In the Court of Pop, the jury returned a unanimous verdict: Taylor Swift is guilty of her 15th No. 1 album, The Life of a Showgirl. I banged the critic’s gavel so hard the confetti took the stand.

She didn’t climb the Billboard chart; she threw it a rhinestone rope ladder and made it audition. Every rung winked, blew a kiss, and tipped me for noticing.

Economists declared the album a leading indicator, meteorologists blamed it for a sparkle front, and magicians filed a complaint that doves now insist on a day rate. Even GPS recalculates to ‘Las Vegas, but emotionally.’

The record isn’t a record; it’s a parade float with an MFA. The snare drum taps like a casino accountant, and the bassline hits jackpot so often it needs an intervention.

Billboard, breathless, added a new chart metric called Feather-per-Minute and apologized to gravity for the inconvenience. Streaming services begged for a water break and were assigned choreography instead.

Outside arenas, fans panic-bought commemorative boas the way towns buy sandbags, then asked if the feather surcharge was tax-deductible. Merch tables reported a run on the feathered showgirl costume kit, which is the first time costume jewelry has filed for overtime.

Critics claiming overexposure were gently escorted to the shade, where the lights still found them and sold them a commemorative bulb. The listening experience feels like winning a talent show you didn’t enter, then being crowned Mayor of Sequins by a jazz hand with tenure.

Lyrically, Swift plays a headliner who signs her name with a kickline, while the bridge saunters past wearing sunglasses big enough to require a permit. By the key change, the horn section has unionized and the triangle is demanding a solo.

Venue managers, applying for hazard pay, installed tour-grade glitter vacuum units that hum like therapy pets and eat sparkle like a black hole on cheat day. OSHA sent a memo that simply read: add feathers to PPE.

In Vegas, the fountains tried to mirror the choreography and accidentally learned self-esteem. Caesars offered her a residency, a timeshare, and partial custody of the sphinx if she agrees to water it.

The audience, as ever, co-authored the night; eleven thousand packed jurors rendering a verdict in scream-major with a minor in fainting. I jotted notes like a court reporter in a hurricane of boas, objecting only to my own grin.

Fifteenth No. 1? At this rate, the chart will need a witness protection program and a sparkle allergy. Court adjourned—someone call the bailiff and tell him the confetti has reasonable doubt.