Experience... The Chermen

An “All-Cher production of Westside Story” seems like one of those thin Saturday Night Live sketches they only air after the second musical performance. It sounds like-

W-why did… I don’t even want to do this anymore. God dammit, Topper. One sentence. I was one sentence in. I guess I’m going to push onward and hope I find joy again?

…

“Westside Story but all Cher” sounds like the kind of idea that Cher’s handlers have to pretend to write down. It sounds like some breathy theater kid with an obnoxiously-spelled name found a magic lamp but didn’t think their wish through all the way. All genies are pedantic assholes, Mychaell, if you don’t provide qualifiers then you’re basically asking to be cursed. You’re going to technically get what you want, but in a way that makes you wish for death, which actually counts as your second wish, and wow — you are just getting schooled by this genie. Here’s your deepest desire, idiot:

That awkward, shuffling greenscreen gangbang looks like a warning that the hallucinogens are about to turn on you, but don’t throw away your faulty eyes. That’s real. It shouldn’t be.

The special effects budget here was “it’s CHER, I’ll LEARN computers!” and the costumes are sub-Klump. The choreography is done entirely by Cher trying to guess what Cher’s going to do next, a feat you may recognize as laughably impossible. And the set design is somewhere between high school drama final and Twin Peaks demon world. Cool, at least it sounds like somebody’s fucking four dolphins at once.

I hate you so much, Topper. I can taste my hate for you. It’s like over-microwaved burrito ends, just hard and dry and bitter and sharp in my mouth. Please just let me write this stupid fucking article that you have already destroyed.

…

I can never tell if Cher is joking about being Cher, and I think she lost that thread a long time ago, too. She introduces this whole premise by dressing up like a little girl, which she thinks is ‘oversized men’s button up,’ and pretends like her mother asked her what she wants to do when she grows up. Instead of ‘doctor’ or ‘astronaut’ or ‘artillery cannon crotch polisher,’ she says “I want to play every part in West Side Story.”

Before the audience can even laugh she spins to her feet, stares the camera down and savagely confirms this is actually happening, motherfucker. Then the portal opens and you are sucked into Cher-world, where most everything is Cher and things that are not Cher are there for Cher to destroy at her amusement. Four Chermen leap out and dance at you so aggressively, it might not actually be dancing. It might be a Cher Shadow Clone Jutsu where you have to find the real one before her blade finds you.

Joke’s on you, Cher-san, only redshirt has a shadow! Now let’s see you dodge my Fireball Jutsu!

Listen: You just stumbled into an article where everything is Cher and she’s trying to both intimidate and seduce herself through song. You know what we’re here to do. We’re going to rate the attacking Chermen on their intense fuckability.

This is Fucking Day. Cher up, assholes. You may not survive this.

First up is…

It’s appropriate that he’s wearing a red shirt, because Dumb Cher will be first to die. He lives in the high-stakes mirrorverse of Cher’s ego, where everyone is Cher and everyCher is replaceable and this dork can’t even figure out a lighter. He has the pure unmitigated confidence of a Cher in an elvis wig, and obviously that is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. But the way he fumbles and then immediately gives up on that Zippo tells me he channels the pure Cher Narcissism, but none of the Cher Lust or Cher Competence. He thinks orgasms are a myth and sex is when you look into a mirror with one other person who’s only sort of cosplaying as you.

Dumb Cher gets:

One Weird Cher-squeal #17 (ArooUHNNN) // Ten Weird Cher-Squeals

Mook Cher is big and dumb and fucks like a rocket: all thrust, immediate separation, massive explosion, no survivors. Mook Cher is the Cher enforcer, and god help you if you wrong the Chers. He comes with a special jacket and a baseball bat and I’m using ‘comes’ in the other sense of the word.

Mook Cher gets:

One entire Cher // Six half-Chers, all torn asunder for not recognizing the one true Cher when challenged.

Oh fuck it’s…

My god. It’s Cher dressed as a boy dressed as a character in a play dressed as a gang member dressed as Fred from Scooby Doo dressed for Lolli Fetish Con ‘72. This is too much raw sensuality and I’m afraid I’ve just sexually imploded any of you that can’t hit the high note in “Believe.”

Lolli Cher gets:

An extremely loud sucking noise that goes on way too long while making hard eye contact // Five

Spicy Cher is bringing that libidinous Latin fire, unless that’s racist for me to say, in which case he just has strong #1 Henchman energy. Spicy Cher is here to do three things: fuck, salsa dance, and attack Roger Moore in the midst of a hectic parade. And friendo, he’s going to be doing all three at once because that headband is due back to Headband Cher’s Headband and Electric Bra Emporium by 6PM. There are no late fees in Cherverse; there is only immediate banishment from the Cher Collective, a fate worse than Cher.

Spicy Cher’s raw sexuality defies all measurement, so he gets:

A Spicy Cher // Spicy Cher.

Fuck it, Spicy Cher and a Half! A new record!

…

We’re delving too deep into Cherspace. There’s no way back. There’s only farther, harder, Cherer. But who would want to return? Each new Cher is better than the last, as they must be, by Cher law. Let’s meet…

Oh. Oh, it’s…

So this is how you die. Writhing in both ecstasy and disgust, your various orifices distended and bedazzled. In a way, it’s perfect in its symmetry: You became enmeshed with this dimension because you could not restrain your love of Cher, and now you’ve met a Cher who cannot restrain his love of you. It’s all you’ve ever wanted, isn’t it, Mychaell? This is what you asked for. You should have spoken more carefully.

Anyway, that’s my time.

Be absorbed by the gnawing hunger of Cher’s ego and unbecome, everybody!