I took George Bush Jr., Condoleezza Rice, and uhmmm, the Pope, and first posed with them in a funny hat picture, and then second, shook them all like maracas. "Nuclear shmuclear," I said. "Forget about North Korea for just two seconds and focus on Jennifer Lopez. She's taking over the world with a Gucci claw, and you do nothing. For shame."
Then I slapped Dubya with the back of my hand before he could furrow his brow and Elmer Fudd his way out from beneath my wrath -- because my wrath hovers. I subsequently looked to Condoleezza, shaking my head and tut-tutting, then drop-kicked her to China.
Finally, my disdainful rampage came to the Pope. He said, "Why am I here?And can I please have my hat back?"
To which I replied, "Why are any of us here, hmmmm? And yes you may have your hat back, John Paul ... if you answer this one question."
The barren-headed Pope nodded. "Uh-huh?"
I folded my arms across my chest and took on my Hannibal Lecter-wild-eyed-yet-calmly-in-control, ponderous tone: "How much does love cost?"
The Pope promptly snapped his fingers with a swoosh of the hand like he was on "Ricki Lake," and said, "Love don't cost a thing. Okay Puffy! You tried to buy this," he paused on a perfectly timed beat to run his hands down to the hips of his robed frame, "With your chains and your Benz, but I got my own." He turned, but then snapped his head back my way to add a tart, "Hon-EY."
I cried up to the moon, beat my chest, and accepted my Oscar tearfully before calling the Pope on his obvious possession: "Why, J. Lo?Take meeeEee! Release thy grasp from the Pope, wicked demon!Lest I pop in a video montage of thee as a Fly Girl."
The vessel for J. Lo's pervasive essence snarled and hissed before dropping down to London Bridge position and doing a freaky spider walk, all the while chanting: "I'm real! I'm real! I'm real! I'm real!"
I was getting dizzy, but I kept my wits about me and broke out a mini boom box that I keep in a mini-man bag. Then BAM! "Boom boom boom, lemme here ya say wayooo, WAYOOO." I blasted an aerobalicious mix that would tighten anyone's monster booty. The possessed religious icon -- whom I have no way defiled based on Statute Zelta Coda Epsilon in the Constitution -- hopped on a stationary bike and began spinning.
The "I'm reals" were overwhelmed by "I've got the power." On the "it's getting, it's getting, it's getting kinda hectic" chorus, Jenny Lo's media-mongerin' spirit had been expelled, and the Pope slumped off of the bike unconscious and toned. I wiped my forehead of a job-well-done sweat and stashed the stationary bike back in my man bag. I had exercised the demon. One down, a gajillion "TRL" aficionados to go. Boom boom boom, forlorn wayo ...wayo (sob).
I decided I needed to confront J.Lo in the flesh, and I work with her ex-husband Whathisface at the supermarket, so it was way easy for me to get the inside scoop on her routine. He stalks her after work sometimes.
Jenny has to wake up at the crack of 10 and kiss B.Aff on the cheek for the black turtle-necked paparazzi in their front lawn. She then eats a breakfast of a strawberry and steak because she is decadent and loves it (but she takes the stairs whenever possible)!
She has a photo shoot for People at 12:00, Teen People at 12:05, YM at 12:10, Cosmo at 12:15, Redbook at 12:30, Maxim at 12:35, Entertainment Weekly at 12:40, Bowling Digest at 12:50, and American Angler at 12:55.
J.Lo has allotted herself an hour to write for her next compact disc: "J.Lo: Remixes of Remixes of Remixes." She wants to be considered thoughtful and deep -- she wants this CD to say something, and have substance. So, she tells all this to her twelve "co-writers" who nod their heads and jot J.Lo'isms down attentively.
"I want my people from the Bronx to know that I'm real.That I'm just Jenny," J. Lo would say wistfully.
"That you're still from around the block!!" A young go-getter named Antoine would pipe in.
J. Lo would get excited at Antoine's deeper understanding of the hidden "her." She would see that twinkle in Antoine's eye, and sense the rippling of his pectoral beneath his shirt. "Marry me!" J. Lo would propose, grabbing Antoine's hand and ordering the execution of Ben Affleck with a press of a big, fat, red button.
Antoine would of course agree, and Diane Sawyer, Rege and Kelly, and all the world, save the Pope and myself (for we are FREEE), would embrace the marriage and throw rice in honor of the blushing bride.
Then at three o'clock J.Lo has to shoot some scenes for her upcoming movie, a combinaton action/adventure/romantic comedy/thriller scheduled for a summer 2003 release entitled: "The Life and Times of Jaquelin Onassis." J. Lo is Jackie O.
I plan on being on set for the final confrontation between Jackie and the aliens, as an extra. When J.Lo takes a strawberry and steak break, I'll run up and ask her to pose in a funny hat picture with me. Then I'll dropkick some sense into her, Condoleezza style. Hiiiii-ya! She'll tumble dead or unconscious to the floor.
If she is dead, then I will take her strawberry and steak and call it a day.If she is unconscious then I will pull Gary Coleman out of my mini man-bag and tell him to cuddle with her on the floor. I'll cry out to the black turtle-necked paparazzi, and they will flock to the supposed "love birds."
The pictures will be emblazoned on everything, from the cover of American Angler to the backs of milk cartons, and Antoine will cry, and J. Lo's career will become glorious fodder for VH1 to exploit. My forehead will once again be dotted with a job-well-done sweat, and I will walk off into the sunset with the Pope.
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