Madonna Louise Veronica Ciccone pulled the red nylon tie that zig-zagged back and forth on her body suit which barely covered her breasts down to an inch below her belly button, creating a four-finger wide view of her six-pack of abdominal muscles. Her manager was standing by with a clip board and a Blackberry. Madonna's hair was still wet from the shower, and was yet to be blow dried by her three hair stylists.
"I think it's a bad idea," said the manager.
"Fuck. This is not reaching. I need a longer cord here," said Madonna loudly so everyone in the large dressing room would hear her.
Julie with short blond hair in tight jeans and a yellow tank top rushed over to Madonna's torso to remove the red nylon cord. Madonna leaned back as the cord pulled free from the tiny holes that ran down each side of the body suit that was designed to remain widely open revealing years of Madonna’s hard abdominal workouts. Julie had to work to get the cord through some of the holes because the body suit was so tightly grabbing Madonna's body.
"What did you say?" asked Madonna of her manager.
"Your song is strong. You don’t need to change the lyrics," said the manager.
"You're telling me my song is strong, like I don't know that," said Madonna as she was watching Julie struggle with the cord.
"Sorry. I just meant to express the view that being so overtly political, and I might add trashy, might be counter-productive," said the manager.
"Counter-productive? Counter productive for who?" asked Madonna.
At this moment the cord pulled completely out of the last two holes below Madonna's belly button. The skin tight outfit fell open exposing Madonna's breasts, which she let hang and did not seem shy about. They were ample breasts, but had started to sag from age.
"Well, counter-productive for, well, for the politics," said the manager.
"For the politics. What is that supposed to mean?" said Madonna.
"If the objective is to affect politics, then maybe you can choose a different metaphor than sucking President Bush's dick in Texas," said the manager.
"That's not a metaphor. Bush has a dick. And I am telling people to go suck it. In Texas. Where I assume lots of dicks get sucked. What is metaphorical about that?" asked Madonna.
"OK. Yes. I see that. But why are you choosing to now get so boldly partisan. I thought we had discussed that it is preferable to be political without getting personal and taking sides, or at a minimum be circumspect about your point of view," said the manager.
Madonna raised both her breasts to air out the sweaty skin under where they had been hanging, which was lower these days than in past years. She cupped each breast with her palms and held them up.
“Besides, it feels like it is in bad taste,” said the manager.
"Bush's approval ratings are below thirty-five percent. I can now get partisan. It will be good. And I turn things that are in bad taste into good taste. I have mastered the artform,” said Madonna.
“OK. OK. It just makes me uneasy,” said the manager.
“I can do no wrong with this one. Trust me. I can get filthy and trashy with a president who is going under. Throwing stones in a sinking ship. I'm throwing stones in a sinking ship. Where the fuck is Julie? I need to get this body suit on," said Madonna.
Julie rushes over with a new cord.
"That's blue. I want a red cord. A red cord. Go find a red cord, Julie,” said Madonna. Julie ran off.
"OK. OK. Yes. Well, what if President Bush's approval ratings go back up?" asked the manager.
"Then I get, what did you say, circumspect. Ambiguous. I drop the partisan stuff. But now, I can tell people to suck Bush's dick. The public will love it," said Madonna.
"OK. OK. Yes. Maybe," said the manager.
"Get me a cappuccino. Soy milk. Large." said Madonna.
"Yes. Of course. Right away," said the manager, as she tuned and moved quickly with her clipboard, leaving Madonna on the stool cupping and lifting her breasts.
“My hair needs to be dried. My hair needs to be dried. Does anybody fucking hear me?” said Madonna.