The Little Prince

February 5, 2007

Prince rules your ass.

It’s been a long time since there’s been a Superbowl Halftime Extravaganza that hasn’t been complete crap.  They all kindof blend together for me…

I remember one where Britney Spears (pre-cellulite-infused psychosis) and Stephen Tyler (heretofore known as The Horsefaced Creeper) did a medley of rock songs on a techo-chromo-tabular stage, above a field of wet, writhing tweens… and then that other one where Justin Timberlake showed the world that Janet Jackson doesnt actually have nipples… but instead rents her breastspace out to two stalwart coa coa puffs.  We all remember that one… it was the Polio of the 21st Century… crippling our children with its chocolaty horror, because they all saw what a nipple, wreathed in a cheap dollar store pewter star looks like.   Bad, bad titty.

Then there was another one… I think right after 9/11, so people still had tons of red, white and blue water on their brains… when Paul McCartney proved, definitively, that Mark David Chapman shot the wrong Beatle.

Halftime shows have left us, or more specifically – me, wanting for quite some time.

And then the day came when some suit at CBS grew a brainstem, and allowed Prince to tear shit up with his fabulousness.

I love Prince.  Everyone loves Prince.  Even people who hate Prince love Prince.  He’s this pocket-sized, Super-Hetero-Fagbot 9000, and while I am absolutely repulsed by the male form… I’d have to give it up for him.  I want to feel the purple rain.

For those of you who watched the halftime show… you know all of those young girls who rushed the field when he started playing?  Yeah… Prince slept with every one of those girls.  He made sweet, Princely love to every one of them during the show… in five minutes… and STILL managed to devote two hours to each of them.  That’s his magic – Prince’s groin is a temporal nexus.  2000 girls, 2 hours a piece… in five minutes. 

We couldn’t see it because our human eyes aren’t able to perceive black lightening… but trust me… every girl there is on their way home tonight with a Prince-sized bite taken from their cookies.

That man blazed his way across the stage, in a sky-blue pantsuit – which was most likely made of some kind of netherworld satin – in the rain… IN HEELS.  He strutted his little apple-shaped ass around that stage in fucking heels… in the goddamn rain!  And you’re going to tell me that Prince isnt some kind of Greek God, come to earth to impregnate our women, just to make the world a bit more beautiful.

Next year… just can the Superbowl, and lets just watch Prince do stuff.  Anything.  We can watch him balance his checkbook, with a huge, purple-plumed quill pen, while sitting at a desk of purple teak, and stroking a panther.

Superbowl who?

Prince is 49 years old.  49… like, almost 50… and that perfect little Afro-queen ribbon STILL manages to look like Lena Horne:



Prince owns your ass.

This is what it sounds like when doves cry.


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