk at the same time.

Suddenly, Shower Nicki yells “Stop!” several times. I realize it’s part of the song, but it’s still startling considering my naughty thoughts about how Beau really needs to join my gym. Then she starts back in with the singing, so I guess I’m safe.

At 4:34 in the video, Beau decides to baptize Nicki in the River Michael Jordan. I’m not really going to argue with that, because it never hurts to bring people closer to Jesus. He can get you into all the best clubs.

But I guess the baptism didn’t take, because by 4:51 in the video, Shower Nicki is shoving her butt against the glass. I really don’t think the church elders would be in support of this activity. They frown on wetness against clear partitions. Or any wetness, for that matter.

We have a quick montage at the end to catch us up on what all the Nicki’s have been doing, then we freeze-frame on Shower Nicki still trapped behind the glass.

I sure hope she gets out someday.

But until she does, I’ll take care of Beau for her. Don’t worry, girl. I got it.

　

Click Here to Watch the Video on YouTube.

12 Last-Minute Gift Ideas And Some Creative Lies To Go With Them

1. Slim Jim’s from the corner convenience store.


(Take meat out of cheap plastic packaging prior to arrival. Wrap in ugly silk scarf that Cousin Edna got for you 20 years ago and you’ve never worn.) “This is a special friendship log that I ordered for you from Bolivia. It was hand-made by hundred-year-old nuns in a convent dedicated to the log-making skills of St. Felicia the Sturdy-Limbed. They have taken a vow of silence, so I don’t really know what’s in it, but legend has it that you will now be fertile whenever fertility might be necessary. But you might want to stay away from Bolivian sacrificial ceremonies when your loins start to tingle.”


2. The leftover plastic cap from a gallon of milk.

(Be sure to hold cap upside down when presenting with a flourish.) “This is a tea light holder recycled from salvaged parts of Apollo 13. This has actually been on the moon and has been touched by Tom Hanks when he was rehearsing how to look uncomfortable in a tight place. That patch of dried whiteness is actually someone’s sweat from the heat of reentry. Only 10 of these were ever made, and Ron Howard owns 9 of them.”

3. A chicken bone from KFC.

(Light incense just before proffering to recipient.) “This is a special talisman blessed by the Voodoo Priestess Marina del Crotchlina de Taco Bella. She rubbed it profusely during an intricate, midnight ceremony wherein there was chanting and the releasing of orgiastic cries. If you wear this around your neck, you will exude an overwhelming musk that will bring all the boys to the yard. And the dogs.”

4. An empty dry-cleaning bag.

“They have been lying to you all these years. This really IS a toy.”

5. A small tree branch that fell in your yard.

(Prep this item by stripping away ugly limbs to make it more convincing. A splash of red food coloring on the sharp end will be a nice touch.) “This is a battle spear used by the Mayans during the Backsplash Revolution. Some say it’s the very spear used to torture Mother Theresa Quesadilla, forcing her to reveal the hiding place of the Babbling Bishops while she was held captive in a Mexican restaurant. Late at night, if you listen carefully, you can hear the spear asking if you’d like a side of guacamole with that.”

6. An old bucket and a garden hose.

“This was Marie Antoinette’s favorite bidet. I got it on eBay.”

7. The bag of grass clippings that you forgot to drag to the curb on Trash Pickup Day.

(For authenticity, peel the produce sticker off an apple and slap it on the bag, giving it an air of somehow being imported from a faraway land where people speak funny and have odd holidays that don‘t make sense.) “This is mulch from Scotland. It was composted under the very tree where Mary, Queen of Scots, had someone executed for wearing plaid at an inappropriate moment. If you use the mulch properly, your begonias will thrive, and you will feel the growing need to no longer wear panties under your skirt.”

8. The never-read owner’s manual in the glove box of your car.

(Prep work: Cross out any wording on the front, and then seal the book closed with duct tape. Beat book on ground for added effect.) “This sacred book contains all of the secrets of the known universe. But you are not allowed to open it until Justin Bieber is no longer popular. If you open it before then, there is the possibility that he might reproduce, and the planet cannot currently support such a thing.”

9. The spare tire off your car.

“Wear this around your waist and roll down a hill. Everybody is doing it in France.”

10. Beer

I think this one is self-explanatory.

11. Scratch-off Lotto cards.

Because nothing says “love” like making someone perform manual labor on a little rectangle that they will just throw in the trash when they don’t win anything. Translation: “You are disposable to me, and my affection is dimming. Can you pass the pea salad?”

12. Great Aunt Pearl.

Nobody likes Pearl. She’s rude and doesn’t bathe properly. Isn’t it time another family had the opportunity to be berated about everything they try to do in their lives? I think so. Give her away. It’s the Christian thing to do.

Backup Dancers From Hell: Kesha - “We R Who We R”

We start off with an intergalactic digital message from outer space. It’s probably a distress signal, warning us that Kesha has made another video. Or maybe they’re just letting us know that there’s a sale at Macy’s in the Alpha Romeo galaxy. Aliens can be so confusing sometimes.

Anyway, we’re in some traffic tunnel, where we have flashing police lights and somebody’s dripping-wet hands placed on a side wall like they really don’t understand how to do push-ups. Oh, and there’s about 5 billion of Kesha’s party friends marching toward us in skanky outfits, which has become Kesha’s patented video dance move. Something has exploded behind them, but no one seems to care.

Close-up of Kesha, and somebody has glued Mini-Cooper car bumpers to her eyebrows. Kesha doesn’t seem to mind this, but she’d much prefer that we pay attention to her fingernails, waving her hands about like a Geisha girl on crack. Looks like someone spent a long time creating little metal cityscapes on each nail, and while this is interesting in a way, I’m not sure this is something I would recommend. It seems like they’d be heavy, throwing you off balance all the time when you try to walk to the bar for another round. And how in the world does this woman get through airport security?

Anyway, doesn’t matter, now we have Kesha tromping around in the tunnel, doing a tribute to old-school Madonna when Madge went through that Ponytail Blond Ambition phase. Sadly, this look isn’t quite successful for Kesha. Maybe it’s because she mysteriously chose to wear a strap of machine gun bullets with her outfit. Or maybe it’s just that Kesha is too short, with the big-ass ponytail making her look like something the Evil Stepmother would pick up and ring when she needed Cinderella to wash her feet.

Okay, time for more close-ups of Kesha, only now she’s wearing sparkly-blue eyeliner and a severe hairstyle that is reminiscent of that tarty youngster that sang with “Bow Wow Wow” back in the day. (Maybe Kesha is doing a tribute to all of her musical idols? Probably not.) Back to Ponytail Kesha, who feels inspired to grasp her breast whenever possible, as well as make hand motions that could be interpreted as a death threat if she wandered into the wrong part of Los Angeles.

More explosions in the tunnel, to keep things lively, followed by Kesha modeling more fingernail jewelry for QVC. Then Car Bumper Kesha seems to be having a migraine, or maybe her eyebrows are actually magnets that keep pulling her metal-tipped fingers toward her head. It’s a lot of work being hip and fashionable.

Two cars race through the tunnel and then disappear, signaling all the Kesha Kids to pile into the now-vacant street and begin to gyrate without breaking the shellac on their hairdos. Throughout this mess, we keep getting glimpses of a police car at the far end of the tunnel. Why he’s letting these people pogo about on a public thoroughfare, I don’t really know. Maybe he’s scared of them. Or maybe he’s been instructed to keep the Kesha Kids in the tunnel as long as possible so maybe their parents will stop drinking.

Now we might be at a dance club, but it’s hard to tell these days when you’re not sure if people are actually dancing of if there’s been a mass reaction to the shellfish. There are two ladies who might be DJ’s, but they might also be lifeguards, considering their attire. Oh, and we have lots of bottles of tequila, with some bodiless hands pouring the contents into shot glasses so we can understand how that process works. This leads to a montage of somebody’s booty shaking near the tequila bottles, and Kesha convinced that rubbing her hand on the side of her face is alluring.

At one point, Kesha waves about a crucifix on a chain, another shout-out to Madonna. Unless Kesha thinks that she just invented this look, not having been born when Madonna first rolled around in a wedding dress on the MTV stage, letting us all know that she was going to be a star whether we wanted her to or not. Luckily, we did, so that worked out okay.

We also get shots of somebody using a laptop and scrolling through the available faces for an online dating service. I’m thinking Kesha really doesn’t have a need for that sort of thing, but who knows. Maybe it’s hard to get a date when 50 million people have already seen your naughty bits in music videos.

More happy, bouncing people. Lots of them. During this bit, Kesha is wearing a modified, and mostly torn, American flag for her outfit. And her hair has been forced to look like amber waves of grain billowing in the wind. Kesha loves her country. Especially the profit part.

The music suddenly stops and Kesha appears to be standing on the roof of a building. (It’s hard to tell, because we can see her sparkly panties under the torn flag shirt, and we can’t really focus.) Kesha raises her hands (in an “Oh Mighty Isis!“ stance) and commands a DJ to turn it up. Well, this unseen DJ misunderstands and instead starts chopping up Kesha’s vocals so that she says “up” 46-thousand times until you’re ready to claw your face. Even Kesha can’t stand the sound of her voice for that long, so she hurls herself over the side of the building.

She then plummets for a quite a while before landing, unscathed, in the arms of the dancing Kesha Kids. The Kids then crowd-surf Kesha’s adored body around the tunnel while another intergalactic message is received from outer space. (It’s probably High Command, inquiring if one of their spacecraft crashed, but no, it’s just Kesha, trying to get more attention.)

And that’s about it. We have another montage of all the Kesha’s either singing, dancing, wiggling their arms, or waving jewelry about and screaming that there are only 20 items left so we better get on the phone, pronto. And we have some more explosions, but that is SO two minutes ago and we need to move on.

The video ends with a final intergalactic message. This one probably translates into “Hey kids, run out and buy the new Kesha album right now or you will be social outcasts in school come Monday morning!” Or something like that. I’m still distracted by the sparkly panties….

　

Click Here to Watch the Video on YouTube.

Backup Dancers From Hell: Black Eyed Peas - “The Time (Dirty Bit)”

We start off in outer space (which is where we usually start with the Black Eyed Peas, but I digress), with meteors or something flying about and exploding. It doesn’t look healthy at all. Then we whiz past some planets and zoom in on one that happens to have streets and buildings just like ours. Yay! The camera whizzes down these streets at an amazing rate, so we really don’t have time to determine if we like this place or not.

We finally end up in some somewhat-trashy alley, where will.i.am is standing, wearing funky space gear or maybe a futuristic jogging suit. He puts on some headphones and starts singing, and it doesn’t take long to realize his digitized voice is bellowing lyrics from one of the songs in that movie where they tried to put Baby in a corner and Patrick Swayze didn’t really care for that.

Then some Film School graduate starts jacking with the pixels of the video, making will.i.am’s face turn into little cubes. The cubes keep getting bigger until they turn into just one box with Fergie’s face in it, and she picks up the lyrics. I have no idea why we had to do that, but we did.

While Fergie BoxHead continues to warble, the camera pulls back so we can get another gander at the weird jogging suit, then the camera zooms back in on Fergie just as her vocal track starts skipping and she gets an evil expression like she just ate a Chihuahua.

Now we’re flying through some digital outer-space mess like a Galaga game is short-circuiting back in the day, and then we arrive in a nightclub. Lots of people are dancing around with their requisite hands in the air and proving that none of them really know a whole lot of dance moves. The camera maneuvers through the crowd, which takes a little bit because it’s hard to get that much hair product out of the way quickly.

Eventually we make it to will.i.am on stage, where he’s messing with turntables while skanky go-go dancers gyrate in front of fake giant computers. And here we go with more of the pixels and cubes business, making everyone look futuristic but still skanky. The pixels are fun at first, but it only takes about three seconds and you’ve seen enough. Sadly, somebody thinks we haven’t, so we keep seeing it.

And here comes Fergie, doing one of her trademark entrances where she rap-sings while strutting in high heels and touching every reachable body part with far more self-pleasure than is really necessary. Fergie works her way through the bouncing throngs of people, happily shoving extras out of the way when they stupidly step into her dance patch. I’m surprised to learn that we actually can’t see her panties with this outfit. Maybe she was tired during this part of the shoot.

Quick bit with Taboo leading the crowd in some shout-out to having a good time, then back to will.i.am, doing more of the BoxHead thing while he stands on another street. He uses his Blackberry to point at a billboard, making an animated version of will.i.am come to life and drop to the street. Then mini-Will climbs back up to the billboard and tries to look all ghetto and shifty. (I have no idea how I’m supposed to interpret this.)

Fergie starts singing again, and somebody makes a mini-Fergie pop off another billboard and start sashaying on top of a building. Great. Just what this country needs, an army of tiny Black Eyed Peas terrorizing the neighborhoods and sampling songs from the 80’s. Then the BoxHead thing is back, with everybody’s face flashing across the screenhead while Fergie’s vocal track gets stuck again. (You’d think somebody would figure out what’s wrong with that thing and fix it.)

Back to the nightclub again, where some woman is supposedly dancing but looking more like she snagged her hoo-hoo on some barbed wire. (Fergie briefly tries to keep up with her, then decides it’s safer to just snap her fingers and make her curls bounce.) Suddenly, apl.de.ap joins Hoo-Hoo Girl for a quick dance routine, then he shoves her out of the way so the camera can focus on him while he raps and shows us his Mohawk. (While he’s doing that, we see an image of someone throwing up pixilated yuck, and I bite my tongue not to make a comparison.)

And the BoxHead guy once more, releasing mini’s of apl.de.ap and Taboo, so they can run be tiny together with Fergie and will.i.am. (There’s so many exciting things to do when you’re little, like walk under doors and go on a float trip using croutons.) Nightclub again, with the music slowing down a little bit and somebody digitizing somebody’s voice so that it’s really deep. (Um, have we EVER heard any of these folks’ real voices? Just curious.) Taboo leads another group cheer, then the huddle breaks so people can go score touchdowns.

And we have more dancing, with lots and lots of pixel jackery, so that it looks like a bunch of drunken Lego People at a frat party. Fergie seems to be really enjoying this part of the song, jiggling about and thrusting her arms like she spilled hot sauce on her panty shield. In fact, everybody in the room seems to be having misplaced condiment issues, jumping and cavorting with a frenzy that will most likely lead to regret in the morning.

Brief shot of the camera dangerously close to some nymphet’s two-moon junction. It’s just not a Black Eyed Peas video unless there’s butt crack.

The song winds down and we zip away from BoxHead in the alley, traveling backwards through the streets and back out into space. The BEP’s are probably headed to the Intergalactic Music Awards, because they’re already won everything on this planet. And they might finally find someone who can fix Fergie’s vocal track…

　

Click Here to Watch the Video on YouTube.

10 Exciting Things About Eating Breakfast at Luby’s

1. The fact that Luby’s even serves breakfast.

  This is an amazing and monumental development in the history of dining out. Luby’s has always had good food, albeit most of the selections are considerably health-negative. (The cooks love things like salt, butter, lard, and a disregard for free-flowing arteries.) So the prospect of  the staff taking a crack at breakfast had me salivating profusely from the exact second I noticed the announcement whilst driving past the location down the street. It was 8:30 at night. I seriously considered just parking the car at the door and waiting for daylight.

2. It’s CHEAP.

  Luby’s is not known for budget-supportive prices. If you aren’t careful when going through the line, snapping up everything that looks tasty, you might have to take out a loan when you get to the register. Even if you try to do the right thing, economically speaking, selecting the LuAnn Platter, which saves you a few cents, I’m just not emotionally stable enough to avoid the other temptations. Like dessert. A wedge of carrot cake, though guaranteed to trigger multiple orgasms, will set you back 4 or 5 bucks.

  But brace yourselves, fellow Luby’s lovers. The breakfast at Luby’s is only FIVE DOLLARS. That is not a typo. (To be fair, that’s the price here in Dallas. I can’t really speak for other locales, nor do I have any desire to do so.) And before you have recovered from the shock, let me hit you with another wave: It’s all you can eat.

  All. You can eat.

  I know, right? Why are you still sitting there? Pack up Granny and hit the road.

3. On the down side, “All You Can Eat” can lead to poor planning and biological discomfort.

  As mentioned, I’m still used to careful selections when working through the serving line at Luby’s, because everything costs and I have bills to pay. So when presented with the option of taking whatever I want, I went a little crazy, asking for a bit of everything. When my plate was finally passed down to the last sever and it was time to hand it over, a representative from OSHA had to step in and weigh the thing before Missy could hoist the grease-dripping mess, and in the end they just used an overheard crane to swing the groaning porcelain platter my direction.

  As I waited in line to pay, I realized that I had four different biscuit-based items on my tray. (The most enticing of these? Honey-laced chicken strips on a butter biscuit.) I had enough carbs in my possession to power me through not only the Boston Marathon but the first six months of next year. If I dared to eat all that mess then I deserved to have internal organs rupture in defiance and self-preservation.

4. The cashier is not yet used to this “one price” thing, either.

As she was announcing my total, Melvinetta, or whatever her name was, actually said to me: “That’s the same amount that I’ve been ringing up all morning!” (Then she grinned maniacally at this perceived happenstance in the cosmos.) Um, everyone is going to have the same amount because it’s the same price. Do you not realize that you’re punching the same button on your little register every time? Poor thing. I hope she really likes working at Luby’s, because she’s apparently already clutching the highest star she can reach.

5. The table attendants have a new lease on life.

  These people no longer have the boring task of simply inquiring on the fullness level of your tea glass. They are now responsible for running to retrieve any additional food selections you may require during your consumption extravaganza. That’s right, you don’t even have to drag your ass out of your chair if you want to nosh a bit more. Just ask and you shall receive. Good deal, right?

  Sort of. You have to be very selective in choosing your table. You want to be in the serving radius of a well-balanced and professional attendant, one who will keep an eye on you without being intrusive. You don’t want one of those hyper, greedy attendants hell-bent on asking if you need anything every five seconds, thinking that the more little plates they bring you will automatically increase their tip. “Look, Benedryllia, I’m still chewing on the bite of pancakes that you watched me put in my mouth the last time you checked on my hash brown requirements.”

6. Cream gravy tastes good on everything.

  Everything.

7. It IS possible to slip into and out of a grease-induced coma several times in a row without lasting physical damage.

  I proved that this morning. You can rent the resulting documentary at Red Box.

8. Cheaper does mean a ruder customer base.

  Prepare yourself for this angle. When prices hit rock-bottom, transforming Luby’s from the realm of senior citizens with nothing else to do and folks who will eat chicken-fried anything to a free-for-all of discounts and gluttony, you are going to encounter some shadier elements of society.

  Of course, it’s not like gangs are driving motorcycles around the condiment bar while hookers strut their wares near the extra silverware, but be aware that there are certain sinister tables that you should probably avoid. Unless, of course, you find it refreshing to be part of a drug deal at 9:30 in the morning. I understand that we all have our own interests.

9. The old people are still around.

  They are always there. It’s a cult.

10. It’s difficult to remember your name once you’ve eaten enough bacon.

  Likewise, an extremely full belly can lead to other complications in public places, like confusion about where the exit might be, where you car might be, how many people were originally in your party, whether or not you still love any of them, and an inability to recall the exact functioning of all those pedals and levers and warning lights on a standard automobile. Be sure to carry proper identification, proof of insurance, a list of possible reactionary medications, and a formal letter of pardon from the last time you lost your mind in a place that has unlimited cream gravy…

Backup Dancers From Hell: Coldplay - “Christmas Lights”

Preliminary Note: Just before watching this for the first time, I noticed a YouTube comment from somebody claiming “the fish eating the boat is the best part!”. What the hell? What am I getting into with this one?

We start out with the camera focused on an old phonograph, with somebody getting ready to play a record of Cold play’s “Christmas Lights”. Okay, that’s what I’m wanting to hear, so that’s good. A mysterious hand gets things going, and we pan down to a strange piano that is playing by itself. Aside from the paranormal angle, we’re also distracted by all of the keys having been painted different colors back in about 1918. Hmmm.

Camera moves away from the piano and we pan along the band members lying on their backs on old wooden floor. (What, they’re too lazy to actually perform in this video? Was the mayo bad in the tuna salad? Has Gwyneth put them in time-out?) We finally get to lead singer Chris, and he starts singing while still laying there. I spy an “X” on one of the floorboards near his head, and I find myself much more interested in what might be under that floorboard than where the rest of this video is going. I need to focus.

Chris is singing really low on this part of the song, and I’m straining to hear, so it’s kind of a relief when the camera pans away. Sadly, we’re back at the creepy piano that is being played by the Ghost of Christmas Past, or maybe his cousin, the Ghost of Videos Where You’re Not Sure What Is Going On. The camera pulls back, and we see that Chris is still on the floor, but the rest of the band is gone. (I didn’t receive a memo on where they might have went.)

Suddenly, Chris levitates from the floor into a standing position. Oh? There is just something really wrong with this place. Chris isn’t bothered that his body was just transported against his will, and he starts playing this Piano of the Dead. The camera pans again, and we see a nice, billowy red curtain, which is hopefully not possessed. The curtain parts, and hey, there’s the rest of the band. They’re playing their little instruments on an old-timey stage. There a cut-out props shaped like buildings in the background, and for some reason I think of Istanbul. I’m probably supposed to think of something else, but I’m very confused.

The guys jam for a bit as the camera moves backwards so we can get a better gander at this stage thing, and we can see that there are some pretty Chinese lights strung across the stage. Okay, are we supposed to be thinking of Christmas around the world? Not sure. The camera moves back in so we can watch Istanbul slide into the wings, and then we have an apparent ocean and a moon rising out of the water. Suddenly, three drunken Elvis’s zip by while playing violins.

Did anybody talk to Graceland about this?

The camera pulls back again so we can see that the band is still playing, but that wasn’t really necessary since we can hear them the whole time. Then we zoom in on Chris still banging on that piano, and he’s singing to somebody that must be in the balcony because he sure doesn’t want to look at us. In the back of the stage, the Elvis’s zip by again, followed by one of Lisa Marie’s lawyers.

Oh wait, there’s that boat getting eaten by a giant fish. Well, then. I can’t really say it was the most exciting development in this video, filled as it was with carnage and violence, but I’ll agree that it was unexpected.

Chris gives up the piano and moves closer to his mates, allowing for a great photo-op. The camera pulls back from the stage, pretty far, so we can see there’s a little marquee above the stage with the words “Credo Elvem Etiam Vivere”. I’m sure there are scholarly people who can interpret this slogan for us, but I’m going to assume it means some character from “The Lord of the Rings” is now living in Las Vegas and helping Santa deliver presents.

The camera pulls back far enough that we can see buildings in the distance over the top of the theatre. One of them looks like the Capitol Building, but I’m going to assume that it’s not, since we’re dealing with British folk who would prefer that the Pilgrims had just stayed home and sucked it up like everybody else. The camera zooms back in on the band, still doing their thing. Now we’ve got fake snow falling down, but it’s clearly just scraps of shredded newspaper, so the magic is a bit thin. But Chris is wearing a carnation, and that makes everything better.

The fake newspaper falls for a while. Somebody was really invested in this part of the goings on.

Then the camera pans to the left, and we’re looking at what I’m guessing is the River Thames. There’s a triple-decker boat floating about, with tons of people on the top deck releasing balloons at just the right lyrical moment. Fireworks light up the sky, which isn’t really something we do in the Colonies during the Yuletide season, but it’s very festive.

Now we’re zooming back into the old-timey theatre, with the Elvis’s playing their violins with a passion and more fireworks exploding from where the seats should be if there had been an actual audience. Chris is really interested in doing hand movements over his head, so we’ll assume that this part of the song is super important to him.

The curtain closes, the camera gives us another glimpse of the creepy piano, and then pans over the top of the theatre so we can see the cityscape once again. More fireworks explode as the music fades and, presumably, Tiny Tim convinces Scrooge that world peace is possible as long as everyone has enough figgy pudding…

　

Click Here to Watch the Video on YouTube.

Idiot Fondue: Case Study #35

Dear Dr. Brian: “I have so often been asked (by straight boys predominantly) why it is that lesbians indulge in sex toys (for the enjoyment of penetration) when they have so obviously chosen to not include the opposite sex. I have a pat answer I reply with, but I was wondering if you’d even counseled anyone in this regard.

Best to you,
The Bexx


Dearest The,

“I truly appreciate your frankness, and I am nearly vibrating with joy at the fact that you have chosen me for your consultation. I greatly relish the opportunity to discuss in detail the situation you describe, but please allow me one moment while I gather my notes on the matter. Please hold.”

Dr. Brian calmly punches a button on his phone, then viciously jabs a button on another device, one that should open a line of communication directly with his assistant, Lanae, but this did not always prove to be the case. “Lanae!”

No immediate response, but there were subtle sounds of what might be a queen bee ingesting one of her slow-ass workers who had irritated her for the final time.

“Lanae, I know you’re there. I can hear what sounds like chewing. Are you eating again? You know I don’t care for you doing that when I need you assistance.”

Now the soundtrack changed to that of a loud, laborious gulp, followed by a belch that was far from delicate. “How was I supposed to know that you were going to call me right as I was biting into a pastry? It’s from Boudreaux’s Bakery. Chocolate cherry. I was overcome, okay?”

Dr. Brian sighed. “Of course you should have expected me to ring. You just sent me a very direct and graphic woman without any warning. We have discussed this. I was completely caught off guard, nearly spilling my carefully-prepared chicory coffee when she launched into some mess about vaginal penetration. I need to know if something like that is on the horizon.”

Lanae audibly sucked at her teeth, not willing to miss a single gram of sugared decadence. “I didn’t know that she was one of those. She didn’t seem like it to me. To be fair, I was already licking the wax paper I had unwrapped off my pastry, but I do believe I still would have caught a phrase like that. She must be one of those stealth lesbians that are all sweet until they get in the door.”

“So you knew she was a lesbian? You could have at least mentioned that to me. One has to be very careful these days about word-slippage. You didn’t ask her what lesbian issues she might have?”

Now Lanae sighed. “Dr. Brian, I’m not a lesbian. How would I even know what questions to ask? Is there a brochure? You’re the doctor.”

“There’s absolutely no reason to be snippy.”

Lanae, empowered by the violent amounts of sugar now racing through her bloodstream, begged to differ. “I’m not the one getting all heated and calling people just as they are contemplating a cherry, something this girl hasn’t known intimately for forty years. Besides, I’m fairly certain you can handle this. After all, I’m not the one who was arrested for nudity and possible bestiality in Paris. Shall we talk about that?”

Dr. Brian did not have an immediate response at hand.

“Thought so. I believe I have won this round. Now, I’m going to try eating another pastry without interruption, and you can go determine how you can assist Miss Penetration. We have bills that need to be paid.”

Click.

Dr. Brian sighed once more, then punched at the hold button on his phone. “Miss Bexx?”

Now a third person was sighing, indicating general dissatisfaction for all. “Doctor, I don’t care for that ‘Miss’ title. It’s offensive on two levels, underscoring the fact that I remain unmarried and am therefore unworthy, which is crap, and further irritates me since lesbians cannot get married in most places. It’s belittling. I’m sure you understand.”

“What term or appellation would you prefer?”

“Well, I’m known as ‘Sheba’ in certain circles, for reasons that probably won’t interest you, and for a time I was known as ‘Ovaria’ when I stupidly joined that cult, and one of my exes came up with a few choice labels, post-breakup, that were supposed to be derogatory, but I actually found rather amusing and started using them as screen names. I go by many titles, Dr. Brian, but I suppose for today you can simply address me as ‘Goddess’. Unless you must refrain for spiritual or religious reasons.”

Dr. Brian responded immediately. “I shall be delighted to refer to you as a goddess.”

“Great. That pleases me. Perhaps I’ll pay the bill for your services after all. Now, let’s get back to my original question. This plane will be taking off shortly, and this political grand-standing can be tiresome at the wrong moments. This is one of them.”

Dr. Brian was mystified. “You’re at the airport? On a plane?”

“Lesbians are still allowed to fly, Dr. Brian. Except in certain backwoods countries, where folks fully expect God or Allah or Glenn Beck to smack the plane down if the muff divers get on board.”

Dr. Brian was now intrigued. “So the people around you can hear everything you’re saying?”

“They could hear me, until they all asked to be relocated after I started talking to you. Even the flight attendant won’t come near me, but eventually she won’t have a choice. I’m using the abandoned beverage cart to chill my vodka, and these people are going to get thirsty at some point. Now, once again, let’s get back to my original question.”

“Why is it that straight people are so mystified with lesbians who use lusty equipment to plunge, prod and find Jesus?”

Bexx guffawed. “Very good, Doctor. We’re approaching the same level. Carry on.”

“Well, this does remind me of a story-”

“I’m not interested in fairy tales. Some bitch loses a shoe and gets to marry a prince? Not in my book.”

“I think you’ll like this one. It’s served me well in the past.”

“I don’t know.” (Sudden sounds of a garbled public announcement being broadcast through the plane.) “Well, damn,” uttered Bexx.

“Flight delay?” asked Dr. Brian.

“Well, not really. Sort of. Apparently they have an issue with odd sounds coming from a set of luggage. Probably mine.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Who else on this plane would have a set of designer Martina Navratilova luggage, with the tennis racket zipper pulls? It’s not like this plane is going to Palm Springs.” (More sighing.) “I hope I‘m not gonna get arrested again. I’ll have to call you back. Don’t go anywhere.”

Click.

Dr. Brian stabbed at the intercom again. “Lanae, do we still have that Merlot that Madonna sent us after the incident in Malawi?”

Lanae, not consuming anything at the moment, responded instantly. “One bottle or two?”

“Everything we’ve got.”
　

Click Here to Read the Next Entry in This Series…

Backup Dancers From Hell: Reba McEntire - “Turn On The Radio”

We start out with Reba somewhere at night, looking kind of shady with dark sunglasses and a designer, all-black outfit covering her from head to toe. (She makes sure that a lock of her trademark red hair is showing, so we don’t get confused and wonder where she’s at.) Reba is staring at a train-crossing signal that is currently activated, with the gates down. She seems to be waiting for said train to cross, and when it rolls through, she scurries across the street. Apparently Miss Reba is about to do something that needs a loud and rumbling distraction.

Reba and her high heels enter some building, and as she works her way through the hallways, she keeps glancing around furtively so you know she’s not here to sing in a gospel choir. The music starts just as Reba rounds a corner while ripping off her outerwear, and she looks smoking hot, so even if she’s up to no good the tabloid photos of her arrest will probably land on the cover.

Reba enters some room with a variety of boom boxes lining some metal shelves, stacked all over the place. Even though this seems like plenty of equipment to do whatever she needs to do, Reba is not satisfied and takes a fancy knife out of her satchel so she can open cartons with even more sound ware. (While doing this, she makes sure that we see her interesting designer bracelets. Reba is always a professional, even when banging around in an unknown warehouse.)

Reba fiddles with a few knobs, then turns to an old-timey microphone stand and starts belting out the song. It seems that her audience consists of just one man in a chair, and based on the way she’s spitting the lyrics at him, he done her wrong in some way. But he’s super cute, so she really needs to prove her case or we’ll just have to forgive him, based on his beard stubble alone.

Reba gets to her prosecution, slowly walking around the man while warbling, and managing to tie him to the chair with the microphone cord as she does so. (She does caress his face a few times, which seems to dispute her anger, but we can forgive her for that.) She does this for a while, looping the cord around him several times, although she does pause back near the microphone stand when she gets to really interesting parts of the song that require her to make flamboyant country diva hand gestures.

After she sings the rousing chorus, Reba scampers over to some of the boom boxes and turns up the volume, but this isn’t really necessary because we can hear the song just fine. (Maybe she’s still being a professional and is keeping in mind the fans with crappy seats.) Then Reba gets back to taunting Stud Boy in his little prison chair, doing some more arm choreography and jewelry-waving. She also likes to smirk at Stud like he’s in really big trouble now, but I believe he may already have the message.

More shots of Reba caressing various body parts on Stud, because she is a woman with needs after all, but now that Stud has figured out he might be late for dinner, he seems a bit standoffish with his response to the physicality, turning his head to the side so we can learn that his profile is just as appealing as the front view. (This is one prop that Reba better keep for her own after the video shoot is done.)

Reba circles Stud some more, wrapping him in more loops, so that must be one really long microphone cord. (I guess Reba is not really invested in those new-fangled wireless microphones, probably because you can’t tie people up with something that doesn’t exist.) Oh, and Reba continually flounces over to the boom boxes and jacks up the sound, probably not realizing that the dang train out there is not going to do its crime-covering work if she doesn’t settle down.)

During the “oh oh OH” part of the song, Reba performs a nifty high kick toward Stud, but he doesn’t even flinch, since it’s really hard to do so when you can’t move. Reba is proud of her footwork, and seems to be waiting on a compliment from Stud, but chances are that he’s not really going to be supportive of her athleticism at this point in time. Dissatisfied with his response, Reba loops some more cord around Stud (singing the whole time, because that’s her first love and no cheatin’ man can take that away from her), then she tosses the old-timey microphone into his lap.

Done with her performance and her kidnapping, Reba takes Stud’s keys and then gathers up all of her couture (that stuff is too expensive to just leave lying around a warehouse). Once properly covered to venture into the seamy night, Reba marches back down one of the hallways, doing a flippant diva wave as she rounds a corner. (For his part, Stud Boy squirms around in his chair and looks distraught.)

We close it out with Reba scampering back across the street, her signature red hair glowing lovingly despite the darkness of the night. She gets distracted when she spies what is apparently Stud Boy’s SUV parked nearby, marching toward it while whipping out a smart phone of some kind. Apparently Reba does have a soft spot for new technology after all, because she uses her toy to program her song into Stud Boy’s radio so that it will play over and over. And over.

But she’s not bitter…

　

Click Here to Watch the Video on YouTube.