COLUMBUS – A young coed was walking down High St. near the Ohio State University on Friday when she was stopped by undercover police and questioned in regard to the jersey she was wearing – an official NCAA football jersey belonging to Terrelle Pryor.
Sandy Summers, an OSU student, single mother, and part-time dancer, said the jersey was given to her after a night of casual sex with the football star.
In exchange for sex, Pryor agreed to give Summers his jersey. According to the NCAA, this is a violation of Sec. 27 Art. 4 of the NCAA revised code – stipulating that student athletes hold no ownership rights over their jerseys, memorabilia, or likenesses. Student athletes give up this right when they sign NCAA contracts.
Summers admitted that she only had sex with Pryor because he is the team’s quarterback. This fact – combined with the gift of the jersey – led to the NCAA Grand Dragoon Council’s decision to uphold the mandate of their ownership over student athletes, and suspend Pryor for several games.
Legendary coach Jim Tressel was also suspended and eventually forced to resign, caving to pressure from the council. NCAA coaches are held to higher standards than players, and are expected to police, spy on, and rat out their own players at the slightest indiscretion. A coach is responsible for his players’ behavior on and off the field, according to the NCAA.
“The fact that Tressel knew Pryor got laid and didn’t tell anyone about it says a lot about the man’s character,” said Dick Jiggler, NCAA spokesman.
Jiggler says the Dragoon Council is considering measures to combat the practice of players receiving compensation for their talents and skills. Radio Frequency Identification has shown promise recently in the “chipping” of stray dogs. The NCAA’s idea is to embed an RFID chip in all collegiate athletes – in order to keep constant watch over their movements and behaviors.
“The NCAA exists to preserve itself,” said Jiggler, “if we start giving athletes a share in the business, there won’t be any money left for all of us here at the NCAA to keep our jobs.”
A friend traveling to a foreign country like Spain faces a litany of challenges indeed. He or she must not only cope with the striking indifference of the natives toward his preposterous and arrogant American posturing, but he or she must make rare use of tact and respect – two qualities lacking in most modern young adults. Americans, especially after the specious wars in the Middle East, have been conditioned from an early age to react to any national criticism with unflinchingly patriotic hysteria. For a traveler, the trip requires that he or she leaves their American “training” behind them and look at the world, as if a child.
Having proper intercultural attitudes and manners are like squeezing a baby robin’s egg, if he or she tries too hard, the egg cracks and the traveler is revealed as ignorant as the natives suspected. If he or she doesn’t try hard enough, then any respect from the native crumbles and the traveler is reduced to a tourist – a miserable leech that gains nothing from his or her travels except souvenir trinkets from the running of the bulls. The distinction is between the traveler and the tourist. The elusive key to intercultural manners and attitudes is respect. A traveler respects the intricacies, eccentricities and outright oddities of the places he or she visits. A tourist views the foreign land as a sort of Disney world, with an attitude of “what can I get?” rather than “what can I learn?”
While an American might salivate at the prospect of drinking beer at McDonalds, the Spaniards do not consider this indulgence to be of any value, cultural or otherwise. The fresh-faced traveler is well advised to educate his or herself on the ways of the Spanish, though they might at times seem bizarre. Some things verge on the obscene to puritanical American sensibilities. For instance, in theory, nudity is completely legal in all of Spain. The traveler should dispense of his or her aversion to the nude human form, and embrace the pervasive nudity present in Spain, on the beaches and in the parks. He or she should not stare, but instead “do as the Spaniards do,” and pretend that nudity is a natural part of life. Utmost, he or she should respect the fact, as an American, that naked people are in fact expressing a revered quality known to Americans as “rugged individualism.”
A traveler is advised not to ask such banal questions like “donde esta McDonalds?” to the local populace, because they will surely take offense. Instead he or she might attempt to learn a few bits of Spanish before departing. The endeavor will earn the traveler more respect from the Spaniards, and they will usually answer in English. Many Spaniards are very friendly and eager to communicate with travelers, though often times a Spanish-speaker will pretend to understand your questions, rather than lose face. A traveler must discern and communicate using body language, as Spaniards are often flamboyant nonverbal communicators. The traveler will encounter some culture shock at first, but the cure can be found at the local Spanish watering hole, the Cantina. After loosening up the inhibitions with a few cervezas or some sangria, the travelers and locals like find their sober prejudices melting away onto trays of tapas and much cultural learning can take place.
The traveler must be ready for a long night, however, as the drinking customs of the Spanish, though reputed to be less rowdy than those of their Northern European counterparts, is in fact shifting with the times to become more party-oriented. There are several types of bars in the urban areas of Spain, and each type confines itself to specific one or two-hour periods of the night when it is open for business. Spanish drinking culture requires that the traveler bar-hop all night. Americans – long indoctrinated into thinking that secondhand smoke causes instant cancer – might be surprised, pleasantly or otherwise, with the candid approval of smoking in all public places. After years of Fascist rule, Spaniards take a more laissez-faire attitude toward personal freedom and consumption. Whatever happens, the traveler should never, under any circumstances, engage in the sort of behavior deemed “arrogant American.” This involves walking lazily through city streets, talking loudly in restaurants, and getting drunk and singing American military marches at the top of the lungs in the middle of the night through otherwise quiet neighborhoods. This is a surefire way to make the locals despise Americans, and it betrays a total lack of intercultural awareness and respect.
Spaniards value family above all else, and the traveler should veer away from jokes aimed at a Spaniard’s mother or sister, as a Spaniard man is very protective over his relations. This harkens back to the Spanish tradition of machismo in social situations, and though officially women hold equal status with males, the machismo of ages past is reflected in the dominance and chivalry expressed by Spanish men in social situations. When women meet men in Spain, they kiss on both cheeks. The traveler is well advised to not interpret this action as one of romantic interest, for it is merely cultural and akin to shaking hands. When people talk about or introduce someone, an American may think that everyone he or she meets is named Don or Donna. This is not the case, Spaniards preface all names with Don or Donna in a way similar to the way Americans address each other as Mister or Miss, though they do it far more often.
Most of all, the quality of respect is essential. This applies in all areas of life and communication, but during travel it is especially important. If a traveler can free his or her mind from prejudice and arrogance to embrace an open mind, then he or she will find his or her travels enjoyable, educational, and rewarding for a lifetime.
no belief in the queen.
only in dreams
the faith, the screams.
feign to ignore
yet all else is a bore.
stirring up missions
and pilgrimage wishins.
of a glorious place
and a vision, her face.
but it is not real
with no deal to seal.
press on, tired one
the world’s just begun.
it’s funny, ironic
the sound’s melodic.
yet a picture
of you with her.
brings back dreams
faith returns, it seems.
Fans of Tegan & Sara and Regina Spektor will find kindred spirits in Middle Class Fashion, a power-pop trio from St. Louis. The band is set to bring their upbeat, piano-driven sound to South Park Tavern on June 3. DCP’s Benjamin Dale sat down for a one-on-one with lead singer Jenn Malzone, and found out what it means to be fashionable, in a middle class sort of way.
What’s the music scene like down in St. Louis?
I feel like it has gotten new life in the past few years. There’s a lot going on around Cherokee St. – a lot of new venues around that area, record stores, various locally owned businesses.
You’re in another band as well as Middle Class Fashion right?
I’m actually in two other bands: Tight Pants Syndrome and Paper Dolls. MCF started as a side project with Brad Vaughn from Paper Dolls and Brian McClelland from Tight Pants Syndrome. It’s definitely turned into a priority now.
You have a beautiful voice, reminiscent of Regina Spektor.
Thanks. I hear that a lot, and it’s huge compliment, whether or not it’s true. She’s brilliant. I love her classical and jazz background and her ability to play with words.
What influences your own songwriting?
I grew up around lots of classical, then went the opposite way and loved anything “weird.” The mix of those two creates my sound. Plus my mom studied piano and was an accompanist for years and my dad owns a piano gallery here in St. Louis, and they’ve influenced me too.
So music’s in the blood?
It really is, pretty far back. My great-great-grandpa was an Italian opera singer in New York. He owned a bank but moonlighted under the name Fausto.
At least he was a banker with a soul.
That’s right, a good mix.
You were a psychology major in college. How does that influence you?
I learned that nothing is black and white or one-sided, making it pretty impossible to completely dislike anybody. We’re all made up of lots of good and bad.
Is it impossible to completely like somebody too then?
I suppose with that logic, maybe – unless by completely liking them you’re accepting their dark side and liking that as well. Now I’m psycho babbling…
Do you have a dark side?
I don’t sacrifice animals or anything. But everybody has a dark side.
Vampires or zombies?
They’re both just so trendy, but vampires. They’re hotter. Who wants to hang around a zombie? Ghosts are cooler than vampires and zombies, hands down.
Do you believe in ghosts?
No, but I want to be proven wrong. If I saw one I’d probably call a doctor because I’d worry I was having a hallucination. Then I’d call the Ghostbusters, of course.
St. Louis is home to Budweiser. Is everyone loyal to Bud in St. Louis?
No. I love Schlafly, a St. Louis Brewery with great beer.
What kind of beer would you drink if you were rich?
I love Delerium Tremens, also La Fin Du Monde.
If the world ended tomorrow, what would you listen to? Would you have apocalypse sex?
All this crazy rapture talk – who wouldn’t have apocalypse sex? I would listen to David Bowie or My Bloody Valentine, I think.
The word ‘hipster’ gets thrown around a lot lately in the music scene. Should the word be buried or embraced?
Why not embrace it? Even people who do things less authentically still have good intentions. They aren’t hurting anybody.
What if they get Tight Pants Syndrome? Aren’t the male hipsters hurting their unborn children?
I guess that’s an occupational hazard.
If you chose to have children, what kind of parent would you want to be?
I wouldn’t force any of my opinions or beliefs on them, but I would show them all the options, like my parents did with me.
Would you insist that they dress with Middle Class Fashion?
As long as they weren’t putting themselves at risk for Tight Pants Syndrome.
Where do you see yourself in 10 years?
Still playing and writing music, adopting a relaxed understanding of life and having traveled a lot more, I hope.
Could you be content with contentment? Or does angst drive you?
It’s so much easier to write when that angst is there. But I think it’s possible to be inspired without angst, for sure. Lately my songwriting is about revisiting past situations, while not getting caught up in them again.
We look forward to seeing you play at South Park on June 3.
I can’t wait!
I have a problem with Objectivism, Ayn Rand’s regurgitation of Nietzche’s Ubermensh for religious purposes. The problem is – Rand assumes that businesspersons, entrepreneurs, and single-minded egotists are freer from corruption than their counterparts – the looters and psychopaths in government.
The crux of Rand’s philosophy can best be summarized as such: Helping people does not help them.
This phrase seems counterintuitive and it is. Her “philosophy” – if you can call it that – is really just a collection of nihilistic maxims that could only arise in someone’s brain after drowning in a lifetime of academia. Laymen refer to it as “bullshit.”
Rand idealizes the 19th century of laissez-faire capitalism as the golden age of reason and prosperity. The historical reality is much different. As the world’s population boomed, so did the need for expansion. The westward expansion of the late 1800’s did in fact create prosperity for many, yet the entire century was plagued by recurrent economic booms and busts, leaving many destitute and starving. Industrialists sought to exploit everyone, even children, to increase their bottom line. The US government was sometimes the only force preventing the businessman from creating de facto slaves.
America’s economic prosperity of the 19th and 20th centuries was largely due to Western Civilization having found itself on an unexploited continent – with abundant, yet limited resources to plunder. As these resources began to dwindle, demagogues disguised as philosophers pop their heads up and try to explain the challenges by demonizing some groups and idealizing others. The truth always lies somewhere in between.
While I agree with Rand that politicians and big government exist solely to sap the will and creativity of their subjects, I do not agree that businesses do a better job of creating “happiness” in the world. History suggests that governments and businesses do an equally shitty job of creating a better society.
Sociobiologist E.O. Wilson once demonstrated, via the scientific method, that happiness is more related to genetics than anything else. Some people are chronically unhappy, regardless of their station in life. Some people are poor and content. If your life situation makes you depressed, then it is entirely within your power to change it. If you are depressed for reasons other than your life situation – that’s why they invented Prozac. There are also many people who will sit and listen to you bitch and moan about your horrible family, boyfriend, job, etc – for a price, sucker.
No philosophy, religion, government, or economic system can account for the depths of human evil. No system can likewise fully account for human good. The human condition has been around for a while now, folks. The universe exists in a balance, a yin-yang of constantly shape-shifting forces. The forces balance each other out. Our evolution as individuals and as a species is constantly undermined by the dark force of entropy. And yet we are still here. Chugging along, year after year, humanity continues to overcome the odds. Many people will never be content to accept challenges, as they think that the elimination of effort and problems is the ultimate utopia.
In reality, it is those challenges that make us stronger as a species, and more ethical as human beings. To eliminate them is to eliminate our own capacity to evolve.
Ayn Rand, in her arrogance, cannot account for the persistent strain of altruism throughout human evolution, which is just as significant as the individualism she unabashedly touts. This altruism is at least partially responsible for her own existence as an organism, and to abolish the duality of forces within us is to deny the fundamental struggle of being human. Emotion is as vital as reason for the human organism. Life is pain. Existence is futile. But our curiosity keeps us going. Our joie de vivre keeps us happy.
Life is short, and you can either make the best of the time you have, or constantly search for answers that will never come.
Happiness comes from within, no society can create it.
Oh yeah – the film adaptation of Atlas Shrugged sucks worse than the book.
She said she wasn’t like that. He didn’t believe her and he told her so. He figured he’d prove it by pouring his heart out to her, writing her love poems and such. If the chivalry worked – then he’d get the girl. If it didn’t – then he was right all along.
Seaman Rutger Dallas was out of the Navy. Discharged. Honorably.
He came home to a Zion, Ohio that looked much the same as he left it. The same people had stayed around, hanging at the same places and working the same jobs and doing the same things. Meanwhile, Dallas had been spending half his time sailing circles around the Caribbean, and half his money in open-air beach bars.
But he had missed Ohio. Midwestern girls were the ones with the rosy cheeks and the tight-laced morals that could only be broken with a few choice whispers under a summer moon and a tree full of fireflies. The only girls he met by the sea were tourists – they’d visit for a weekend, maybe a week, and fall punch-drunk in love with a sailor. Then they’d make love with a sailor. Then they’d fly back to college or to their boyfriend in Shreveport or Minneapolis or places he’d never heard of whose names sounded pleasant and plain.
Dallas had met Sierra Delaney once before, at a friend’s party during a two-week furlough in Zion. When most young men saw her, they felt for a brief moment that the world wasn’t such a bad place after all, that maybe – if they whispered the right words in her ear or caught her eye in just the right way – their troubles would disappear, life wouldn’t seem so intense all the time, and the daily grind might stop bearing down on them quite so hard. Most young men dismissed this fantasy as quickly as they entertained it. They knew better.
Not Dallas. When Dallas saw Sierra, he fell in love. Dallas believed in one kind of love, and one kind only – love at first sight. Like many hard drinkers, he was a hopeless romantic. When Dallas saw Sierra’s rosy cheeks and and the porcelain nape of her neck, he thought he might shoulder any burden, weather any storm – if only he came home every night to her delicate grace and her soft embrace.
They had only exchanged a few words at the party – but that face and those words stuck with Dallas until he returned to Zion again after his discharge. He was determined to get that girl – the pretty brunette with the stormy eyes and the sunny smile – Sierra Delaney.
They met again at the St. Helena Festival – a boozy, Catholic school festival where, once a year, good Catholics gamble and drink skip their weekly confessions because the priest was drinking and gambling too.
They kissed that night, under a blue June moon. For the next week they were inseparable. They went to the movies, then kissed some more. He took her to his favorite restaurant – a tiny shack that sold giant burritos – and she loved it. He opened doors for her. They split a bottle of wine at his favorite spot in the entire world – a pebbled creek bed on the outskirts of town. They kissed some more.
She waded in the middle of the creek, and she didn’t even care about the water creeping up her sundress. He rolled up his pant legs to join her. He plucked her out of the water and held her and they kissed. They gazed into each other’s eyes for an hour that night. Eyes, of course, are a girl’s most private part.
She smiled and rested her head against his shoulder as he finished what remained of the wine. They walked back to his car under trees filled with fireflies.
And just like that she was gone. He phoned – no answer. For two weeks his calls went straight to the machine. One of her friends – out of the kindness of her heart – told Dallas that Sierra had gone back to her old boyfriend who treated her like shit.
Dallas didn’t know what to do, so he did what he always did when he didn’t know what to do – he drove to Columbus to drink her off his mind. He kissed two other girls that night, and made it with another – but Sierra remained in his mind, like a splinter from a thorny rose.
He told her she was cruel. She told him he was stupid. They were both right.
They didn’t speak again until New Year’s Eve, when she was drunk and tried to apologize for the way she had treated him. He said he didn’t trust her, and didn’t believe her when she said she was done with the old boyfriend. They didn’t speak for several months.
During those months, Dallas worked as a waiter in a bar. Sierra came on three separate occasions to his bar. She tried three times to apologize again but Dallas wouldn’t let her. He told her he didn’t want her anymore. He was a big fat liar.
Their paths crossed again on St. Patrick’s Day, at a bar in downtown Zion. They were both wearing green and they were both drunk. They kissed at the bar and Dallas drove her home. They spent the night together. Dallas felt nothing. He no longer wanted anything from her. He was proud of it.
She bought him breakfast the next morning and drove him home.
About a week later, he saw a picture from that night. There they were – Sienna and himself – smiling, holding each other with one arm, and beers in the other. Everything flooded back. He felt again what he’d felt before, but this time with a pang of weakness. He didn’t like her anymore – her waffling and flaking and deception – but he still loved her. He was no longer determined to possess her. Yet he gave her a call. He no longer cared. Yet he gave her a call.
A friend told him that she just wanted to be friends. He couldn’t just be friends with this girl anymore than a dog can be friends with a cat who has scratched his face and wounded his pride. He told her that all she wanted was to be treated like shit. She said it wasn’t so. He set out to prove her wrong.
He wrote her the most beautiful love poems. Aw, thanks, she said. He told her he loved her. She disappeared.
So no more phone calls. No more chivalry. He had almost proven himself right.
He told her she was a brat. She couldn’t get enough of him. He told her to shut up. She did everything she could to get his attention. He told her she was a liar. She pretended to lose her phone and then her camera and then her phone again until she forgot which one she lost. She pretended to be drunk. She tried to sit on his lap and he wouldn’t let her. She called him an asshole to her friends.
He was right. But he slept alone that night.
Oprah exits Harpo studios on a sunny Chicago afternoon. Today’s Oprah show was her last. Twenty-five years and $2.7 billion after her debut, the richest woman in the world has decided to call it quits.
She fishes a packet of Virginia Slims from her diamond-shaped purse and asks me for a light. I stumble for my lighter and hand it to her but she doesn’t reach for it. She’s waiting for me to light it for her. I submit.
Her attitude toward me totally changes. She puffs gingerly on the skinny cigarette and her face transforms into an effervescent smile and disarms me at once.
“Why now, Oprah?” I ask.
“Why now? Why anytime? I think ‘why’ is such a naive question. Because I deserve to be happy, like everyone else.”
I follow her into a stormcloud-grey Cadillac limousine with “HARPO” emblazoned on the sides, rear and roof. She doesn’t stop smiling.
“You’re not happy?”
“Sure, but I’m trying to be thankful for what I have. I’ll end up having more. If you concentrate on what you don’t have, you will never, ever have enough.”
“So you’ve had enough?”
“Of the show? Yes. Of life, no.”
“What are your future plans?”
“I want to build my house,” she says.
“You want to build a house?” I ask, just as we pull up to her Tudor mansion on Chicago’s North Side.
“My house.” she says. She hasn’t stopped smiling the entire limo ride.
The chauffeur, clad in all white with the letters HARPO embroidered on his cap, runs ahead of us to open the 15-foot mahogany double doors to her mansion. Her home has a faint odor of ammonia. Two dogs run out from behind a corner and begin lapping at Oprah’s face and she greets them with kisses too.
Plastered on every square inch of her walls are pictures of celebrities. On the far wall hangs a picture of Tom Cruise, jumping up and down on Oprah’s couch in front of millions of viewers after publicly announcing his engagement to Katie Holmes. On the same wall there is a picture of Oprah with President Barack Obama. They are both laughing, but Barack’s face looks like he was the butt of whatever joke she found so funny. She did help to elect him after all. In between the two photos hangs the largest one of all – a picture of Oprah with Lady Gaga. They are both wearing oversized John Lennon sunglasses and making claws at the camera with their hands. Raaaawrrrr.
Oprah sees me looking at the picture but doesn’t say anything. She turns away and lights another cigarette with the still-burning ember of the last one.
“Didn’t know you two were friends…” I say.
“Oh, we’re way more than that. You should only surround yourself with people who are going to take you higher.” I’m reminded of that Steve Winwood song from the 80’s – ‘Bring Me A Higher Love’ – no idea why.
Oprah’s phone rings. The ringtone is Lady Gaga’s latest hit ‘Judas’. She walks out of the room to answer. I sit down on a leather ottoman and keep her dogs company while she’s on the phone. They seem to like me well enough.
Oprah returns, her smile bigger and goofier than ever, “That was Gags,” she says, “she’s on her way over now.”
By ‘Gags’ she means Lady Gaga, and so now I’m about to meet two of the most powerful women in the world in the same day. Emasculating dread – that’s what I’m feeling.
“You don’t like Lady Gaga?” she frowns.
“I’ve never met her,” I say.
“When she gets here, we will show you my house.”
There isn’t much to do but agree. Oprah’s powers of persuasion could be used for interrogations at Guantanamo.
Gaga arrives in a black horse-drawn carriage with shadowy figures inside. The horses are naturally white but Gaga has them spray-painted to look like zebras. She drives the carriage herself, and cracks her horsewhip enthusiastically, as if to announce to the world – “I exist!”
Gaga enters the house, and trailing behind her are four leather-clad men handcuffed together by a leash in Gaga’s left hand. In her right she carries an upside-down crucifix – “to scare away the angels,” she says. The men are blindfolded and each has a red rubber ball in his mouth secured with leather straps to a locked clamp on the back of his head. They look like “the gimp” from Pulp Fiction. Gaga completes the Tarantino get up – she’s wearing Uma Thurman’s yellow racecar suit from Kill Bill. The original. She bought it today.
“Hey baby,” she says to Oprah, and they exchange a passionate kiss, “who’s the droog?” She must be referring to me.
“That’s Rutger Dallas, a reporter, we’re going to show him my house.”
Gaga slinks forward, she doesn’t really walk, she just floats – like a swan – over to examine me. She looks at me with wide, scornful eyes that make me feel naked, or worse – worthless.
She puffs out her shoulders and turns away. I must not betray any hint of my intimidation.
“What we’re doing here, Mr. Dallas,” says Gaga, her back to me, “is creating the future.”
“When I look at the future, it’s so bright it burns my eyes,” says Oprah. I’m not quite sure what they’re talking about.
“Follow us,” says Gaga. Oprah skips behind her as if she is the little sister, and Gaga her idol. I follow sheepishly down a spiral staircase to another set of double doors. This time they are metallic, cold. Gaga pulls out a key and unlocks the doors. Oprah is giddy with excitement. By this time the blindfolded gimps are following the sound of our voices down the stairs.
The lights are so bright it takes my eyes a minute to adjust. When they do, I see a room full of mirrors, polished to clinical brilliance. The floors and ceilings are mirrors too. All along the floorboards and where the walls meet the ceiling are collections of black spheres – cameras. In the middle of the room is a black dentist’s chair, complete with all the dental instruments of torture. One of the gimps closes the door loudly behind us – enough to raise my blood pressure – and as I turn around he swallows the key.
“Welcome to my house,” says Oprah.
Gaga hits a switch on the dentist’s chair, and her single “Judas” begins to blare at an uncomfortable volume. “Sexuality is half poison and half liberation,” she informs me.
I turn and see Oprah, naked, against a mirrored wall. The gimps begin to dance pirouettes around us to the beat of the music.
Oprah catches me staring, “I make fat sexy,” she says.
“You make fat elegant, ” says Gaga.
Gaga turns to me as if to make sure I still exist.
” You will watch,” she says. She walks over to the dentist’s chair and strips naked too. Turns out the rumors were true – she is a he.
Gaga lays down slowly, deliberately, on the chair as the leathermen run in their circles, faster and faster. It looks like there are 100 of them, because of all the mirrors.
Oprah somersaults her way from the wall to the chair, and begins to fellate Gaga from her knees. I see why she calls her ‘Gags’.
“I’m still in love with Judas bay-bee”
Oprah takes a break every few minutes to catch her breath, smile at me and say, “Welcome to my house.”
Gaga finishes. The music stops.
Oprah watches in silence as Gaga pulls a ridiculously large revolver from the dentist’s chair and puts it to Oprah’s forehead. Oprah closes her eyes, serene. Gaga blasts Oprah in the face. Oprah’s body falls backward, and lurches sideways before collapsing on the glistening floor. Dark red radiates outward from her corpse, in all directions.
Gaga bends over and dabs her finger in the puddle of blood. She writes one word – “FAME”.
She stares at me and says, “once you kill a cow, you gotta make a burger.”