Madonna essentially invented sex for white people. So who are we to judge her if she wants to flash her 53-year-old tits to the world? Who are we to impede this grandiose pop artifact from exposing her rosy pink immortal nipple to 50,000 shrieking Turks? When did Madonna’s primordial flesh stop becoming relevant, nay, a treasured
national global resource?
Who among us hasn’t masturbated to a Madonna video, and/or her sassy role in “A League of Their Own”? Who hasn’t added “Justify My Love” to their Spotify “Prime Time Bone Zone” mix, even if your Prime Time Bone Zone really means greasing your weasel at your parents’ house on a Tuesday afternoon with a re-run of “King of Queens” rolling in the background, the hypnotic laugh track syncing with your pulsing heartbeat as you build to a howling climax?
Madonna is a musical and sexual titan. She’s slayed more dick than Freddy Mercury. Sean Penn. Warren Beatty. Jose Canseco. Prominent, prominent dick effortlessly and mercilessly conquered by a seminal artist. A day-glo era that brought us side ponytails and slap bracelets, the cessation of the Cold War, and the democratic restructuring of the fractured Eastern Bloc was highlighted by two indestructible truths: no nukes were fired, and Madonna fucked everybody. What gives one the right to suddenly doubt the sovereignty of Madonna’s flesh, just because she’s an aging divorced mother? Papa Don’t Preach, ain’t no expiration date on tits and ass!
If you dare question the Material Girl’s booby-and-booty flashing, you are an ageist or a pithy prude, but above all a hopeless stooge. You don’t go to a museum and tell the T-Rex skeleton to put some clothes on. You admire the beast for what its naked bones represent, its projected power and mindless fury. Its savage dominance. Madonna’s tits are those bones, assembled for us now in their advanced age and unrelenting splendor, bouncing merrily into the museum of our minds.
We must embrace the enduring animal magnetism of rock. Let Madonna’s rebellious nipple shine, an erect beacon of hope for aging musicians scratching and clawing for relevancy in a dying profession. You can’t auto-tune cock and balls. Lips and bush. You have to acknowledge them, like exquisitely-crafted album covers (remember albums?!), visual sirens demanding your auditory devotion. See deez nuts, buy this record. These aren’t sagging, wrinkled reproductive organs. These are appendages of rock and roll majesty.
Madonna has unleashed her triumphant titty salvo on the music world. Rock Out With Your Cock Out. No, seriously. Drown out the musical ignorance of our younger generations with a symphony of brain-melting, baby-making, soul-shaking, exposed cock, old-school album rock. Give us your Eternal Flesh!
Give us hymns of raw emotion backed by power chords and key-taur strokes. And genitals. Lots and lots of genitals.
Give us Eddie Van Halen at the Parthenon, playing his guitar solo from “Beat It”, with the magical tip of his penis.
Give us Lynyrd Skynrd free-balling under red-white-and-blue surgical gowns to “Freebird” on the infield at the Daytona 500.
We demand Tom Petty and Stevie Nix naked in the rain, singing “Stop Dragging My Heart Around”, the “baby you could never look me in the eye” lyric taking on added meaning as they parade their aged rocker bodies in the sloppy southern humidity.
Greatest Hits-infused summer tours would never be the same. Imagine Pat Benatar, full-on nude and flicking her bean to “Promises in the Dark”. Bruce Springtstein flopping his Boss around to “Born To Run”. David Bowie’s androgynous taint as he struts to “Ziggy Stardust”.
Give us Meatloaf’s FUPA. Jimmy Buffet in the buff. The track marks on Keith Richards’ leathery balls, on a jumbotron. Ozzy Osbourne’s wailing mangina!
Give us motherfucking rock, raw and dangerous. The sooner we censor the performances of our transcendent artists, the sooner we die our over-produced, under-nourished, dub-stepped deaths.
Is Madonna desperately battling for attention, popping her infidel titty out in a predominately Muslim country? Perhaps. But the enlightened observer incessantly playing her Turkish nipple recital on YouTube like it’s the god damn Zapruder film, would argue that it’s the mature pay-off to the tantalizing promise of 1984: a young Madonna writhing on stage at the VMAs in a tattered wedding dress, while a nation fapped to cable television “for the very first time!!!” And now we fap to a fading chanteuse’s ancient nipple, an astonishing oasis in an empty culture, where sex and music are juxtaposed, yet drained of all intrinsic sensuality.
Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em, for La Isla Bonita is a myth, its architect a dying star. We’ve sent rock and roll to hospice, because everything good… dies.