Madonna of Scotland

Motion, even bored foot shuffling and the low underlying cacophony of small talk evaporate in an instant. Look, it’s a bird, it’s plane–no, it’s a platinum-haired imitation of that purchased pure blood Princess Di (the one time Arch-Dukette of Mesopotamia, former bride of Charles the Snozzola, Emperor and Grand Ruler of the Holy Roman Empire).  It’s Madonna. Yes, Rock’s royal queen has now appeared in her Scottish castle for the guests to gaze upon, though of course it would be untoward of them, even of her own husband to be, the indubitable Master Ritchie (now dubbed by the press Sir Hanger On) to stare dirctly into her crafty orbs (though of course actually nothing more than dusty mid-western eyeballs). This is pure Self they are gazing upon. A self-made queen, a buyer of children, the new holder of the Cabala secrets (and it is rumored, of the Holy Grail itself, a gift from a Middle Eastern descendant of the Secret Society of the Secret Holders, honoring her status of fame and wealth).

There she is, Madonna at the top of the stairs, as still-born and fake as her wax Self in Madame Trousseau’s bar and grill. She stands above the crowd, which is still staring up in a daze (as royal castle protocol requires). Bugles sound, the kind an American–a Michigan Ciccone American–might have seen in an old movie or maybe heard at the race track or had described in church as the type they used at the Gates of Heaven to usher in the freshly Holy-watered. An announcer in a black tux then recites, in Scottish brogue, the liturgy: all hail Madonna of Scotland, begat from and begat from and begat from  (in tune with a long Biblical-like begatting list) and begat in spirt from the kilted Mackintosh Clan of Old that once ruled the castle before the time when only tasteless crude horse-faced Rock & Rollers could afford such historic places.

One can clearly see now why she gave up her last name Ciccone. It is not Royal. Sounds like something from a Jersey City street, too much like the character in the video she created in I’m Keeping My Baby. Then she descends, as she must; she can’t stand there forever basking in dozens of prostrate eyes.  As she moves downward her face is bathed in special imported soft light (which makes her skin look as soft as a baby’s behind). The custom- fitted Earthen peasants have moved back some now from the bottom of the stairs, forming a u-shape around where she will descend to their level (but physically only).

A prearranged hand is held out to her on her last riser. She takes it with just a touch (very classy). She addresses the gathering: Welcome to Scotland. Her voice almost cracks, so intense is the moment. She perhaps is about to parlay her Scottish royalty into a real brogue–”lads and lassies”–but wisely decides against it before even parting her lips. Welcome to Scotland, my dear and trusted [irony here] guests.

We can imagine the library, perhaps located in one of the castle’s wings on the way to the formal dining area where shelf upon shelf is not stocked with books but with the fourth world children she’s purchased, many of whom were taken in the dead of night by her sordid agents (we can imagine the children struggling in the nets held from long wooden handles). There, crouched on the various shelves like assorted flora and fauna, they are on display for her visitors. They are not in jars of course, but their breathing is very light, their blinking cautiously controlled, for Madonna has ordered them to remain as motionless as possible till after the fawners have left and praised her humanity. This is her perfect moment.

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