"Me? I love Madonna."
That doesn't get the reaction you were hoping for, namely a reaction
that doesn't end with you being beaten. The officials slides out of his
80s trance and grabs his folding chair to beat your brains in. BAM!
You're dead!
Nah, you're not dead. You just expected him to do all that after your
declaration of love for Madonna was met with a deep, lasting silence.
Before you can clarify that you meant that you love the old Madonna,
back when she didn't have that fake English accent and was a whore, the
official starts doing the monkey. Man, he must really be stuck in the
80s. I mean, just look at how sweating like a pig, pumping his arms up
and down as though he were milking the teats of a giant cow. And his tie
just keeps swinging back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, back
and… Oh no, he's hypnotizing you! Before you can break the spell and
complain about the smell of his sweaty shirt, you are enveloped in
darkness.
You wake in a small boat, floating lazily down a river. No, wait, this
is no river; you're traveling down the canals of Venice! Alright! Looks
like that official must have hypnotized you so he could stow you on a
plane to a better destination than crummy old Paradise Island. Something
doesn't seem quite right about this, though. You paddle the boat over to
a nearby dock and disembark. To your astonishment, waiting at the end of
the dock is a poorly dressed, and considerably younger, Madonna.
"Jesus, there you are! The video shoot is already underway. Get your ass
in gear" she shrieks. Crap, it looks like you've somehow wound up on the
set of the "Like a Virgin" video. You make an off-color remark about the
irony of her singing that song, and she begins to fume. An unusual
breeze starts to pick up. At first, it's refreshing, but as it becomes
stronger and stronger, it becomes apparent that something is wrong, as
wind doesn't usually blow at such an intense, downward angle. All of a
sudden, you realize that this isn't a breeze at all. No, it's Madonna.
The scorned strumpet has flipped up her skirt, and is drawing you into
her how's-your-mother with gale force winds! You struggle as hard as you
can, but there are no handholds for you grab, and soon, you are
imprisoned for all eternity in a place far worse than hell: a pop star's
groin.
