BEYONCE: Hi, Mommy! Thanks! Thanks for the dress!

SOLANGE: Yeah. That’s good. Rub it in.

BEYONCE: Whatever do you mean?

SOLANGE: Oh, nothing. Just that, once again, Mom lets you wear some giant ball gown, and I get to wear a glorified freaking shirt with shoes that look like a five-year old made them. Awesome.

BEYONCE: You’re so cranky.

SOLANGE: Wouldn’t you be? It’s like a funeral tent. Although I don’t even like your dress that much. It looks a bit like wet sand at the beach got all over it. HA!

BEYONCE: That’s real nice, there, Solange. Real mature. I think I look pretty.

SOLANGE: And your highlights look like refried Tina Turner from this angle.

BEYONCE: It was an homage! For our performance!

SOLANGE: Uh-huh. Right. Mom lets you do all that to yourself, and doesn’t let me wear pants.

BEYONCE: Silly child. You have to EARN pants.

SOLANGE: Oh, is that so? Like you did on stage tonight?


BEYONCE: That’s DIFFERENT. I’m performing with Tina! The queen of tiny skirts and awesome legs!

SOLANGE: Yeah, and Tina can get away with anything, because she’s fierce. Although I don’t think she appreciated you stepping on her foot mid-song, but I won’t rub that in, okay?

BEYONCE: But doesn’t my hair look better?

SOLANGE: It does. That’s still not a dress, though, Peaches. That’s a bedazzled hanky. And what’s your excuse for this other thing?


BEYONCE: That’s different ALSO, brat!

SOLANGE: How? Those look like you have gangrene of the pelvis. How come you refuse to wear bottoms on-stage? Are you allergic?

BEYONCE: Listen, you know I have an alter-ego called Sasha who takes over my costuming sometimes.

SOLANGE: Right. And I have an alter-ego named Neosporin who makes a salve that might cure whatever your hips caught.

BEYONCE: When I tell Mom about this, you will be so grounded, you won’t even TOUCH a pair of pants for TWO YEARS.

SOLANGE: Great! Then I can talk to “Sasha” for some pointers on how to handle that.