Beyoncé: national treasure or national strumpet? That’s the question we are reluctantly forced to ponder with “Partition,” in which Beyoncé asks the limo driver “roll up the partition please” because her man of the minute has turned her into a Vietnamese boom boom girl: “Oh he so horny, he want to fuck/He bucked all my buttons, he ripped my blouse/He Monica Lewinski all on my gown.” I’m no prude, but even I’m wondering: has the ordinarily demure Ms. Knowles sold herself down the Great Bimbo River on this one?
First, some questions: Shouldn’t that be “He Bill Clinton all on my gown”? Further, why didn’t Beyoncé simply ask the limo driver, like I always do, to roll up the partition when she got in? Finally, when she sings, “Oh there daddy, d-daddy didn’t bring the towel/Oh baby, b-baby we slow it down/Took 45 minutes to get all dressed up/We ain’t even gonna make it to this club,” are we really expected to believe that the clothes horse Beyoncé got ready to go clubbing in 45 minutes? Three hours and 45 minutes is more like it. It takes her 45 minutes just to decide which thong to climb into, the jewel-encrusted one or the one with the perfect dental imprint of Kanye West on the right ass cheek.
I am reasonably certain Beyoncé is a liberated woman, but she certainly doesn’t sound like it when she sings, “The kind of girl you like, girl you like… /I just wanna be the girl you like, girl you like/The kinda girl you like.” Do you think she’s made herself clear? That she’s malleable, moldable, plastic, elastic, flexible, knows how to take orders, is very eager to please, and will gladly submit to plastic surgery or branding right there in the limo if that’s what it takes to keep her man as hard as Chinese arithmetic?
But in the end none of that really matters because the real problem with Beyoncé’s “Partition” is it’s as boring as the 1938 partition of Czechoslovakia, that is until she starts singing in French, just like that virgin in Rod Stewart’s “Tonight’s the Night.” Love you bookoo long time, cannon-cocker!
