In Flathead, Matt Taibbi's (@mtaibbi) devastating destruction of all things Friedman, he wrote the following about Friedman's inability to understand metaphor:
Thomas Friedman does not get these things right even by accident. It’s not that he occasionally screws up and fails to make his metaphors and images agree. It’s that he always screws it up. He has an anti-ear, and it’s absolutely infallible; he is a Joyce or a Flaubert in reverse, incapable of rendering even the smallest details without genius. The difference between Friedman and an ordinary bad writer is that an ordinary bad writer will, say, call some businessman a shark and have him say some tired, uninspired piece of dialogue: Friedman will have him spout it. And that’s guaranteed, every single time. He never misses.
That's the expression of incredulous humor that I sympathize with when I hear certain song lyrics. Understand that I spend an inordinate amount of time in the gym (not because I'm fit, but because seeing ninety year-old men's balls really turns me on), and because my gym is like all gyms in that it plays an unending rotation of top-40 hits, I hear some truly insipid lyrics. Occasionally I will bring some up that strike my fancy, but today I want to speak about just one.
Bikinis on top
We'll melt your popsicle
- Katy Perry, California Gurls (sic)
I'm going to leave aside the quibbling point that a bikini refers to both the top and bottom, and what she is most likely referring to is called a "bikini-top" in American parlance, and instead focus on the last couple of lines: Skin so hot we'll (or possibly it'll) melt your popsicle.
A popsicle is a frozen treat.
Here are things that are hot enough to melt a popsicle: human breath (98.6 F), a room-temperature (72F) kitchen counter - and I know this from experience, a refrigerator (40F). Katy Perry is essentially saying that the skins of California girls are at least barely warmer than freezing.
Possibly K. Perry was attempting to be truthful and scientific in her lyrics, as it is a completely accurate statement that her skin, like everyone's skin, is hot enough to melt a frozen juice stick. This notion is contradicted by her own lyrics though:
Break their necks
Try'na to creep a little sneak peek
Unfortunately, although the neck muscles possibly could generate enough force to break their own vertebrae from torque (most likely around 1000 pounds of rotational pressure), generating that force wouldn't be possible given both the physical limitations of the muscular structure and the psychological limitations inherent in most gross, self-harming, motor movements.
I think the easier, and more correct assumption, is that K. Perry and her five (!) co-writers are all idiots. Or to put it in a way they would misunderstand it, they are all about as bright as a candle.