“You clearly hate women”, concludes the blogger after seeing yet another valid criticism of a music artist so powerful she can single-handedly grind an entire major city to a halt for her wedding, or can increase CO2 emissions in a statistically significant way when she doesn’t want to deal with Los Angeles traffic.
With a satisfied smile, the blogger lets their brain return to a warm and gentle B-mode where criticism of any other celebrity does not exist, because the blogger’s favorite singer is the One True Celebrity. The blogger need not read the vast amounts of criticisms of the latest Michael Jackson biopic. The blogger need not pay attention to any post not tagged with the name of their One True Celebrity.
One day, the blogger knows, they will receive their Eternal Reward for being a True Fan of the One True Celebrity and defending her from all the blind, sexist sheep who only pretend to care about the climate and immigrants and the normalization of fascism and racist dog whistles and stopping the onslaught of end-stage capitalism so that they can dunk on a beautiful, white, innocent, frail little flower of a woman who needs the protection of someone Chosen - like the blogger.
With a self-satisfied smirk, the blogger returns to their Matrix-style sleep pod filled with pony beads instead of slime and hooks themselves in, returning to a slumber that will power Taylor’s personal vibrator until the next Google Alert wakes the blogger for another round of defense. As the blogger drifts into slumber, their eyes fluttering, Taylor’s voice can be heard, praising the Chosen blogger’s efforts, her beautiful, melodic voice line only interrupted by the customized name portion which sounds like the CVS phone voice:
“Thank you, [Pleasure Wand Power Unit 758]! You sure did a good job [defending my friendship with people who run concentration camps]. Don’t forget to buy the seven new re-releases of my last twelve albums in special edition cases! My honeymoon isn’t going to pay for itself!”
Smiling, the blogger returns to the nether once more, dreaming only of the twelve new versions of old songs they’d soon be able to buy, screwing over younger, up-and-coming women in the music industry (who are sexist for trying to be women in the industry that belongs to Taylor).