Imagine You

It is not unusual for Talk Show Queens, who’ve never known “voluptuous,” just fat; who’ve never known “beautiful,” just thin, to lecture The Nation at large on topics as varied as personal hygiene, salads, surgeries, machines of production and pleasure, and of course, prescription pills.

But they’re not You.

They boast neither beauty nor ugliness, just fat or thin; neither either nor or, just good or bad.

Imagine You with a microphone and live audience — your very own!

Imagine You, with your voluptuous harem-girl allure, partial to curvaceous women and rock-hard men and wise old poets and professors who love you like a sister, daughter, mistress, mom.

Imagine You lecturing couch-potatoes of The Nation on the dangers of alcohol, tobacco and real crème filling, while during news flashes that don’t interrupt your programming, but complement it, The Nation burns its enemies like cheap cigars, and you summon the illusion of emotion you learned in acting school to shed a single tear for “our boys and girls” risking their lives among the scorched, screaming flotsam of enemy wounded (they bury explosives in the gape-mouth openings of exit-wounds — the crazed fanatics!  Even spewing gore they can’t be trusted; oh let’s be done with THEM, flatten THEM with nuclear fists and bring our boys and girls back home!).

Imagine You chosen to entertain the victorious troops upon their homecoming, your own television “special” starring You You You letting defeated Enemy masses know that they have nothing to fear from Your love-musk of girly-girl heat sweat estrogen. Sweet Venus hallelujah!

Immortal You who waited patiently for 40,000 years before “they” finally invented the camera and high definition sound recording. Sassy, sensual, iconoclastic You, finally strutting the strut you’d been practicing for 40,000 spins around The Sun, before the lives of Jesus, Moses, Elvis, us.

You go, girl! Do it for the ultimate salvation of the troops, the poor and uninsured, the moribund, obese, illiterate masses breaking the earth’s crust and falling falling falling to the bottomless empty of historic Time.

Do it for the resurrection and redemption of the Nation itself, offering dead-skin, chocolate bars, toe-nail shavings and yes, even the flower of its youth as ultimate sacrifice to curry favor with, to plead with, to be in good standing with, unique, creative, energetic, thin, hairless (where it counts) succulent, audacious, charismatic You You You!

Crystal Night is a singer, songwriter, comedian and "general performance artist," as she describes herself. She spends most of her off-stage time performing odd and various rebellions against Power and practicing the electric and acoustic string intstruments she builds and designs herself. She also plays a mean banjo and ain't too shabby on guitar. Crystal lives and works in The City. Read other articles by Crystal.