the dog ate my blog (the beyoncé issue)

From GANANOQUE, Ontario,
May 29th, 2009

What's this, Dear Reader? No friendly hello? No "How are you, our lovely and adored Tourist"? Just demands for more words per month? Outrage at my missing April post?

Well, fuck you too, Dear Reader!

As for excuses....whoo-ee, do I got 'em! You just watch me, boy! Not only do I have a perfectly good excuse - You've never seen excuses so perfectly good in all your life!

Let me first address a rumour begun by Pete Treadwell, treasurer and former chair of the Official Skeptical Tourist Fanclub, that I haven't written lately because my boyfriend and I got back together.

My response to this is not merely that Pete Treadwell is a stupid asshole (and hereby demoted from treasurer to Official Fan Club snack bar operator/janitor), but to point out that my slackerhood has been well cultivated - and documented - for many a year, through times of both deep single-hood and busy getting-laidness....through employment and through months of sleeping in and dragging my ass to the beach with a pitcher of vodka. Through thick and thin, in all kinds of weather, count on me to put things off as long as humanly possible.

I must confess, though, that the campaign to win my boyfriend back did eat into what would have been my research period for the April edition, as it consisted of long hours picketing outside his house and workplace day and night, shrieking the lyrics of I Want You Back by the Jackson Five and Bon Jovi's I'll Be There For You into a megaphone until I lost my voice and switched to hurling rocks through his windows. Naked.

But that campaign ended succesfully, Demanding, Selfish Plebe! A reunion was successfully enacted, with plenty of time left before the April blarging deadline, a heart full of inspiration, and a head stuffed with ideas....none of which would see the light of day.

Because then I was kidnapped by Beyoncé.

Thus I arrive at the real, and brutally traumatic, reason for my not having written in so long.
You may know that being kidnapped by Beyoncé Knowles has been a decade-long dream of mine, but trust me, it's not all it's cracked up to be. She may seem sweet in interviews, but that woman is one fucked up, if smoking-hot, individual. Looking So Crazy in Love, indeed.

It all began one sunny Sunday afternoon. As I walked home from church that day, I whistled a little song to myself, thinking, 'Hey, how come I can whistle all of a sudden?' and 'Wow, that's neat!' and 'I wonder what else can I do! Maybe I'll try a handstand!' Understandably distracted, I failed to notice the ominous-looking black Hummer limousine crawling along behind me, faint strains of "Bootylicious" drifting from behind its tinted windows.

As I experimented with the possibilities of my newfound whistling and acrobatic skills, performing a purse-lipped Star Spangled Banner while doing backflips down Roncesvalles, impressing all the local Polish widows, two masked figures slipped out of the limo and grabbed me, mid-flip. Before I could say J-J-J-Jay Hovah, I was in the back of the limo, a chloroform-soaked rag held over my mouth. My kidnappers removed their balaclavas...and before I could say "Aren't you Kelly Rowlands and Michelle Williams formerly of Destiny's Child fame?", all went black.

When I awoke, groggy and disoriented, I was in some sort of dungeon, chained to a wall and wearing an incredibly stylish fur bikini by House of Dereon. I heard laboured breathing and, as my eyes adjusted to the scarce light, I was able to make out other prisoners chained to the walls around me. "What is this place?" I whispered. "Who are you? How long have you been here?"

Two young black women across from me, more emaciated-looking than all the rest, spoke up first. "We're former members of Destiny's Child. You'll never make it out of here alive doo-wah doo-wah!!!"

A heavyset, grey-haired man with glasses occupied the wall-space next to mine. I blinked.
"Ebert? What are you doing here?"
"I gave a bad review to that stupid Etta James movie! The ungrateful bitch - I liked Dreamgirls!"

And, a little further down....
"Mom? Is that you?"
"Remember when I tried EHarmony? Jay-Z was one of my matches. We went out a few times. It was nice....until she found out!"
"Jeeze, Mom, you dated Jay-Z?"
"He said they were taking a break!"

It had rapidly become clear who was behind my abduction......but why?

Before I could find out more....a huge commotion interrupted. A section of the dungeon ceiling suddenly opened and a staircase lowered down. Through impressive clouds of dry ice I was able to make out one shapely brown leg after another sultrily (yet somehow angrily) stepping down.


And suddenly there she was, right in front of me, decked out in a black bathing suit and that tough eye makeup and weird metal arm that she's been sporting lately.

OOOH, I AM SO FIERCE.

OH YEAH? TAKE THAT!

Behind her, more legs, attached to those rotten backup girls of hers, my kidnappers, Kelly and Michelle. Lousy stinking bitches, I thought. Nice shoes. They glared back at me. "Uhh, uhh, uhh," they sang ominously.

"Beyoncé!" I said, "Why would you kidnap me? I'm your number one fan! Well, okay, so I only actually have one of your albums, and try to hide the fact that I paid itunes good money for the Single Ladies video....but still....everyone knows I love you!"

"Don't you misquote Woody Allen film titles at me, woman!", she said. "And if you love me so much, why are you always spreading rumours that I'm gay?"

"Oh, Beyoncé, is that what this is about? That was mere wishful thinking! I just think you are so beautiful and talented and hot! You can't blame a girl for dreaming just a little!"

"Well, that's flattering," she told me, flipping her hair back and popping her booty once or twice, "And for what it's worth, I think you're lovely, too. You have pretty eyes and an undefinably exotic look and your ass looked amazing in that dress you were wearing last Saturday night.....I mean, If I were a boy....but I say this all as a perfectly straight successful pop star who is ever so - I repeat, ever so - in love with her weird-looking husband. Come on - do I seem like a lesbian to you?"

"Well...uh...Honestly...?"

"I am not a freaking lesbian!"

"But Beyoncé, why are you so afr-"

"Don't call me Beyoncé! I am....Sasha Fierce!"

With that, she pressed a button on her metal armshield, releasing a laser that blasted a hole in the wall behind my head.
"Aaaaaaah!" I said.
"Doo-bee doo-bee ooh-ooh-ooh!" sang Kelly and Michelle.
"Ow," said the wall.

"And now, to prove once and for all that I'm not gay...I am going to whip your scantily clad body with this riding crop until you scream, while Kelly and Michelle take pictures that I will post on the internet! Will THAT make you stop saying I like girls?"
"Actually", I said, "That doesn't really make a lot of sen-"
"-Shut up!" cried Beyoncé, "Or I'll kiss you all over!"

What happened next you can only imagine. Or peruse the pictures online. They're quite flattering, actually. But I don't want to talk about it.

After it was over, she left in an flustered, sweaty huff, breathing heavily as she ascended the hydraulic staircase, and already perusing the pictures on Kelly's Canon Powershot (official camera of Sasha Fierce's secret torture dungeon).

And she was gone for days.

Days of no light, no food save for a few scraps of Pepsi Products (official food and drink provider for Sasha Fierce's secret torture dungeon) thrown down from above....days of dark uncertainty, drifting in and out of consciousness.....listening to the feeble whiny singing of the former Destiny's Child singers, our only entertainment Roger Ebert's shot-by-shot descriptions of his favourite movies. My mom and I caught up: I told her the circumstances of my capture (including my newfound tumbling and whistling skills - she was very proud); she revealed to me the full depth of her feelings for Jay-Z.

And Beyoncé herself only returned periodically to threaten me, massage my shoulders or play This Little Piggy with my toes. It was terrifying.

Until.....

I was awoken in the dead of night (or dead of day - it was all a painful blur, as I said) by the ceiling opening ever so slowly, so quietly. No backup singers this time, and no smoke machine. Just a tall and sad-eyed man in an impeccable suit, stepping as gingerly as he possibly could. Jay-Z.

I sat up. He saw me and put a finger to his lips. A set of keys was in his other, shaking hand.

One by one, he gently roused the singers, Ebert and my mother, and explained. His wife was upstairs sleeping in her sealed L'Oreal Skin Science anti-aging chamber (official anti-aging chamber of Sasha Fierce's....oh, you get the point). We didn't have much time. He was helping us escape, he said. He'd discovered his marriage was a sham, and he'd had enough.

"She doesn't love me," he whispered, fumbling with his keys in the dimly lit chamber. "She's completely obsessed with some white chick from Toronto. Lisa Norton this, Lisa Norton that! How could I have been so blind!"

Thinking fast, I used my super acting powers (SAP TM) to temporarily adjust my facial features before he could recognize me as said white chick and fly into a jealous rage. Looking like Yao Ming and speaking in the voice of Regis Philbin, I said: "What are you going to do now, Jay-Z?"

"Well, I won't help her with this world domination thing anymore, that's for sure! After I release you prisoners, I'm dismantling her atomic bomb. And deprogramming her backup slaves. Then I'm outta here! I'll sell Roc-A-Fella Records, Roca Wear and the New Jersey Nets and move to Etobicoke to open up that little gelato shop I've always dreamed of." He turned to my mother. "What do you say, Lolita? Come with me? Give it another try?"
"Oh, Jay," said mom. "I knew you'd come around!"
"Call me Shawn," he said. "Shawn Corey Carter."

And, beaming with new hope, my mother on his arm, he started to free us, when....
JUST THEN - there she was!

With one blast from her metal arm, Jay-Z was down. So far, only I was unshackled. The stairs ascended and slammed shut. Beyoncé turned on me, aiming the arm, her fiercest Sasha Fierce eyes fixed on me in anger. There would be no This Little Piggy this time, Dear Reader, no sir.

It seemed hopeless. Until my mom cried out, "Your new acrobatic skills, Lisa! Use them!"
"And my whistling?" I paused to say.
"Yes, my second-born! Whistle! Whistle like you've never whistled before!"

Beyoncé, who had been conveniently tying her shoelace during this exchange, stood up just in time for my first flying triple sow-cow roundhouse kick to her chiselled abs. I simultaneously unleashed a lengthy and highpitched series of whistles the, er.....length and high-pitchiness of which you've never heard before.
"Ow," said the wall.
"You stay out of this."

Beyoncé stumbled backward, sharply manicured hands over her ears.

I did a couple back handsprings, just for fun, and punched her head repeatedly.

"Why, Lisa?" She wheezed, barely hanging on to consciousness. "Why do you want to leave me? Haven't I treated you well? I mean, as far as dungeon-confined prisoners go? You know I like you more than all the others."

"If you like it," I said, "Then you shoulda put a ring on it." And I kicked her in the face.

She was out.

I grabbed the metal arm thing and tried to decipher the complicated controls. WIND MACHINE....SMOKE...ALL THE SINGLE LADIES....TO THE LEFT TO THE LEFT. EXIT. I took a chance and tried that one.

The hydraulic stairs swung down.

I had Jay's - er, Shawn Corey's - keys and started to unshackle the other prisoners.

"I'm making a break for it! Who's with me?"
"No!! We'll never make it past Michelle and Kelly! Doo-Wah, doo-wah!"
"What about you, Siskel?"

"It's Ebert!
"Whatever! Are you in?"
"Two thumbs down!"
"Mom?"
"I can't leave Jay-Z!"
"Fine, then! I'll go it alone!"

And I made my escape......up the stairs, past rooms and rooms of wind and smoke machines.....through the maze of interconnected walk-in closets, pausing only to admire my reflection (forcible confinement does wonders for the complexion) and to grab a few choice items on the way, including a huge and ugly Gucci handbag which shortly came in handy when I used its enormous metal buckle to protect myself from Michelle and Kelly's bullets. When they ran out of ammo I grabbed for a fortuitously close-at-hand pair of Jimmy Choo stilettos and beat them off, leaving them a crumpled pile of glittery limbs and fake hair.

"All the ladies who truly feel me...throw your hands up at me," they wheezed, but their hearts just were not in it. Plus they had some broken ribs.

I also broke Michelle Williams' neck, and for that I'm sorry, though not really, really sorry, as she did follow up her brilliant years as a member of the most successful girl group of all time with a couple of sucky gospel albums. So perhaps it served her right. And I completely destroyed one of Kelly Rowland's long and perfect legs. So there goes her career.

I stumbled out the door, limping, barely able to eke out the whistle that would summon my getaway cab. I climbed in the back.... and as it drove away, the entire place went up in flames. No. I don't know why.

But I was free! At long last! And how long had it been? I had no idea.....but my first thought was of you, Puny Little Reader, and of how worried you must be, sitting in your darkened hovel staring at that empty screen of yours, waiting for the sweet relief of my monthly words of comfort and advice. Waiting God knows how long for news of me. My goodness, I thought....the poor, poor things.

So as soon as I was able to type of it without collapsing in uncontrollable sobs, I sat down to relay this whole sad story to you. And here we are.

It's all true. Ask the Polish widows.

Now a month has passed and here I sit, in my quaint and lovely summer home in the picturesque town of Gananoque, Ontario, scant blocks from the St. Lawrence river. I'm recovering nicely from my traumatic time in that awful dungeon, keeping myself busy rehearsing a sweet little play about single welfare mothers in Winnipeg and immersing myself in small-town life.

One of my housemates is downstairs overseeing an oven full of baking cookies; another is rubbing my feet, while the third paints my portrait. From here I will write many blog posts, all about flowers and butterflies and the heavenly scent of freshly baked goods. I'll treat you to Hymns to Dirt Roads, share an Ode to a Cumulous Cloud, and post slide shows of my barbeque and everything that has the honour of being grilled upon it. I'll let you know just what I'm up to, Dear Reader.

I'll make you wish you never asked.

P.S. If you see my mom and Jay-Z, let me know.