Because it worked out so well last time!


Debbie, Debbie.  Ne’er shall I call you Deborah. I’m sorry, but I feel as though, as I bought your freaking perfume, I am allowed to call you whatever I want. For the rest of our lives. I mean, not like “Mademoiselle Whorebag Nutsface” or something — that would be crass, and also untrue. After all, you’re Debbie Gibson! You are still so cute. By the way, Debbie, Wikipedia tells me that, “in May 2007,
the world premiere of Electric Youth: The Musical was unveiled at The
Starlight Theatre in Orlando, FL. The musical featured 14 of Deborah’s
most loved songs.” How was I not made aware of this? It sounds terrible, but potentially also awesome, and therefore I feel as though I ought to have been emailed about it. I enjoy musical versions of everything. Bursting into song is never not entertaining — can you imagine a musical version of, say, Sweet Valley High? Jessica Wakefield bursting into the heart-string-plucking, “Who Am I (My Sister Came Out of Her Coma and Thought She Was Me)?” Elizabeth Wakefield dancing though “He Touched My Boob! (And Then I Cracked My Head On The Coffee Table).”  A huge group number at the Dairi Burger, perhaps explaining why it’s spelled thusly? Mayhap Debbie Gibson can play the Mom — sorry, Debbie. We’re all getting older. However, you’re not 75, so why are you wearing my grandma’s shoes? Just asking.

Tags: bad shoes, beige