The Pendulum of Joyce Summers.

Anything I write here has probably either been invented by, birthed by or copyrighted by Lady GaGa by now. Monstrous? Hers. Honey, no? Hers. Um? Hers. Concrete nouns? Concrete monsters! Adjectives? Ad-monster-ives! Hand job? Paw job! (That sounds wrong on so many thousands of levels, pretend it never happened.) Language? Monsteruage! Millions of years of biological evolution upon which centuries of human development and progress delicately rest? GaGa-lution of monster-ress!!

I have been invented by Lady GaGa. My soul has been lovingly crafted in Lady GaGa's celestial paws. Sorry, 'Mother Monster's' celestial paws. She created me in her shoddily conceived ego-wank of a monster-mythology (sorry, monsterology), written when 'the myxomatosis of the Twilight (TM) of the infernal, infamous Tempura began, as the Pendulum of Joyce Summers danced a flance so hard it flew up a flammable backside never to be seen again.' She created this very same thought that I am trying to organise (unsuccessfully) into words. Sorry, monstords. Pawrds. She has already anticipated my commentary on this seven minute fart, she already knows that I am going to say that, dressed as a Gay Pope, reclining on a billboard platform last seen in the 'Lucky' video with a googly eye stuck to her chin, she is going to usher us all up into the shimmering, unicorn delights of Utopia. Sorry, Monstertopia. That there, in Monstertopia, we shall find the acceptance and love yet to exist on the grimy surface of Earth for LGBT people and everyone ever. Sorry, Monster-ay, Monster-bian, Bi-monsterual, Trans-monsterian and everymonster evermonster. Although that's a bit of a cop out really, considering Madame Monster de Monster Mon invented the Earth. Sorry, Monstearth. Actually, her power, sorry, monster-wer is so great, she invented God (sorry, Monster-od) who invented the Monstearth. But hey, at least there are unicorns. Sorry, monstericorns.

The Pink Prophet, sorry, Monsterink Monsterphet, has converted me. Sorry, monster-verted me. Doing a dance routine in a bra and knicker set and flailing around in an acrylic Hanky-Panky ponytail and a pair of shower shoes (the symbolism here is far too profound and arcane for me to ever uncover their true meaning) has convinced me that I was born once, that people are born and that there are bad things and that bad things shouldn't happen, wheelchair, rollerskates, chola, Orientalism, homo, homo, 'but some of my best friends are Lebanese!'. Sorry, Monstering a monster-nce monstertine monsterin monstera monsterbra MONSTERMONSTERMONSTERMONSTERMONSTER.

Mythologies are crafted over hundreds of years, passed down orally (ooh-er) through generations, venerated, written and rewritten, created to justify or celebrate the random and chaotic occurences in our natural environment. Gradually, painstakingly, they are disseminated, reinterpreted, retold, refined and reinforced by the innate human hunger for narrative, order and explanation.

They do not just appear in a gay bar dressed up for a Hipster Prom in morbid facepaints and a candyfloss pony mane, proclaiming that culture, suffering and all evil (all of which were, incidentally, invented by Monsterdy Monster-Ga Monster-Ga) has now, conclusively come to an end. They are not "Born This Way".

(Ba-doom Tish!)