The Dutchess of Yack

It's been a gang of weeks since I posted in this here blog thingy. I could make up all sorts of excuses involving a busy work schedule, time spent writing new songs with the band (which I have been doing) or some other load of hoo-ha but the reality of my absence has been how derailed I am by the existence of a solo album by this Fergie individual. It's really been all I can do to get out of bed in the morning, comb my hair, put on clean clothes and trudge on down to Muni knowing that such a "musical" blight is just running rampant and roughshod through this fragile reality. Why, at any moment and without warning my delicate ears could be assaultaed by her caterwaul of a voice, squeaking, squealing and skwaking its way out of any number of car speakers, personal stereos or retail P.A. systems. And who knows what kind of mental and emotional trauma could be unleashed in those horrible minutes I have to hear her sping (speak-sing) her way through a song off her new album? I don't have enough money for that kind of therapy. How can anyone listen to her "music"
willingly and still live to tell the tale? What compels someone to choose to put their ears through such torture?


This is what terror looks like.

But what is even more perplexing to me is her continued fame. Especially when it's clear she's more than a little batshit. Or, to be a bit more charitable, her version of reality seems to differ greatly from that of many people in this world. And where does this conclusion of mine come from? Mainly her choice of lyrics and how those lyrics convey what she seems to think of as "sexy" but the majority of us think of as "huh? wha?"

Example #1: "My Humps". Now right off the bat I cannot understand what part of her brain told her to refer to any kind of "humps" repeatedly in a song about sex/being sexy. What kind of images do we automatically conjur when thinking of the word "humps"? Quasimodo for one. Mr. Burns for another. Sexy? Not so far. Not unless your fetish is super-specific, and I don't think Fergie's is. And then we move on further to her "lovely lady lumps". Now, despite my early reading of these lyrics, I don't think this is a subversive way of discussing any kind of breast cancer and trying to reclaim the sexuality of women suffering from this disease. No, I think she's just trying to come up with a sexy, new euphemism for good ol' T&A. But humps? Lumps? Really? Who told her this was sexy? Did the other Black Eyed Peas decide to let her keep writing the song despite how hilariously bad they knew it was? Did they want to see her crash and burn as some sort of revenge for having to take her into the group in the first place so they could be famous? Or are they all just as crazy as her? I lean towards the latter and doubt they would stop her from doing anything if it meant they get another hit and be able to shill for more coroporations even if it's with a song about humps, lumps, boils, blisters or even goiters!

Example #2: "London Bridge". Now this is where we get into some quality crazy. Aside from the overall lyrics just being so misguided and full of delusions of her own grandeur, I really don't get what the fuck "London Bridge" is supposed to be a euphemism for. And this is where her major fault lies. You can't just say ANYTHING in a sexy way and expect it to automatically be sexy. I can't just turn to m boyfriend and say "Oh baby, you sure know how to turn my doorknob!" and expect him to do anything but laugh at me. So why is it that she thinks it's acceptable to say "How come everytime you come around, my London, London bridge, wanna go down"?? What the fuck is her LONDON BRIDGE?? Is it her pants? Some part of her female sexual organs? Because, while I may not be an expert on the lady parts, I seem to remember during my extensive sex ed training to work at Good Vibrations that there wasn't really a part of the female sexual organs that went down like some kind of bridge, London or otherwise! It's baffling. She's clearly on the verge of total insanity and none of us are safe. Not in our homes, not in our cars, not anywhere that we could be exposed to her crazy-making music.

I suggest we all lock ourselves in some sort of bomb shelter and ignore her for 30 straight days. Maybe then she will grow tired of trying to win our attention and travel to some other planet to begin her reign of terror there. Or until the actual Dutchess named Fergie engages her in a gladiator-like battle to the death which the original Fergie would win hands down. I mean, anyone who can endure that much ridicule from the cutthroat British tabloid press and still be alive and even smile on occasion is clearly stronger than any mere pop tartl.