Is Madonna proof cooties exist?
Is Madonna proof cooties exist?
Photo by Marcus Piggot

Whatever You Do, Don't Kiss Madonna

The moon looks nice. You’re waxing emotional. Some butterflies flutter in your stomach. Stars are shiny. Maybe you’ve lit a candle, maybe three or four candles. You’ve gone all out, like, stir-fried shrimp and homemade pasta all out. Those trousers and button down are really well-ironed, homie. You feel good. Tonight is the night. You pop on some Drake and get ready. Because you know Drake is the best soundtrack to any sexual adventure. 

But then a thought pops in your mind, making your genitals recoil like a Slinky. 

Madonna sticking her tongue real deep into Drake’s throat. 

You don’t want to think about that tonight. And you shouldn’t. We don't want you to think about that either man. 

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But, hell, now it’s inescapable. Madonna is lingering over this whole interaction like she lingered over Drake at Coachella, resembling a mama bird ready to regurgitate a few juicy worms. And then it dawns on you: Someone needs to warn Drake. After all, he could be in trouble. Think about it. Whatever happened to Madonna’s ex-husband Guy Ritchie? A quick Google search shows you he’s been stuck in a relative creative purgatory. The coked-out, fast-paced fun of his earlier works Snatch and Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels being replaced by shit like Swept Away, which should be... um... swept away. That movie is the cinematic equivalent of having a cigarette put out on your arm. Ritchie’s gone on to make The Man From U.N.C.L.E. and the Sherlock Holmes films, which are OK, but you won't be re-watching those in a few years like his earlier stuff.

Oh, and, remember that time Madonna made out with Christina Aguilera and Britney Spears at the 2003 VMAs, collectively giving 12-year-olds across America a new tingly sensation they'd never felt before? It was sexy for about three seconds and then Britney goes positively lunatic, shaves her head, and looks shockingly like Vin Diesel in the process. Then, Christina's career goes south real quick. The Genie goes back in the bottle, baby. Both women lose their mojo. The hottest pop stars go straight downhill after making out with Madonna. 

But surely Madonna's kisses can't be cursed. Let's be rational here. Think, think...

Who else did she date?

Oh, just A-Rod. And then he had that small, itty-bitty, thing with PEDs that got him suspended from MLB. Boos could be heard from outer space.

Who else?

Oh, just Sean Penn, the star of recent films The Gunman and Gangster Squad, two movies with a cumulative Rotten Tomatoes score of 24 percent. (That's out of 100, by the way.) Although Penn’s greatest piece of acting these past few years might be the performance-art spectacle he did for Rolling Stone when he became pals with the biggest drug lord this side of Earth. He also wrote it as a Rolling Stone feature, where he included gems like:

“I step from plane to earth, ever so slightly sobering my bearings, and move toward the beckoning waves of waiting drivers. I throw my satchel into the open back of one of the SUVs, and lumber over to the tree line to take a piss. Dick in hand, I do consider it among my body parts vulnerable to the knives of irrational narco types, and take a fond last look, before tucking it back into my pants.”

And also:

“In a narrow, dark passage between ours and an adjacent bungalow, Chapo puts his arm over my shoulder and renews his request that I see him in eight days. ‘I’ll be saying goodbye now,’ he says. At this moment, I expel a minor traveler’s flatulence (sorry), and with it, I experience the same chivalry he’d offered when putting Kate to bed, as he pretends not to notice.”

So far, that makes a startling number of past Madonna couples or people who have hooked up with her (even just briefly onstage) who have lost or are losing their collective shit. So someone needs to warn Drake. Get him to a voodoo witch quick. Get him some herbal tea with healing properties. Get him a caramel frappucino, which might not help the Madonna curse but will definitely calm and comfort him.

But you can rest easy now. Console yourself with the fact that you’ve never hooked up with Madonna and probably never will.

In a vacuum, Madonna is the greatest female pop star ever. If you think Rihanna is a bad bitch who’s challenged the notions of patriarchy, Madonna in her prime makes Ri-Ri look like an angry preteen. She’s legit a genius. But every genius must carry her burden. In Madonna’s case, you just can’t make out with her. No fucking way. 

Madonna 8 p.m. Saturday, January 23, and Sunday, January 24, at American Airlines Arena, 601 Biscayne Blvd., Miami; 786­-777­1000; aaarena.com. Tickets cost $40 to $355 via ticketmaster.com.

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