“The freaks are outside and I’ve locked all the doors.”
Pop Culture’s messiah has come. She has descended among us to deliver those who have received the mark, the number of the beat, to a disco apocalypse:
the age of The Monster Ball has come.
From the time of the old testament as we know it: The Fame; to the arrival of the new testament as we know it: The Fame Monster; we've been waiting. The devoted and the faithful, moving in time to deranged gospels, we've been fucking waiting. And now, from the pyrotechnic fires, the lightning flashlights and the bass line that lays waste to our very foundations, Her little monsters disperse amongst the choreographed chaos. Dressed in layers of Haute Ga-ture they come en masse, exhaling clouds of decadence and fame from their cheap cigarettes.
We sweat glitter and we bleed hairspray, we are the avante-ga, we are Her little monsters.
"I’m like tinkerbell... clap for me, do you want me to die?”
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