Like Wall Street tickertape across social
network lines, Lady Gaga has been pronounced
dead. Kim Kardashian has succumbed to twittering
no more, and Justin Timberlake halts in bringing sexy
back by means of high speed.
Buying their blogging-savvy, celebrity exploits back by
humbly donating to end AIDS and World Hunger is the civic
duty of Gaga’s petite freaks, Kim’s Botox-anticipating juvenile
dreamers, and Justin’s affection-stoned, training bra
donning devotees. Superstars of the new millennium pose
exquisitely potent for off beam reasons.
Will there ever be another Lucille Ball to advocate against
the mischievous sprite of the crippler, infantile paralysis, in shades
of salt and pepper emanating through a box paired with frozen
dinners of 1954? Another Farrokh Bulsara, 8-track’s epic flamboyance,
clad in a Zoroastrian silvery bodysuit whose vocal marvel, pit-bull-like
tenacity against AIDS was fatally claimed, as front-page news found itself
flung on many lawns by teenage paperboys across continents in
1991? Or another Cynthia Nixon, a woman frolicking the
city with sexual advances through reels directed in Abu Dhabi, battling
tears being wept over the sapping curse on a woman’s secure
sensuality on the real?
To the community of opulent waste:
your empty wallets via bouncing checkbooks deserve restless
dark, even if for a second. Monetarily aiding in killing off rates of
Famine and AIDS, ascends in adequate importance than reviving
access to tweets about the Chanel satchel, a Kardashian snagged
during her Rodeo Drive shopping spree,
And the advocating voice writing this rational requiem
for fame’s number being up concurs, wishing these deaths were
more than just figurative.
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