Live Earthling Report 2: Wembley Stadium
A
SPECIAL
REPORT
BY
VOX POPLAR
token Earthling correspondent
Howdy fellow Earthlings!
It's time for part two of my coverage of Al Gore's Live Earth show at Wembley Stadium in London!
Here's my report!
----------------------------
There was a flash of orange light and suddenly I was no longer at Giants Stadium but Wembley Stadium in London.
This time I appeared in a secluded spot in the backstage parking area between the limousine transporting Madonna's hairstylist and the Escalade SUV that transported Madonna's hair-stylist's first assistant. I adjusted my universal press-pass to get me into the backstage and walked casually past the Ford SUV for Madonna's hair-stylist's second assistant, the Range Rover belonging to third hair-stylist's assistant, and the line of SUVs and heavy trucks that transported Madonna's wardrobe and make-up staff.
I sauntered on past the statue honouring the stadium's namesake, Britain's greatest hero Wembley Fraggle and into the backstage area.
I had no sooner walked into the backstage area then I was confronted by all three members of the Beastie Boys.
"Yo dude," said one of them, don't ask me which, because I can't tell them apart, "sign our petition man."
"Free Tibet!" said another one.
"Does this mean that you're going to start criticizing the government of China's environmental policies too?" I asked.
"Just sign the f*cking petition," said yet another Beastie Boy, "it's not like it's going to do anything except make us feel like we matter."
I took a look at the petition, someone had already taken the name "Buck Naked" so I went with my old stage name "Lance Hardthrust." (Don't ask me about where that stage name came from)
"How the hell can I save the Earth if I don't have the right bottled water!" screamed Bono as he hurled a full bottle of Evian at a meek looking assistant. "Take those ten cases of bottled water and rubbish them, they're no good!"
"Yes Mr. Bono," said the cowering assistant.
"That's Master Bono to you!"
"Hey, Bono!" I called out, "can I ask you a few questions?"
"I only talk to major national or international publications," declared Bono.
"My employers cover the Known Universe," I answered.
"That seems big enough," said Bono. "So, do they want to know how great I am?"
"They already know that," I said, "I want to know is what events like Live Earth, Live 8 hope to achieve?"
"We hope to promote awareness," said Bono, "of things like climate change, African poverty, and how wonderful I am for being so great."
"Let's talk about African poverty," I said, "you constantly demand that rich nations send more aid to Africa, even though many African activists oppose raising aid levels because all they do is prop up dysfunctional and corrupt governments. What do you have to say about that?"
"Well it's all very simple," said Bono, "more aid keeps crooked governments in power, causing more suffering, that means I can ride my high horse and make people think all my projects are for charity and spend their money on me. It makes me look really good. They're going to give me the Nobel Peace prize, just like Arafat."
"And exactly how much of the profits from you various projects actually go to help Africans?"
"The exact number is hard to calculate," said Bono, "but a rough estimate would put it somewhere below the steam off my pee."
"Okay," I said, "one last question. Why are you here? I thought U2 wasn't performing."
"Wherever there are cameras and celebrities posturing for charitable causes that don't actually do anything, I'll be there."
"Thanks for the honesty," I said.
"Well you are poking me with some sort of alien mind-control device," added Bono.
"I know," I said, "my employers loaned me some alien technology to blend with my already existing invention to make people tell the truth. Oh, I think I see Genesis. I'll see you later Bono."
"Hey Genesis," I asked, "why are you performing at Live Earth?"
"Live Earth," said Phil Collins, "I thought this was the Princess Di concert!"
"Bugger it," said another member of Genesis whose name I didn't bother to learn. "And I can't get a decent cup of tea."
"Maybe I should talk to the Foo Fighters," I said. "They seem to know where they are."
I tracked down the Foo Fighters at their trailer and sat down for an interview before their set began.
"So," I said to lead Foo Dave Grohl, "how does it feel to still be considered second banana to a guy who made the smart career move to blow his brains out before he became washed up?"
Luckily no one of any value to society was hurt when Dave Grohl tossed me out his trailer window.
"Oh my god!" screamed a roadie, "thatfat bastard devilishly handsome journalist landed on Madonna!"
"Who hasn't?" I asked.
"Mmmmph!" said Madonna.
"You see," I said, "she's okay. She even sounds better."
Then I rolled off the aging pop star.
"I tried to speak," said Madonna, "but I was choking on a mouthful offat taut muscular ass!"
"Could you answer a few questions for the MoxArgon Group?"
"You're a reporter," said Madonna, brushing the dust off her outfit. "Ask away."
"Why are you doing a concert for someone whose wife tried to censor you as number eight of the so called Filthy 15?"
"Because Tipper Gore's outrage covered up for my lack of talent," said Madonna. "If I didn't have shock value I'd have to rely on my voice and my looks, and neither have been up to snuff in a long time. Is that an alien machined designed to make me tell the truth?"
"Maybe," I said. "What about recent revelations that you're a major stockholder in some major polluters?"
"It's okay," said Madonna, "I gave Al Gore some money, so he blessed my hypocritical profiteering."
"Sounds fair," I said. "I better get going. I've got something important to do."
"Like watching Live Earth?"
"Nope," I answered, "I'm going to watch the grass grow in my backyard. Toodles."
And with a flash I left Wembley stadium, no longer giving a crap about freaking anyone out.
This time I appeared in a secluded spot in the backstage parking area between the limousine transporting Madonna's hairstylist and the Escalade SUV that transported Madonna's hair-stylist's first assistant. I adjusted my universal press-pass to get me into the backstage and walked casually past the Ford SUV for Madonna's hair-stylist's second assistant, the Range Rover belonging to third hair-stylist's assistant, and the line of SUVs and heavy trucks that transported Madonna's wardrobe and make-up staff.
I sauntered on past the statue honouring the stadium's namesake, Britain's greatest hero Wembley Fraggle and into the backstage area.
I had no sooner walked into the backstage area then I was confronted by all three members of the Beastie Boys.
"Yo dude," said one of them, don't ask me which, because I can't tell them apart, "sign our petition man."
"Free Tibet!" said another one.
"Does this mean that you're going to start criticizing the government of China's environmental policies too?" I asked.
"Just sign the f*cking petition," said yet another Beastie Boy, "it's not like it's going to do anything except make us feel like we matter."
I took a look at the petition, someone had already taken the name "Buck Naked" so I went with my old stage name "Lance Hardthrust." (Don't ask me about where that stage name came from)
"How the hell can I save the Earth if I don't have the right bottled water!" screamed Bono as he hurled a full bottle of Evian at a meek looking assistant. "Take those ten cases of bottled water and rubbish them, they're no good!"
"Yes Mr. Bono," said the cowering assistant.
"That's Master Bono to you!"
"Hey, Bono!" I called out, "can I ask you a few questions?"
"I only talk to major national or international publications," declared Bono.
"My employers cover the Known Universe," I answered.
"That seems big enough," said Bono. "So, do they want to know how great I am?"
"They already know that," I said, "I want to know is what events like Live Earth, Live 8 hope to achieve?"
"We hope to promote awareness," said Bono, "of things like climate change, African poverty, and how wonderful I am for being so great."
"Let's talk about African poverty," I said, "you constantly demand that rich nations send more aid to Africa, even though many African activists oppose raising aid levels because all they do is prop up dysfunctional and corrupt governments. What do you have to say about that?"
"Well it's all very simple," said Bono, "more aid keeps crooked governments in power, causing more suffering, that means I can ride my high horse and make people think all my projects are for charity and spend their money on me. It makes me look really good. They're going to give me the Nobel Peace prize, just like Arafat."
"And exactly how much of the profits from you various projects actually go to help Africans?"
"The exact number is hard to calculate," said Bono, "but a rough estimate would put it somewhere below the steam off my pee."
"Okay," I said, "one last question. Why are you here? I thought U2 wasn't performing."
"Wherever there are cameras and celebrities posturing for charitable causes that don't actually do anything, I'll be there."
"Thanks for the honesty," I said.
"Well you are poking me with some sort of alien mind-control device," added Bono.
"I know," I said, "my employers loaned me some alien technology to blend with my already existing invention to make people tell the truth. Oh, I think I see Genesis. I'll see you later Bono."
"Hey Genesis," I asked, "why are you performing at Live Earth?"
"Live Earth," said Phil Collins, "I thought this was the Princess Di concert!"
"Bugger it," said another member of Genesis whose name I didn't bother to learn. "And I can't get a decent cup of tea."
"Maybe I should talk to the Foo Fighters," I said. "They seem to know where they are."
I tracked down the Foo Fighters at their trailer and sat down for an interview before their set began.
"So," I said to lead Foo Dave Grohl, "how does it feel to still be considered second banana to a guy who made the smart career move to blow his brains out before he became washed up?"
Luckily no one of any value to society was hurt when Dave Grohl tossed me out his trailer window.
"Oh my god!" screamed a roadie, "that
"Who hasn't?" I asked.
"Mmmmph!" said Madonna.
"You see," I said, "she's okay. She even sounds better."
Then I rolled off the aging pop star.
"I tried to speak," said Madonna, "but I was choking on a mouthful of
"Could you answer a few questions for the MoxArgon Group?"
"You're a reporter," said Madonna, brushing the dust off her outfit. "Ask away."
"Why are you doing a concert for someone whose wife tried to censor you as number eight of the so called Filthy 15?"
"Because Tipper Gore's outrage covered up for my lack of talent," said Madonna. "If I didn't have shock value I'd have to rely on my voice and my looks, and neither have been up to snuff in a long time. Is that an alien machined designed to make me tell the truth?"
"Maybe," I said. "What about recent revelations that you're a major stockholder in some major polluters?"
"It's okay," said Madonna, "I gave Al Gore some money, so he blessed my hypocritical profiteering."
"Sounds fair," I said. "I better get going. I've got something important to do."
"Like watching Live Earth?"
"Nope," I answered, "I'm going to watch the grass grow in my backyard. Toodles."
And with a flash I left Wembley stadium, no longer giving a crap about freaking anyone out.
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