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Fake News

I Am Serena’s Tutu.

I am achromatic.

I am immaculate.

I have no feelings. But if I did have feelings, I suspect I might have a crush on Barack Obama’s tan suit. If you see him, give him my number. It’s 212-HOT-TUTU.

I am impeccably cylindrical. Like the sun. Like a Starbucks cup lid. Like the wheel on Wheel of Fortune starring Pat Sajak and Vanna White. Like the button that enlarges a window on my Mac. Like a cinnamon donut on a crisp autumn morning. Like the 45 I had of Minnie Riperton’s 1975 single, “Lovin’ You.”

Like John McEnroe’s red terry cloth headband, I am functional.

Like Andre Agassi’s mullet, I shall never be replicated.

Like Stan Smith’s Stan Smiths, I am immortal.

I have a complex heritage. My mother was borne from the hanky-panky that happened when someone put the Princess Diana’s wedding dress and Superman’s cape in the same suitcase. My father was borne from when the wedding dress of Grace Kelly fornicated with that magical suit Michael Jackson wore in his “Billie Jean” video when they were at the same dry cleaner. You know the one when he stepped on those bricks and the bricks lit up.

I am made with nearly translucent muslin and gossamer silk and crystalline tulle. And plutonium.

I am iconic.

I am buoyant. I am effervescent. I am irrepressible. I am ethereal. I am what might happen if an albino unicorn drank two liters of Coca-Cola and then ate some pop rocks and then metabolically attached itself to a mighty tennis player.

I am inedible. (Don’t ask.)

If RBG didn’t have to wear a black robe, she would ask to wear me and I would let her.

I am iridescent, like that thing that came out of the Ark of the Covenant. One day Indiana Jones’s descendants will search for me. I will let them find me. But if one of them tries to put me on over their treasure hunting costume I will melt his fucking face.

I will let you touch me. Briefly. But if you rub me with your fingers like sometimes people do when they touch gauzy fabrics I will fucking cut you.

I am immune to the bacterial culture medium that is human sweat. Its toxicity is of no consequence to me. I repel all that is virulent. I can and will kill Ebola.

I am elegant and plain; I am savage and calm; I am graceful and rugged; I am sublime and simple; I am dainty and strong; I am delicate and violent.

Chadwick Boseman wore me when he was trying out for the role of Black Panther. The director loved Chadwick Boseman but wanted to take his costume in a different direction. Which I totally understand.

I was designed and crafted by Brontes, the Greek god of thunder. That’s right. A man sewed me. With thread that he borrowed from Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of beauty.

Ancient cultures believed that if they looked at me too long I would steal their soul. And those ancient cultures would be correct.

I revel in the spotlight. But I know that I owe everything to the one who wears me. She has shown me what it means to be strong.

Kellyanne Conway thought about wearing me. She tried me on and I gave her chronic dysentery.

With her forehands and backhands she makes my ruffles swoosh around and the ruffle swooshing subsequently makes sounds. You can’t hear those sounds because they are at a frequency of approximately 40 kHzs, well beyond the range that a human ear can hear. But if a human ear could hear them then you would know that the sounds of my swooshing are like what would happen if Josh Groban and Whitney Houston had a baby. And the baby sang “The Star-Spangled Banner.” With the Boston Symphony Orchestra. At Fenway Park. On the Fourth of July. And everyone gets a voucher for one free lemonade and one free Fenway frank.

Do not wash me. Do not tumble dry me.

Once, I gave Chuck Norris a dirty look and that bitch started to cry.

In a decade or so, when you look at photographs taken of me, I will not be there.

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