Featured Prose: Decontructing Fergie   Now that the inimitable Fergie (Stacy Ferguson) has finally broken free from the mongloid vice-grip of her inferior bandmates in "The Black Eyed Peas," we can clearly see that this talented and provocative songwriter is more than just another pierced and sweaty member of the jeunesse doree trend of manufactured cretinoids who fill the airwaves. Take for instance this bit of bilge that Fergie was forced to slobber ad nauseum for her coattail riding cohorts a few years back: "What you gon' do with all that junk, all that junk inside yo' trunk..." The line is a painfully obvious reference to Kant's challenging the logic of Leibniz's metaphysics. The "junk in the trunk" representing, of course, the ubiquitous monad, while the question of "What you gon' do" with all said junk--a hackneyed, adolescent question better left to the patchouli-soaked followers of Thoreau hanging around Doe library at UC Berkeley (or my stupid, two-timing ex-girlfriend up at Oregon State). Fergie, now liberated from these puerile pseudo-philosophical ramblings, has exploded like a fresh, full-breasted petard onto not only the music, but academic scene. And it was with much consternation that I sought to choose the most representative piece from her new album, "The Duchess"--a subtle reference to Margaret, Duchess of Newcastle (commonly referred to as "Mad Madge") who in the mid 17th century dared to make a living with quill and scroll, similar to Fergie's current struggles to make her living out of a drum machine and some grunting. It was a close call, but I opted to go with her new single " London Bridge" over her risqué sonnet, "Ferrrocity" for this hermeneutical study. Although, I feel that I could wax on for hours about the title's triple "r" and its relationship to lithium (atomic number 3) along with its panaceatic properties in curing cluster headaches among Latinos. Nevertheless, I shall stick to "London Bridges," as I find the material a bit more fecund than the rest. Take the first stanza: "Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit When I come to the clubs, step aside Pop the seeds, don't be hating me in the line V.I.P because you know I gotta shine I'm Fergie Ferg Give me love you long time" I don't know about you, but I haven't seen anything this vibrant, this alive since some of the earlier Coleridge. Again, we see an ominous trinity with the repetition of "oh shit." Fergie derives a sense of panic reminiscent of Paul's (bible Paul, not RuPaul, as some have argued) letter to the Thessalonians, exhorting them not be alarmed or unsettled during their travails. There is a violence in the speakers' (we must assume a first person narrative on the part of Fergie) tone as she urges the people in the queue to "step aside." It is then that she begins her torrent of Dickensonian slant rhyme while her words maneuver like an asp throughout the stanza and, indeed, the metaphorical line of existence--an idea begun by Beckett and brought to fruition by Fergie. And what of the line "I'm Fergie Ferg"? I interpret this as a manifestation of Fergie's theory that names do not remain unchanged, but can be embellished and ornamented with the result that they become more representative of works of art than implements of utility. This is a pie in the eye of Plato, who dances around this notion because a.) It is beyond his grasp and b.) It has become clear through intense study that most of the time Plato stopped short of taking a true stance on anything other than the designated hitter because he had a hostile bladder and would often need to excuse himself from sundry forums to "pee." "All my girls get down on the floor Back to back drop it down real low I'm such a lady but I'm dancing like a ho Because you know what, I don't give a fuck So here we go!" This next stanza seems more like a commentary on Kierkegaard's notion of the figure of the aesthete in the first volume of Either-Or. By acting like "such a lady but...dancing like a ho," one wonders if this is just an ironic portrayal of German romanticism, or a 180 degree flip of gender roles as she and her "girls" adopt the persona of characters ranging from a kind of greased-up Don Juan to a dance floor Faust. As she maintains, she "don't give a fuck," but is the narrator to be believed? So much of the stanza is fraught with imagery of the current situation in Darfur that we must look to W.B. Yeats and his "Second Coming" for clues. Is Fergie the Falconer? Perhaps she is just drunk. Either way, look at that navel! I must read over the lines some more, but I also get a strong sense that Fergie, perhaps like Poe, has begun to show signs of syphilis and/or hydrogen psychosis. Not that that's necessarily a bad thing. "How come every time you come around My London London Bridge want to go down Like London London want you to go down Like London London be going down" Ah, the chorus. It keeps coming up insidiously like in Shakespeare's Henry V. Ironic, isn't it, that the focal point is the London Bridge? It's as if Shakespeare traveled forward in time, picked our hero's brain and, finding what he did, flung himself into the Thames. The repetition of the London Bridge going down (but never up!) recalls the scene in Dante's Inferno when Piere della Vigne gets pink eye from Emperor Fredrik II after a night of hard drinking and bowling at the Palace Lanes over there by the Ermenigildo Zegna factory outlet. And while Wittgenstein would have us believe that "every time you (I) come around," the London Bridge going down represents a simple concomitant of phenomena, he is a pussy-face and also dead. "Drinks start pouring And my speech start slowing Everybody start looking at you" Whoa! I think the drinks I've been pouring are going to my head. Is everybody really looking at me? I hope Fergie is. Does anybody know how to get a hold of her? I wouldn't stalk her, I promise. This stanza is good because of tits. Ass. A teleological suspension of the ethical. The Grey Goose got the girl feeling loose Now I wishing that I didn't wear these shoes It's like everytime I get up on the dude Paparazzi put my business in the news And I'm gonna get up out my face (oh, shit) Before I turn around and spray your ass with mace (oh, shit) My lips make you want to have a taste (oh, shit) You got that? I got the bass Goddamnit! My new stupid two-timing girlfriend just read my treatise and sprayed my ass with mace. Holla! Stoddard Smith received an M.A. in Creative Writing in 2004 at the University of Colorado at Boulder. Previously, he worked as an AP journalist in Madrid, Spain in addition to stints as an editor and freelance writer in New York City. His works of fiction, non-fiction and poetry have been featured in Square One, The Bullfight Review, Box Car Poetry Review, Identity Theory, Modern Drunkard Magazine and Monkeybicycle. He is also the editor of a political satire website, www.demockeracy.com Please free to visit his website: www.stoddardsmith.com or contact him at stoddard.smith@gmail.com