Beyonce lip-synched? So she’s the same as Lance Armstrong?

The next step will be a sit-down with Oprah.

Beyonce will explain that she wasn’t quite feeling it that day, that she needed a little pick-me-up.

She will talk of the pressure of the Tour de World and the expectations of sponsors. She will insist that everyone is doing it.

“You really think that Britney Spears can sing and dance at the same time?” she’ll plead. “You really think Britney Spears can sing?”

Oprah will look at her and listen, one eye loving, the other moralizing.

“But you knew you could be found out, didn’t you?” she will ask.

Beyonce will nod.

Then Oprah will cock her bow and aim an arrow at the moral jugular.

“What are you going to tell your daughter? How are you going to explain it to little Blue?” she’ll whisper maternally.

At this, Beyonce will be begin to weep Blue tears and Oprah — together with the rest of America — will breathe a crimson sigh of relief.

She cheated on you, America. She cheated on the world. Now we’re making her repent.


You thought she was performing those beautiful runs under all that scrutiny and expectation? Who can do that? No one on “American Idol.”

We all thought it more likely that she was merely opening and closing her mouth in time, didn’t we? Or did we?

The accusation that Beyonce mimed her way through the national anthem at the Presidential Inauguration has created one moral dilemma too many for a struggling people.

We need Oprah more than ever to sort it out for us.

It was bad enough having to deal with Lance Armstrong, brazenly trying to convince us he was honest by trying to convince us he’s the sort of guy who’d call someone a bitch, but not a fat bitch.

Now, the girl with the golden hair, the brilliant white smile and the husband who wears the yellow jersey in Jersey pretends to sing when she’s not?

At least Lance really did strongarm his way up hills.

Beyonce, on the other hand, allegedly faked it in front of the President.

Worse, scream the baying hordes, she tried to put everyone off the scent.

During the performance, she whipped out her earpiece, as if to say: “Yow, that Marine Band is too loud. I’m going it alone without my teammates in my ear. I will climb the mountain and leave them as mere accompaniment.”

How could she do that? whine the peculiar critics.

America has a complicated relationship with cheating.

We let Wall Street do it — we even give them money when they don’t win. At the same time, we  throw the whole library at cyclists and baseball players who were merely part of a scene in which everyone was on something and almost everyone knew it.

We’re so keen to be righteous that the last people we’d ever look at is ourselves.

Look at the fat pitches who belong to the Baseball Writers’ Association of America. There they were, defending truth and justice by refusing to allow Barry Bonds and several contemporaries into the Hall of Fame, when many of these very same writers surely always had plenty of evidence that the players were enhancing their performances.

What did the writers do? They sang in private. In public, they opened their mouths and no sound emerged.

The question for Americans whose core beliefs are torn asunder by cheats is always complicated. Which ones should be forgiven? And which ones should be consigned to the Bernie Madoff wing of Hell’s Non-Rehabilitation Center?

Beyonce should emerge relatively unscathed. We allow artists to fake it once in a while, as long as they give us what we know as a “show.”

But we don’t allow sportsmen and women the same forgiveness, even though they are merely traveling performers who want to give us a good time.

Sportsmen, you see, are supposed to be an expression of the essence of life. They compete, just as we’re told to compete for money, status, lovers and New York taxis.

Singers? They’re different. They’re household pets.

They’re cats and dawgs who might occasionally scratch each other’s eyes out, but never really pretend to be anything more than they are — creatures who offer sounds and emotions to help us forget that tomorrow we have to compete again.

Sportsmen make us feel like winners. Singers merely make us feel like lovers, travelers, hobos, train drivers, the rejected, the hopeful, the tired, the dreamy, the weary, the lovelorn and destiny’s child.

Beyonce didn’t lie to us. She was there to help us forget some feelings and remember others.

Lance, on the other hand, we were riding the bike with him. We were pedaling fast.

So we were the ones who were cheating.


Image: New York Times/YouTube Screenshot by Chris Matyszczyk