Happy 54th birthday to Madonna! To you, she may be the Queen of Pop and a musical inspiration, but to me, she represents all that and more. In addition to being someone whose songs I don’t completely despise all the time, she’s also my favorite celebrity to get hate mail about, because her fans are fucking crazy. The last post I wrote about her, one of her fans used the following sentence in a comment: “I am beginning to equate Madonna with Jesus, in a very bad way.” There you go, that’s the kind of person that you want to be writing for, as an — ahem – entertainment journalist. (Sure, I can call myself that.) I don’t want to write for people who calmly and politely read my article and comment with something encouraging if they liked it, and constructive criticism if they didn’t! I want full-on, red-blooded, raging fans who wish me death for mentioning that, you know, their hero might be finally experiencing a mid-life crisis, or something…and with Madonna fans, that’s exactly what I get.
But this time it’s not my fault, you guys, I swear. I have no control of my writing this time, because we just found this birthday card lying around. You’re probably gonna think that I wrote it myself, just sitting around my apartment in my underoos, but don’t be ridiculous. Doesn’t it make much more sense that I was strolling through the streets of Manhattan at 9:00am and came upon a tiny, wrinkled, gold-plated card with a picture of the Fountain of Youth on the Front, and a secret, personal message from Lourdes inside wishing her mom a happy birthday? Yeah, that’s what I thought. So let’s read this shit. I mean…let’s read this very sweet missive from daughter to mother.
Dear Mom. I mean Madonna. (Sorry, I know you hate it when I call you Mom because it makes you feel old, but I also know that you hate cross-outs because it’s a sign of weakness, so I didn’t know what to do and ohmygod you’re gonna be so mad.)
Hello. Happy Thursday! This is just a normal Thursday when no one I know is getting any older. It’s just an ordinary day on which I happened to buy you a cake and put some fire-sticks on it and light them and then have you blow them out while people who love you sing a nondescript song to you about…birthdays.
…okay, yes, I’ll admit, it’s your birthday. But please don’t freak out! I totally can’t tell you’re a year or even a day older! Seriously, please believe me! I just want you to stay calm today so we don’t have a repeat of last year where you pulled up all the lampposts on our block and bathed in the blood of a slaughtered lamb. Your skin and arm veins look so lovely today! So refreshed and rejuvenated! So pleasantly bulging on the sweet supple flesh of your forearm.
If I had to guess, I’d say you’re…what? Sixteen? Seventeen? Maybe twenty-two? Sigh. Okay, I know you’re fifty-four. But you don’t look it! Please come outside today, even though the sun is out and it might turn your skin to paper and make you flutter away on the breeze. But try not to worry like that. If it happens, I’ll collect all the pieces and sew you back together again, like I did on your 51st birthday. But either way, please try to come out into the world, because your 52nd birthday was almost worse than your 53rd, after you stayed in your healing pod all day papier-mache-ing new layers of baby skin all over your body. It was really boring for me.
Anyway, I love you. Happy 30th anniversary of your 24th birthday. (Did I say that right? I’m sorry. Please let me pluck my unibrow.)