Before you read any further, I should warn you I’m in a very bad mood.
My skin is inflamed, blotchy and chapped. My hair is hopelessly dry and brittle…so the process of attempting a side-part would likely snap it right off like a stomped twig. Don’t even get me started on my cuticles. How I haven’t been mistaken for Tara Reid after being rescued from a deserted island bar after last-call is beyond me.
In short, I’m a hot mess. Therefore, I cannot be responsible for the harsh tone I may take in recalling the events of this last week.
And it’s Kirk Cameron’s fault.
I’m not typically one to assign blame so blatently, but in this case it’s absolutely true…denying it would be as futile as trying to cover up my sunburned face with pancake make-up borrowed from RuPaul (trust me, I’ve tried). Well, it wasn’t so much borrowed as accidentally stolen from her dressing room after a particularly heated argument involving marabou and expired lip gloss. So I’d appreciate if we kept that last part between us, mkay? Thanks.
The last 10 days have been just dreadful. Trying to be a good friend in a time of need, I was coaxed into going….wait for it….camping.
I know. Let that sit for just a moment.
Camping, ladies and gentleman. CAMPING. The notion of me shmoozing amongst wild animals in the forest and having to sip martini’s out of a thermos is about as ridiculous and out of character for me as Sarah Palin driving a truck without a gun rack.
I. Was. Mortified.
For the record, I am not upset with Rush Limbaugh. He was as much a victim in this as I was – and couldn’t be more gracious in his dealing with Kirk’s over-dramatic histrionics… if it wasn’t for him, I’m sure I would have been mauled by a pack of hungry bears days ago. [Kisses to you poodle, you've been my rock - and I just adore you for it!]
This horrific chain of events started with Kirk coming to my house early on Saturday morning with tears in his big homophobic eyes in search of refuge from the militia of angry queens out to publicly skewer him for some harmless comments he made in an interview on CNN the day before.
“Marriage is almost as old as dirt, and it was defined in the garden between Adam and Eve. One man, one woman for life til death do you part. So I would never attempt to try to redefine marriage. And I don’t think anyone else should either,” he said, ” So do I support the idea of gay marriage? No, I don’t. I think it’s unnatural. I think it’s detrimental and ultimately destructive to so many of the foundations of civilization.”
I was sitting in the kitchen pouring a third round of mimosas laced with B vitamins and Effexor, strategizing with Rush and Betty White on his most recent controversy involving a Georgetown University whore in need of birth control pills, when the door bell rang. My pet honey badger, Buttercup, who was gnawing on his chew toy (or one of Sharon Ozbourne’s pomeranian…it’s always so hard to tell which) was startled by the sound and went scurrying to the front door.
As soon as I saw it was Kirk, I scooped up Buttercup and put him in his crate. I’ve never been able to figure out why, but Buttercup simply does not like Kirk Cameron. He’s a judgmental little badger. He either likes you or he hates you…and I was not sober enough to risk another rushed trip to the emergency room.
Rush was not pleased to see him. Not because he doesn’t adore Kirk, but because he knew that Kirk has a flair for drama and the rest of the morning would be spent drawing focus and quoting the Bible. This would surely delay our strategy session.
Betty, on the other hand, was thrilled to see him. Nothing gets the liver spots tingling on her 90-year-old arms like making Kirk awkwardly uncomfortable with shameless and inappropriate flirting.
After explaining that he feared for his safety from those savage fags with sharp tongues and cutting shears, he begged to hide out at my house. Betty, in her infinite wisdom and perpetual lack of common sense, had a better idea.
“No.” She declared, taking a swig of her mimosa, “It’s not smart to hide here. We need to get you out of town…fast! Besides, there isn’t enough room here anyway since Rick Santorum is crashing in the guest room during his presidential campaign. You know that diva’s hair products take up all the space in the bathroom! No, what you need is a vacation to a remote location where no one would think to find you.”
“Betty, this couldn’t be a worse time of year to go to P-Town,” I warned, “Besides, I’m pretty sure we’re still not allowed to go back.”
Meanwhile, when did my home become a half-way house for wayward Republican zealots with the occasional fancy for bigotry?
“No,” she said clapping her hands with glee, “We’ll go camping!”
I assumed she was joking. But before I knew it, we were packed up and driving to Utah in Rush’s fully pharmaceutical-stocked RV.
At first, it really didn’t seem so bad. The RV was nicely appointed with all the essentials needed to survive in the wilderness. Stoli, Beefeater, Patron, Xanex, Percocet, Oxycontin, Viagra, Ecstasy, Cialis, Ambien, poppers, and cuban cigars. There was even a bottle of Tylenol and a liter of Evian…which seemed like overkill, but I assumed it must be used as heart medication. It wasn’t until we reached the camp grounds that my panic started to set in.
First of all, there was nothing but lush trees and beautiful landscape as far as the eye could see. There was even an unpolluted creek nearby suitable for skinny dipping or beating up against a rock. I couldn’t be more repulsed by the sounds of nature and the foreign burning in my lungs from fresh air. And…AND, not a single bar or dimly light lounge in sight! It was as if we were Pilgrims starting a new civilization and giving Syphilis to the locals.
Our first night was pretty much miserable because we couldn’t seem to agree on the most appropriate way to start a camp fire. Kirk wanted to rub sticks together (which, I totally misunderstood at first…sorry Boo!). Betty suggested using her bifocals to reflect sunlight on a kamikaze shot. Rush offered to break wind near a hazard flare. And I broke into tears when someone suggested we ignite a perfectly good glass of Bacardi 151. Clearly at a stalemate, we retired to bed early in pitch black darkness because Betty wasted our supply of flashlight batteries on a different kind of appliance she referred to as “her friend.”
The next couple of days were spent with Betty and Kirk frolicking in the creek while Rush and I huddled to discuss PR strategy to deal with this whole slut-without-a-Nuvaring debacle. Well, they weren’t so much “frolicking” as much as Betty snapping underwater photos of Kirk in his swim trunks, and Kirk trying over and over again to walk on water – and failing.
“You’re going to have to suck it up and apologize,” I said with disgust at my own statement, “The liberals will have a field day if you don’t. I don’t like it anymore than you do, but we’re in an important election year – and there are kissing cousins in trailer parks all over this great country of ours who need your sage guidance and support of our Republican candidates leading up to Super Tuesday. That won’t be possible if your advertisers keep pulling out like teenage boys and conservative senators without condoms.”
Rush hung his head in exhausted resignation and finally agreed. This is the statement we carefully crafted over Patron shots and Oxycontin suckers:
“For over 20 years, I have illustrated the absurd with absurdity, three hours a day, five days a week. In this instance, I chose the wrong words in my analogy of the situation. I did not mean a personal attack on Ms. Fluke. I think it is absolutely absurd that during these very serious political times, we are discussing personal sexual recreational activities before members of Congress. I personally do not agree that American citizens should pay for these social activities. What happened to personal responsibility and accountability? Where do we draw the line? If this is accepted as the norm, what will follow? Will we be debating if taxpayers should pay for new sneakers for all students that are interested in running to keep fit? In my monologue, I posited that it is not our business whatsoever to know what is going on in anyone’s bedroom nor do I think it is a topic that should reach a Presidential level. My choice of words was not the best, and in the attempt to be humorous, I created a national stir. I sincerely apologize to Ms. Fluke for the insulting word choices.”
If I do say so myself, this was an exquisite apology. It was the ideal combination of meaningless words in sequence that would convince the most discerning liberal audience with a finger on the pulse of righteous social order. Unless of course that audience knows how to read. For the literate, this apology may not have appeared thoughtful or authentic…but if we took the time to actually take accountability for the gaffe with sincerity and remorse just to appeal to the few who test above the 2nd grade level, we’d be setting a precedent that, quite frankly, makes me uncomfortable.
Besides, that’s all we had time to come up with anyway. Kirk, in his adorable little OCD-on-Jesus kind of way, had us booked solid on this wilderness excursion with scheduled group prayer, spiritual hikes, and surprise baptism/colonic ceremonies.
On the upside, I do feel closer to God while enjoying refreshing regularity.
Since no one bothered to pack rations that weren’t in a pill bottle or could be served dirty and chilled, at some point, we began getting delirious with hunger. Fortunately, on one of our “spiritual hikes” we happened on a pack of hungry gay bears who were camping nearby. Despite the inappropriate flirtation and an embarrassing misunderstanding involving a harness, the bears were really quite lovely to socialize with.
First of all, their campsite was immaculate with designer camp gear by LL Bean, scented candles and All-Clad cookware to make delicious camping-appropriate entrees like Trout Amadine with roasted asparagus and butternut squash puree. The disco ball and peppy club music playing on the Bose sound system was also a tasteful touch.
A crafty bear fashioned a martini glass out of fig leafs for me to sip Stoli out of, and I was finally starting to have a good time while rolling bears danced off in the distance with Rush and Betty – who were both chewing on glow sticks. Then, my good time was abruptly interrupted when the sound of Kirk screaming like a girl invaded my ears as he ran frantically from Buttercup.
I never should have let him out of his crate in the RV. But he so loved the rush of adrenaline from sneaking up on unsuspecting baby deer and rattle snakes… and this was, after all, supposed to be a vacation for all of us – I decided to let him run about for the evening. Clearly that was a mistake, because within minutes he was lunging at Kirk with a wild red rage in his eyes (a red that, incidentally, matched his crimson Eddie Bauer fleece vest just beautifully. But still.).
After that bloody altercation, the gay bears were a bit put off by our lack of social grace (the gay’s prefer alliterative verbal cat-fighting and the occasion bitch slap to physical violence) – and promptly asked us to leave. So I collected my short-fused honey badger, a recently unconscious Kirk, and my two other friends with dilated pupils – and walked back to camp, embarrassed and angry.
We spent much of the rest of the time that week tending to Kirk’s various wounds from his scrap with Buttercup. I hardly slept a wink. Between the faulty RV air-conditioning and having to fight off a sleep-humping Rush Limbaugh, my eyes never stayed shut long enough to hallucinate.
Rush insisted on popping Viagra every evening because he explained it was originally formulated for mountain climbers to maintain blood pressure at high altitudes…and since there were mountains all around our campsite, it was better to be safe than sorry. But in combination with the Ambien he ate like candy, it had some inconvenient side affects….his perpetual attempts to mount me being the most annoying. It was like a Brokeback Mountain love scene with 1200 thread-count sheets and prescription barbiturates.
Betty, simpleton that she is, later questioned why insurance covered Viagra (prescribed to men like Rush who need a little help raising their American flag) while health insurance at religious institutions don’t cover contraception for women.
“So women are sluts if they use contraception, but men are encouraged to walk around with medically managed erections?” Betty said in bewilderment. “If women are supposed to be virtuous, who are these men supposed to have sex with?”
I looked at her blankly and rolled my eyes.
“Duh, Betty.” I said flatly, “the bears, of course.”
Love ya like a bear circuit party in the woods,
“These are dear, dear friends of mine, Betty. Wholesome, good Christian Republicans. I don’t want you saying ANYTHING to offend them while they’re here, do you understand me?” I said as I flipped giant bratwursts on the grill, “The Bachmanns’ are under a lot of pressure right now with all the harsh scrutiny in the media from all those heathen reporters. I don’t need you drinking too much and getting in their faces to push your abhorrent liberal agenda.”
Betty just rolled her eyes and threw my stainless steel William Sonoma spatula across the yard. She was playing fetch with Buttercup. He leaped from her arms and scurried down the lawn after it. He grabbed it and instead of bringing it back, ate it.
“Good boy! Good boy!” she squealed, clapping with delight.
I was too preoccupied to care that neither of them seemed to be grasping the idea of “fetch” or the fact that this game has depleted most of my kitchen utensils and at least two appliances in the last week. I was stressed beyond belief, and the four Xanex I took may as well have been birth control for all the good it was doing – even after my second pitcher of raspberry mojitos.
I wanted everything to be perfect for this dinner party. Not because I’m known for throwing fabulous dinner parties that can only be described by my guests as “perfection” – or the fact that entertaining comes so easily to me that Martha Stewart has attempted to put a hit out on me at least three times that I can prove. But because this dinner party needed to be perfect for Michelle Bachmann. We’ve been trying to out-perfect each other since college, and our affection for one another is based in our neurotic need to make the other feel pathetically inferior at the sight of any minor flaw.
So I was going to be damned if I would give that evangelical fembot Barbie the satisfaction of finding even the slightest blemish or speck of dust to knit-pick with spiteful delight.
When the couple arrived, everything was perfect. My new porcelain veneers sparkled white like the smile of a bitchy angel at the gates of Heaven about to turn away a heathen soul. My suit was flawless. Shoes freshly polished. I was a vision. The house had been scrubbed, bleached and buffed like a guilt-ridden Marcus Bachmann after accidentally having sex with a man.
As I made my way to the door to greet them, my anxiety melted away and I was filled with the fervent joy that I addressed every detail with exacting precision, and Michelle’s teeth were as good as clenched upon the realization that she’d have nothing to criticize. I was giddy.
I wasn’t giddy for long though. Not long….at….all.
As I hoped, Michelle did notice how perfectly coiffed I was, and how clean and polished my home appeared. But the stone-cold slag used it as an opportunity to point out my painfully single status as a bachelor – and how nice it must be to have nothing but time to focus on my looks and have a home right out of Architectural Digest since I wasn’t blessed with the disheveled “lived in” charm of a barefoot and pregnant wife and gaggle of screaming children.
I wanted to slingshot a rusted screw driver at her face.
Once seated at the patio table for my “down home country hot dog” themed dinner (The Bachman’s love themselves a big wiener, after all), Betty started in on her shit.
“So remind me again how you two met?” She asked, grinning because she already knew the answer. She already knew that we met in college, and it wasn’t the college she’s touts as her alma mater in interviews (New York Times, 10-13-11).
Michelle moved uneasy in her chair as if she were auditioning for a commercial promoting hemorrhoid cream. In an attempt to skirt the question, she redirected the conversation to brag about her husband. She spent the next ten minutes explaining his latest Christian outreach efforts with a new social networking site for Christian men. It was apparently a brilliant format that offered a compelling venue for men to chat, share and exchange ideas for new and creative ways to worship. She was tickled by the website’s playful name.
“It’s called adam4adam.com!” she squealed, “You know, as in ‘Adam and Eve?’ Isn’t that a hoot?”
I wanted to hear more about this adam4adam “social network” – but Betty wasn’t giving up so easily.
“So, back to how you all met,” she jumped in, “College, wasn’t it?”
Though for different reasons, the truth was neither of us cared to openly admit to attending Oral Roberts University in Tulsa, Oklahoma. We were part of the inaugural class in an unusual academic experiment: a law school rooted in charismatic Christian belief. We were about getting all honey badger on justice’s ass by committing to the restoration of law to it’s historic biblical roots, Judge Judy style.
The reason Michelle doesn’t like to publicly talk about it is for a couple of reasons: 1) the law school no longer exists because the American Bar Association refused to accredit them because they felt we were all a little bit koo-koo-for-cocoa-puffs. They didn’t seem to appreciate the school’s emphasis on the Bible at the expense of actual law. So they were like, “Uh, denied.” So it doesn’t bode well for Michelle to brag about attending a law school that is now defunct. 2) The school’s philosophy that Church and State shouldn’t be separate could be polarizing to a large number of voters whose response to that concept is “Oh hell to the no!”
I get it. Politics is a numbers game, after all. The image of a fanatical Christian isn’t an image that will win the popular vote – and she knows that.
I, on the other hand, am not trying to win votes for anything. I just don’t like admitting to having attended law school at Oral Roberts University because that would require I also admit that 1) I’m a lawyer. And 2) I made an embarrassing mistake. I’d have to relive the humiliation of attending because I thought I would be getting a very different kind of education. The schools name was cruelly misleading, and I was two semesters in before finally figuring out this degree wouldn’t involve a proficiency in blow jobs.
It’s true what they say. Some things you just have to learn on the street.
I didn’t want to talk about it anymore than Michelle and Marcus did, so I diverted Betty’s attention to her favorite subject: her thriving career as a sex symbol in entertainment. This prompted her to tell the Bachmans all about her latest music video, “I’m Still Hot” – a duet with British pop star Luciana.
That did the trick. She forgot all about our college history and rattled on for an hour and a half about all the fanfare she’s getting for her rap debut. Then she insisted we watch the video:
Michelle and I sat quietly and feigned admiration during the video, relieved to avoid a trip down memory lane.
Marcus wasn’t paying any attention. He was busy passionately devouring his fifth bratwurst, showing no signs of getting full. This is a man who knows how to deep throat a sausage. I’m just saying.
Love ya like prayer group action on adam4adam.com,
Link to New York Times story on Michelle Bachmann’s college years:
“For the last time, I am NOT a lesbian!” I shouted into the phone at the New York Times reporter, “Do I sound like a lesbian to you?”
Frankly, I wasn’t too pleased with his answer to that question – because apparently, I didn’t sound masculine enough to be a lesbian.
“Bitch.” I hung up on him.
What could be more strange than a lesbian blogger of an online lesbian publication being outed as a straight man? Simple. TWO lesbian bloggers being outed as straight men in the same week. I just don’t know what this world is coming to.
This last weekend, a 40-year-old Georgia man, Tom MacMaster, admitted to assuming a lesbian persona called Amina Arraf in order to call attention to the political situation in Syria. That was just before the Washington Post revealed that ”Paula Brooks,” the editor of the lesbian news site LezGetReal.com, where Arraf began posting, was in fact Bill Graber, a 58-year-old retired U.S. Air Force pilot.
But what is even more disturbing about this gender bending world wide web of lies is the offensive, unnecessary and unflattering light the whole hot mess has shed on me – and the legitimacy of my identity. To even suggest that I might be a lesbian, or for that matter a heterosexual military retiree is downright defamatory and libelous.
All of this madness started when two men posing as lesbian bloggers were exposed after one of them staged his/her phony abduction. This fake abduction was apparently some publicity stunt to draw more attention to the political situation in Syria – but the poor stupid hetero didn’t take into account one very important fact about lesbians:
When they get worried, they don’t fuck around. They mobilize by sounding the secret alarm.
And when the alarm sounds, all those lesbians you never see (because they’ve been nesting in their homes, chopping wood, or adding a racket ball court to the back of the house) come flooding into the streets like flanneled zombies in a Michael Jackson Thriller video to find their missing sister.
It’s really very sweet if you think about it.
Social media was engaged…and before long, two and two was not adding up to four – and the Twitter dykes started to smell something fishy. Wait. I should rephrase that.
Once the cat was out of the bag, or – in this case, the dog, a media frenzy ensued – and my phone has been ringing off the hook ever since with reporters calling trying to confirm that I am, in fact, who I say I am – and not a lesbian, or 300 lb single mother of six with four different baby daddies, two of whom are incarcerated for domestic violence and drug trafficking.
These two hetero shmucks have set a negative precedent – calling into question the authenticity of all those with a significant voice online… and now I’m forced to defend my good name as the Internets favorite conservative Republican who occasionally enjoys an adult beverage and collects restraining orders from soap opera actors and hip hop moguls.
“What does the secret alarm sound like?” Betty White asked me, looking confused.
“It’s kind of like a kitten’s meow if it were being squeezed really hard by an unsupervised toddler under water.” I said.
Love ya like a punk’d lesbian,
Link to the story: http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/43398513/ns/world_news-mideast_n_africa/
If you must know, I haven’t dated in a few months.
Ok, well, maybe it’s been more than a few months. Celibacy, it seems, is my new full time job. The pay sucks and the hours are long. So long, in fact, that I find myself filling them with Grey Goose Gimlets and playing Jeopardy on my iPad with Ice-T’s girlfriend Coco. And since I always lose to that giant breasted trivia genius, I end up chasing the Grey Goose with Xanex, eating mayonnaise, and sunbathing naked in Bob Saget’s front yard. (And by the way Bobby, it wouldn’t hurt you to turn the sprinklers on the lawn every once in a while to give a gal a lil spritz on a hot day. I’m just saying.)
I haven’t dated anyone since I broke up for the last time with my ex-boyfriend, Kanye West. The cheating little buggar broke my heart – and I just haven’t had the confidence to put myself out there again. Despite my gruff masculine exterior, I’m really quite fragile. Like a translucent water lily.
So rather than pursue romantic exploits, I have opted for more enlightened pursuits like reading Gweneth Paltrow’s gospel on homosexuality. Or playing Angry Birds. But I guess my excess sexual energy is starting to manifest in ways that are starting to annoy people – so Betty White decided to stage an intervention.
“Bob Saget is pissed,” Betty said, taking the iPad from my lap,”If you don’t go out on a date soon, we’re going to have you neutered and trained like a police dog to sniff out cocaine on drug busts in Chula Vista.”
“I am perfectly happy on my own,” I insisted,”Now leave me with my Angry Birds and mayo.”
“I’ll take fat, sexless queens for 500,” Coco chirped from under the coffee table.
Next thing I knew, I was at Lindsay Lohan’s house sitting in front of a computer while she, Coco, Betty and Britney Spears sat around me instructing me on how to craft my very first online personals profile. Since she has been on house arrest for some time now, Lindsay has had plenty of time to become savvy to all the various ways to maintain a social life without ever having to leave the comfort of her ash tray.
Even on house arrest, Lindsay’s love life was more exciting than mine. She’s juggling four serious, committed online relationships with people all over the country – including a handicapable poet in Rochester, a transgendered Asian amputee in Baton Rouge, a lesbian coal miner in West Virginia, and a married pastor from Sheboygan, Wisconsin who likes to be referred to as “Shoog.”
Betty took it upon herself to take charge of the “Stats” portion of my profile – which, I’m sure will prove to be a mistake.
“Unless I meet everyone standing on a box, don’t you think people with figure out I’m not really 6′ft 5 inches tall when they meet me in person?” I inquired as Betty’s fingers tapped the keyboard. “I’m not Tom Cruise, for goodness sake. And for that matter, I’m not blond, Betty.”
“It’s called marketing, dumbass.” Betty said flatly, “Besides – everyone knows that blonds are whores. Thinking you’re tall will draw attention away from how freakishly old you are. Online dating is a numbers game. You’ll have a much better chance of getting action if people think you’re tall, young and loose.”
I wanted to spread a pound of mayo on a Chips-ahoy.
Britney insisted on crafting the narrative portion of the profile – which really sort of irritated me. I felt perfectly capable of penning my own narrative. I can be rather quick-witted on a keyboard when I want to be – but according to Miss American-Dream-Since-She-Was-17, I have about as much charm as a bipolar honey badger in a bee hive – and shouldn’t be allowed to type my own name, much less an essay on why someone should want to bang me sideways in the backseat of a Toyota Matrix.
“B, that isn’t true. I can’t lick my own eyebrows. And there is no ‘y’ in double-jointed,” I said, looking over her shoulder as she typed with one finger. “And you typed ‘your’ when it should have read ‘you’re’. You’re making me sound like I’m too dumb to graduate cattle insemination school.”
“Amateur.” Britney murmured while smacking her Bubblicious.”Don’t ya’ll know anything? No man wants someone with a brain. Typos say ‘I’m an idiot’ and you stand a much better chance of landing a man if you’re come across completely oblivious. Geez. It’s like you haven’t seen one episode of my reality show with Kevin Federline.”
Lindsay took charge of ensuring I had appropriate, seductive – yet tasteful profile pictures. And because she loves me like her lucky cocaine razor blade, she took no chances and called in the big guns. And by big guns, of course I mean Blake Lively. Given her recent mass distribution of a collection of self portraits of a whorey nature – she is somewhat of an authority on iPhone self-portrait noir.
While Lindsey snapped the photos, Blake staged and posed me. Personally, I didn’t think leaning over a bathroom sink in a towel and black lace bra was the most fetching way to showcase my best assets – but considering I was the only one in the room whose personal life didn’t have an impressive amount of real estate on TMZ’s website, I wasn’t in a position to argue with their expertise.
I still don’t know how I feel about this online dating thing. I haven’t met anyone yet – but I have gotten one email from a gentleman who sounds nice enough. But I don’t really have a good sense of what he looks like – because he appears to be really quite shy. Unless you count the photos he’s sent of his nether regions – which, frankly, he seemed all too eager to send quickly in the first place, he really has not been very forthcoming. We’re making progress though. He’s at least gone above the waist to send me this:
I dunno. He seems a bit boney to me. And it seems sort of strange to me that he keeps wanting to put me in touch with his PR team for coaching on what to say if asked how we met. It’s been a while since I’ve dated – so maybe that’s just protocol now, I don’t know. But I get the feeling he might be married.
I have to dive head first back into the dating pool without my floaties – so I will give him the benefit of the doubt if for no other reason but because he seems to be quite the social media maven – and I really need to learn more about this Tweeter thing everyone keeps going on about. Who knows. He may just turn out to be an honest, stand-up guy.
It’s all so exhausting. I miss the days when one could fall in love the old fashioned way – through a glory hole in a Minnesota airport bathroom.
Love ya like cyber-sex with Shoog,
So, I gave up drinking alcohol for Lent.
Yes, I know.
It is….quite possibly…..the dumbest thing I’ve done to date. I wouldn’t blame you if you stopped reading from this point and de-friended me on Facebook.
It’s been one day – and my hands are already starting to shake from not having the comfort and stability of a martini glass in loving, loyal grasp. Well, in truth, the shaking may actually be the result of the six Hydroxycut tablets I accidentally took because I thought they were cinnamon Tic Tacs. But still. I never would have thought they were Tic Tacs if I was drunk – and I think that illustrates my point.
Abstinence is bad. Don’t ever let anyone tell you different.
As usual, you can blame Betty White for this embarrassing lapse in reasonable judgment.
“Why can’t we just give up orange juice like we did last year?” I whined on Tuesday over our mid morning mimosas.
“Dumb.” She she said, rolling her eyes and pouring more champagne into her glass. “Because 46 days without our mid-morning mimosas was just plain lunacy. We had to use grapefruit juice. I don’t know how we lived through it.”
We really should have thought that one through a bit more.
This is the worst possible time to go cold turkey too. Dear friends all around me are going koo-koo for cocoa puffs, and I am left to manage through the crisis without a drop to drink. If you ask me, it’s just irresponsible. Lord only knows the kind of ridiculous advice I’d spew without a buzz.
Take Charlie Sheen for example. The poor dear is hanging on to the last three teeth left in his cracked out mouth, and is moments away from being put on a 5150 psychiatric hold after the police received an alarming call that he was threatening to harm himself with a firearm. The cops have raided his home today because under the restraining order obtained by Brooke Mueller, Charlie is prohibited from possessing weapons.
And then I find out Justin Timberlake and Jessica Biel have REALLY broken up this time. Like, officially. I guess. Well that’s the last thing I need. It’s not a secret that JT has carried a torch for me since I choreographed the “Bye-Bye-Bye” music video for NSYNC. He flirts with me incessantly….showing his adoration by leaving voicemail messages on my machine pretending to be a lawyer that uses big words like “restraining order” or “harassment.” Clearly the boy has a crush – and now that he’s single and on the market, it’s only a matter of minutes before he’s at my doorstep serenading me with “Dick in a Box.”
He’s such a romantic.
But I just don’t have those feelings for him. How am I supposed to let him down gently if I’m not shit-faced and wearing my underwear on my head? I’m not a barbarian, for goodness sake.
Love ya like….Love ya like…I got nothin. I’m sober. I love nothing.
Link to Charlie Sheen story: http://www.tmz.com/category/celebrity-justice/
Link to JT/Jessica Biel break-up story: http://www.tmz.com/2011/03/10/jessica-biel-justin-timberlake-break-up-split-over-dunzo/
“It would behoove you to take this seriously, Betty” I said sternly, refilling my martini glass. I was on my third. Don’t judge me. I’ve had a hard morning.
“The child is some serious trouble now – and I’m afraid there is nothing we can do this time but watch it unfold on TMZ. If my dear, sweet, sticky fingers Lindsay Lohan gets charged with grand theft, she’s looking at 3 years in the junk, Betty. Do you get the gravity of this situation at all? Do you? I can’t imagine that will be good for the mess formerly known as her career. And you know how terrible she looks in orange. I’m just a wreck.”
According to TMZ, shortly after LiLo was seen wearing a $2500 necklace in a Venice boutique, the piece of jewelry mysteriously disappeared. So while the police were preparing a warrant to search her place, a friend of hers returned the necklace to the police station in Los Angeles.
Well of course she returned it! I appreciate the sentiment of gifts for no reason…and it really was a sweet gesture – but it really wasn’t my style, so I told her to return it and buy me the “Highway to Heaven” series on DVD instead.
How was I supposed to know she didn’t actually pay for it?
Though, I really don’t know what I was thinking. I should have known something was up when she showed up at my door at 3:45 in the morning to give me the gift of a women’s necklace wrapped in Ziplock bag that smelled of tuna salad and cocaine.
Betty White didn’t seem bothered in the slightest. She was still standing in front of the mirror staring at herself with a goofy grin on her face while she fondled her Screen Actor’s Guild award for Best Actress in a Comedy Series.
I would have thought after four hours of giving herself pouty lips and pushing up her breasts saying things like “You sexy bitch!” or “Ou la la!” in front of the mirror, she would have grown tired or bored. But she was still going strong, showing no signs of fatigue – or concern for LiLo for that matter.
“Put on some music,” Betty ordered, not taking her gaze from her reflection in the mirror. “Something by Jay Z or that whorey Niki Manaj I’ve been hearing so much about. I like her style. She’s dirty. Reminds me of me when I was a girl, really. We need some base up in the hizzy, yo!”
“Um, first of all – no on says ‘hizzy’ anymore,” I said, sucking down my martini as if I were a dehydrated camel. “Just forget it, Betty. It’s obvious that you care more about your ‘it girl’ status than our dear friend Lindsay. A dear friend who taught us how to nurse hangovers using chocolate chip cookie dough and Adivan laced rum, might I add! So you remember this day the next time you need an accomplice to smuggle unregulated Medimucil into the country using cocker spaniel puppies wearing fanny packs.”
“Suck it.” she said flatly. “I’m the gawddamn Best Actress in a Comedy Series.”
See? This is why I drink. Betty has been impossible to live with since receiving that SAG award. Don’t get me wrong. I’m happy and proud of her. She’s my best and oldest friend, after all. For decades, we’ve been each other’s alibis in situations where clues to criminal activity may or may not have pointed in our direction…so trust me when I say, there is nothing I wouldn’t do for that woman.
I’m just saying, the bitch is out of control.
And while Betty is making grand plans to either host her own talk show or run for President, she’s pressing me to set her up with my friend Charlie. I’ve made it clear that I don’t think it’s a good idea – particularly right now given his recent troubles with women and his ailing health.
By ailing health, of course I mean having enough bricks of crack cocaine to build an igloo.
And by women, of course I mean whores. And by whores, of course I mean sexually transmitted prostitutes.
But despite my warnings, Betty’s fixated on the idea of being the next Mrs. Charlie Sheen – and she keeps repeating over and over again, “two words: power couple.”
Love ya like a high fiber cocker spaniel puppy,
Link to Lindsay Lohan story: http://abcnews.go.com/Entertainment/lindsay-lohan-charged-jewelry-thief-rumors-spread/story?id=12849093
Link to Betty White SAG Award tory: http://www.cbsnews.com/8301-31749_162-20030017-10391698.html
Link to Charlie Sheen addiction story: http://www.nypost.com/p/news/national/charlie_sheen_tells_porn_stars_party_KvEBWgjS8uWMHBm8AaKP8I?CMP=OTC-rss&FEEDNAME=
Some Thanksgiving holiday this has turned out to be.
I spent the better part of the morning in the ER waiting room at Cedars-Sinai while Stanley Tucci got stitched up after an unfortunate freak accident in my kitchen. The poor dear. His little bald head never knew what hit it.
While technically, yes, it was me who threw the 20 pound frozen turkey at his head in a fit of rage – I maintain that the party at fault in this unfortunate situation is clearly Stanley. He should have known better than to bring up that beast’s name in my house.
I hesitate to say this publicly – because I’m not one to air my dirty laundry for all to see…but I’ve been feuding with Cher since the early 90′s. I won’t get into the reasons why – because that’s between me and that spiteful slag.
But if I were to tell you, I would say it’s because she is still mad at me for talking her into doing those 30-minute Lori Davis Hair product infomercials that she’s hasn’t been able to live down since. She’s always bitching in interviews that it was the biggest mistake of her career. If you ask me, doing squat thrusts in a leather jacket and knee boots in Bally Total Fitness commercials in the 80′s was the bigger faux pas…so whatever. But like I said, it’s a private matter. I simply cannot tell you about it. So please don’t ask me.
In any event, the hateful shrew hasn’t spoken to me since her first farewell tour…and that was like, 16 farewell tours ago. She hates me. And I don’t know if you know this, but when Cher hates someone, she’s kind of a vengeful bitch – and she takes pleasure in playing cruel and unusual tricks to remind the object of her loathing that she pure evil and will out-live us all…playing farewell tours millenniums from now when the world has long since ended and the only things left crawling the earth is her and her sold-out audience of cockroaches.
For example, I came home one evening to find that my pet goldfish, Grenadine St. James, had mysteriously died. This was a perfectly healthy 8-year-old goldfish that lived in a luxurious 2 inches of water and was occassionally fed (if I remembered, and had a box of Cheez-its lying around I could crush up and sprinkle in). Foul play was obviously involved – and Cher is just the kind of crazy noodle bowl of hatred that would do such a thing. I’m just saying.
I loved that fish.
So I do not tolerate THAT name being uttered in my home. It is a simple rule – and everyone who knows and loves me knows to abide.
When Stanley came over to help make toast for my famous Thanksgiving stuffing, he was filling me in on all the reviews for his new movie, Burlesque with THAT and Christina Aguilera – which premiered in theatres on Thanksgiving day.
He started in with how great it was to work with THAT…what a true legend she is…blah blah blah. And I don’t know what came over me. One minute I was adding more chicken broth laced with barbiturates to the stuffing – the next I was seeing red and hurling a Butterball at his head as if I were practicing for a poultry Shot Put competition as the words “Cher is amazing” flowed effortlessly from his lips.
If you must know, I did happen to see an advanced screening of the movie – because despite my feud with Cher, I am actually quite fond of Christina Aguilera…and the two of us have become very good friends since we teamed up to beat Taylor Swift and Eminemin a Bunko match. P.S. – Eminem: sore loser.
Since it was my dear friend Xtina’s film debut, I wanted to show my support by at least seeing it…and I’m glad I did because I loved it…even if my arch nemesis taunted me from the screen with her flawless make-up and spectacular hair pieces. Murdering bitch.
I loved that fish, damn it.
And then there’s Stanley. My dear, bald headed, possibly neurologically damaged from a concussion friend Stanley. I love him in any role he plays. He’s a pro, and can pull off a pair of nerdy school teacher glasses like no other. And he has clearly found his niche as the token gay BFF of the strong-willed female lead since his performance as Sean in Burlesque pretty much duplicated his performance as Nigel in Devil Wears Prada…right down to the playing with pretty women’s clothing and witty zingers.
Overall, it’s a movie I highly recommend – even if Cruella is in it… looks amazing and sounds even better. I would suggest seeing it for no other reason but to see what Christina looks like with a hair color actually found in nature.
When I got home, I found Betty White and Justin Bieber hunched over the kitchen bar sleeping. Betty was snoring, and Justin had a little stream of drool going down the side of his cheek and onto the granite counter.
They must have had the stuffing.
Damn that Betty! I have told her time and time again not to serve dinner sides to minors.
Love ya like a flying Butterball at Thanksgiving,
“Ok, lets add this up again,” I said, pounding my calculator trying to get it to clear back to zero, “This just can’t be right.”
Toni Braxton just threw her hands up in the air and shrugged her shoulders in that “I dunno” kind of way. Then her gaze went quickly back to the laptop computer on my kitchen counter. She had spent the last two hours surfing the net – buying everything from electric juicers and Shamwows to at-home pregnancy tests in bulk.
“FOCUS!” I shouted, closing the laptop and shoving the calculator in her face, “You’re the only woman I know who thinks bankruptcy is the ‘minumum payment due’. So we need to figure out how you racked up so much debt and come up with a plan to make sure this doesn’t happen again. At some point honey, you’re going to need to start a new chapter in your life…because you keep rereading chapter 7.”
She’s reported to be between 10 and 50 million dollars in the hole since declaring bankruptcy the last time – about 10 years ago. Since she’s not worth more than 10 million in the first place, you can imagine that this represents a bit of an accounting issue. She owes a lot of money to folks like AT&T, The Four Seasons Hotels, Tiffany & Co., Orkin Pest Control, The Internal Revenue Service, Mesa Air Conditioning, and the DMV.
The DMV? Seriously?
Meanwhile, how many peak time minutes and text messages can one person use?
For that matter, does one really have a few million dollars worth of cockroaches and other assorted pests and insects roaming around the house that need to be extinguished? Especially if you’re having temperature issues with the air conditioning. I can’t imagine any self respecting roach wanting to take up residence in a house where the A/C is always on the fritz.
And why would any of that matter in the first place if you’re squatting at the Four Seasons? In that case, I’d let the Momma Cockroach and all her rapidly multiplying possy go buck wild and have a house party til the neighbors call the po-po.
She didn’t have a reasonable answer for any of these questions. Instead she used my Amex Black to charge herself a little happy on Zappos.com.
“Ok, forget it. What’s done is done. Here is what we’re going to do,” I said smiling – quite pleased with myself for having devised such a clever fix. ” We’re ripping up all your credit cards and putting you back to work. I happen to know someone who is currently looking to hire phone sex operators. It’s perfect. They’ll pay your phone bill – something you obviously can’t manage on your own. And you can put that deep masculine voice of yours to good use. Then we’re putting you on a strict budget.”
She looked sort of offended. I didn’t care.
“Now we just need a good phone sex name,” I said,”Like Bruce. Or Clint. Or maybe Spartacus. Something very gladiator with a big stick. Your voice has that deep, roid-raged warrior tone to it. We should capitalize. ”
I spent the rest of the afternoon giving her tips on how to keep callers on the line passed the first two free minutes.
She’s still a little green. But she’s got some real potential, that one. With time and some dedicated training, she may just beat Bea Arthur’s record in commissions.
Love ya like a little slap and tickle for $2.95 a minute,
Link to Toni Braxton bankruptcy story: http://www.tmz.com/2010/10/07/toni-braxton-bankruptcy-court-debt-50-million-debt/
I really shouldn’t conduct interviews early in the day on a weekend after having been out all night enjoying adult beverages and singing karaoke at a lesbian “coming out” party in Los Feliz.
I’m just saying.
The only thing I should be doing is sleeping off the hangover I inevitably have because I have friends like Betty White – who don’t have an “off” switch – and think “last call” means it’s time to do shots of Yagermeister.
So I wasn’t exactly at my best on Sunday when I interviewed the comedic legend, Cloris Leachman, for SDGLN. Fortunately for me, neither was she.
“I’m tired!” she said in a huff, “I didn’t fall asleep until 7 a.m. this morning. Isn’t that terrible?”
No. Terrible is waking up at 11 a.m. standing in the shower with Lily Tomlin’s Hermes scarf wrapped around my head. Clearly, I wasn’t one to judge.
With her decades of stage training, Cloris is a woman who knows how to project her voice. I just didn’t need to hear it projected so loudly into the phone this early in the afternoon as my head pounded. So I admitted I was the teensiest bit hung over. I hoped she’d get the hint and turn down the volume a tad.
Instead, she lectured me.
“I hate to be hung over. That’s the worst feeling in the world! Why would you ever want to be in that kind of pain?” she said, firecrackers going off in my ears with each syllable as she spoke. “When I was 16, I decided I would never be hung over again – and I never have been.”
“How did you manage that?” I asked, wondering if perhaps a new drug had been developed that only A-list celebrities were privy to that completely wipes out a hangover before it starts – and gives you more youthful skin and whiter teeth in the process.
“You spread out your drinking over a longer period of time, and you don’t drink too much, stupid.” She said flatly.
That wasn’t the answer I was hoping for.
“I could never be drunk anyway,” she continued. “As it is, I play so many characters who are drunks, people would think I wasn’t really acting.”
Much like her character Phyllis Lindstrom on the 1970s sitcom, the “Mary Tyler Moore Show,” Cloris didn’t mix her words – or filter them. Between her Attention Deficit Disorder (likely induced by her sleepless night), and my taking two aspirin for my headache (and by aspirin, of course, I mean vodka martinis), our conversation felt a lot like a road trip in a car with an angry navigation system.
Every time I’d ask a question, we’d just kind of drive off the road completely and into a field somewhere – where the topics of discussion were unplanned, disorganized … and sprinkled with the occasional inappropriate profanity.
It was fun. Like playing Scattergories with a schizophrenic patient.
For example, I asked about her one-woman show, titled “Cloris! I’m Eighty F*cking Four – and Still Going Strong!” – and somehow we floated into a discussion about the outfit she wore when she was the grand marshall of the San Diego Gay Pride Parade back in July. She was trying to remember the inspiration for her outlandish parade costume – and while we did come up with some reasonable explanations for why she’d show up looking like a space cadet from a 1970s sci-fi movie, we agreed that she must have been channeling her inner drag queen for the occasion.
Somewhere in between her finishing lunch and my mixing a second martini, I asked her why she was drawn to such outspoken, likably insane characters like Flau Blucher in “Young Frankenstein,” Grandma Ida in “Malcolm in the Middle,” or the happily tipsy Evelyn Wright in Spanglish. At a certain point, when the majority of character’s you’ve become known for are just a few tacos and a churro short of a combo plate, you kind of have to admit a pattern has developed.
“I’m not drawn to anything,” she replied, “They’re drawn to me. That’s just how it works. Your agent gives you a call, you read a script and you take the work where you can get it. At my age, I guess I’ve gotten pretty good at playing crazy.”
One thing was for certain. Even in her sleep deprivation haze, there was nothing crazy about this woman. At least nothing clinically crazy, anyway.
Sharp, and fiercely direct – she was fluid in her ability to move from cracking jokes to pointed social commentary. When I brought up the recent media coverage of several gay teens around the country who ended their lives after having endured perpetual bullying in school – her tone immediately changed from jovial to quietly infuriated.
“I just don’t understand,” she said softly, “I always thought being different was something to be proud of. But instead, kids are killing themselves because they aren’t the same as everyone else? I don’t get it. And I don’t get why we can’t just let people be who they are.”
Being different, it seems, has been the secret to her enduring success over the course of her 76-year career. An Oscar winner, and recipient of nine Emmy’s – more than any other actor to date – and a list of film, stage and television credits that span decades, there was no shortage of material to draw from when developing her one-woman show.
She collaborated with her ex-husband, George Englund, who wrote and directed a show about her life and career with a combination of singing, dancing, monologues and clips from movies she’s starred in throughout her career.
“A lot of people don’t know I play the piano,” she said, “So I get to do a little of that, sing, and talk about myself. I didn’t write it though. George wrote it. He knows all my secrets. Probably some even I don’t know.”
She was married to Englund from 1953 to 1979. They had five children together in that time, and remain good friends today. Since she managed to make a marriage work for 26 years, and maintain a friendship for 31 years after that – I wondered what she thought about
marriage in general – and gay community’s fight for marriage equality.
“Marriage is great!” she said, “Everyone should have the right to do it if they want to. Why shouldn’t everyone have it? Why are we even still debating it? That’s so stupid. It’s just stupid that we’re so slow in this country. It’s love. Let people love who they want to love.”
Since we were already on the topic of unconventional families, it seemed natural that the conversation floated right along to her new series on Fox – “Raising Hope,” which premiered on Sept. 21 to critical acclaim.
“It’s hysterical,” Cloris laughed. “The show’s creator, Greg Garcia, is just so brilliant. It’s the funniest kind of comedy because it’s off-center.”
Her character, Maw-Maw – the lovable great grandmother with a flair for dementia and random nudity — kind of reminded me of my own grandmother. Though, unlike Maw-Maw, my grandmother never tried to breast feed me – or for that matter, mistake me for her dead husband and plant a big wet kiss on me.
Creator Greg Garcia, best known for the hit series “My Name is Earl,” drew a comparison between Maw-Maw and Cloris in an interview with USA Today by saying, “Cloris is a more contained crazy. She’s very aware of what she’s doing at all times.”
With all of that “contained crazy” in the body of an 84-year-old not showing any signs of slowing down – one had to wonder what could possibly be next for a woman who has won every award, played every type of role from dramatic to comedic, and pretty much conquered every creative endeavor in entertainment. Short of wide distribution of a sex tape with Ray-J, what else could there be?
Duh. Reality TV.
Between a new series on Fox, taking her show on the road, and lecturing me on the evil’s of rapid alcohol consumption, Leachman is also working on a reality show detailing her life at home. The show will star her along with her two “roommates” – granddaughters Sky Englund, 22, and Anabel Englund, 18. I guess it will be sort of a cross between “Keeping Up With the Kardashians” and “The Golden Girls” – but with a lot more F-bombs and naps.
I can’t wait.
“How’s the hangover?” she asked, not really sounding very concerned.
“Get back to me,” I said, wishing I never admitted it in the first place.
Changing the subject from my aching head, I asked, “What inspires you?”
There was a long pause.
Finally, she replied, “People. How they live, survive … how they create joy and happiness. People who sing and dance inspire me. Humor inspires me. People with a sense of humor inspire me. You?”
“Laughter.” I said.
“Yeah, that’s good too.”
I really don’t understand why this made national headlines. Mariah Carey falling down is nothing new. Ok, well maybe falling down on stage is sort of new.
But this bitch is one of the most unfortunate, accident prone klutzes I’ve ever met. It’s almost as if gravity has some unwritten vendetta against her for hitting a high note at some point that caused some sort of catastrophic avalanche that set into motion a terrifying chain of natural disasters around the globe that ultimately lead to what we now call “global warming.”
So every fifteen minutes or so, gravity is like “Fuck you Mariah!” – and down she goes like a narcoleptic speed skater.
She once broke a brand new coffee table in my sitting room because gravity felt like giving her a bitch slap in the middle of an impromptu karoake performance to Dolly Parton’s “Nine to Five.” But she’s a trooper, that one. She just keeps on singing. Well, singing and demanding that one of her subordinate minions comes to her aid immediately to remove her shoes or an item of clothing that has mysteriously gotten entirely too tight in the span of two choruses.
And, as you see in this video – she remains consistent. She keeps on singing (sort of), while beckoning the help to come remove her shoes – which are clearly at fault for her inability to walk and sing at the same time.
Meanwhile, the pregnancy rumors still abound. I can’t confirm or deny whether or not she is with child. She is a dear, close friend – and I would never betray the trust of a woman who could spread me on a cracker as a mid morning nosh. But I can say that it must be rather embarrassing to be at a point in one’s figure where people are uncertain if you’re knocked up or you’ve just inhaled sixteen quarter pounders with cheese for breakfast.
I’ve been there. Trust me, I’ve been there.
Love ya like receiving a baby stroller in the mail from Elton John after having gained 4 pounds,