“It really isn’t that embarrassing, Harry,” I lied, caressing his arm thoughtfully to sooth his bruised ego.
Then I slapped him across the face.
“Wake up honey!” I shouted. The slap startled Harry Belafonte from the slumber he slipped into while I was talking. “As I was saying, it really isn’t that embarrassing. You know the media has the attention span of a geriatric blow fish. One minute they’re making your accidental on-camera nap a YouTube sensation, the next the masses are on to the latest idiotic drama being played out on Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.”
Now I was squirting him with a water bottle to keep his attention. “Trust me, it will be forgotten about in a couple of days.”
I turned my attention to a crackling coming from the dining room floor. I looked down to find Buttercup perusing the latest headlines in one of my news periodicals.
You may not know this, but Buttercup is committed to staying abreast of current events. Politics. International economics. Foreign policy. You name it, he’s digesting it. Figuratively and literally – since he usually ends up eating whatever he reads. He was making his way through People magazine when he came across an image of Katy Perry performing while on tour in the UK.
The site of Katy set him into a rage and he began furiously ripping the magazine to shreds.
I should point out that for reasons I’m unable to disclose pending police investigation, Buttercup is NOT a Katy Perry fan. So whenever he sees a picture of her, he flies into a violent tirade that inevitably results in my having to replace furniture or feigning shock and disbelief when a neighborhood pet or toddler goes mysteriously missing.
Ordinarily I’d scold Buttercup for such an inappropriate outburst and take away his internet porn privileges – but in this case, I couldn’t really blame him for being upset by this particular image of Katy. Say what you will about my dear Buttercup – but this is one crazy nastyass honey badger who knows a fashion offense when he sees one.
Unless her intention was to apply for a entry level job on the Everlasting Gobstopper assembly line in Willy Wonka’s factory, I have to concur with Buttercup that she would have been better off wearing the plastic bag she sings about drifting through the wind, wanting to start again.
Start again, Katy. Start. Again.
I turned back to Harry, who was now propped up against the refrigerator snoring. I threw a pepper grinder at his head, and it knocked him over. The fall woke him abruptly – so now that I had his attention again, I continued, “And anyway, your little nap via satellite isn’t nearly as damaging as the press my poor dear Lindsay Lohan is getting about her questionable oral hygiene.”
Harry’s eyes started to get heavy again and he lay his head on the pepper grinder as if it were a pillow while my lecture continued, “Just think about that for a moment, Harry. The next time you start to feel sorry for yourself, think about all those nasty things people are saying about my little darling’s meth mouth just because her teeth are starting look like Indian corn.”
I didn’t have time for this nonsense. I should be spending every waking moment planning strategy for the upcoming election. In case you’re living under a rock with no internet connection, I should fill you in on Betty White’s latest pet project in her pursuit to be the most popular girl on earth. She’s decided Hollywood isn’t big enough anymore to sustain her thirst for the chewy center of attention – so she’s announced on Craig Ferguson’s Late Late Show her plans to run for the Presidency.
You should know it was not my idea to be Betty’s campaign manager. I wanted no part of this hot mess. But she is my best friend – so when she asked me, I was compelled to oblige without argument. Besides, she’s been my alibi more times than I can count whenever I’ve landed in sticky situations that required tampering with DNA evidence or disposing of a mouthy “loose end.” Therefore, I wasn’t exactly in a position to decline.
So I really don’t have time for the petty dramas of my embarrassing friends right now. I need to focus if I am going to orchestrate a flawless tour of kissing hands and shaking babies on the presidential trail (Wait. Scratch that. Reverse it.). Managing crisis PR would be a full time job as it is in the face of the political mud-slinging that was sure to ensue the moment Betty’s opponents start digging into her questionable past.
I slid the snoring Harry Belafonte into one corner of the kitchen, put a blanket over him, and kissed him on the forehead. Then I wrapped his foot in gauze and slapped Buttercup on the nose for not minding me when I told him NOT to gnaw on Harry’s toes.
“Bad Buttercup!” I said in a hush whisper as not to wake the dozing Harry. I didn’t want to be in the room when he discovered this little piggy went home. And by home, of course I mean it ended up in Buttercup’s belly.
He’s gonna be pissed.
I spent the rest of the afternoon mapping out the campaign trail. I’m still undecided between having a kick off event at Dunkin Donuts or at a bath house. After all, it’s important to go where the voters are….and getting the police on Betty’s bandwagon wouldn’t be hard. After so many indecent exposure and solicitation arrests, they’ve all gotten to know her pretty well already. And there’s no better time to influence the gays than when they’re in the middle of getting a handy-j in the steam room.
It was a toss up. I decided to give it some more thought while enjoying donut holes during a refreshing eucalyptus steam at the spa.
Love ya like blanketing the campaign trail with “White Power” posters,
“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:
I adore Chaz Bono.
That little ballroom tranny is like a son to me…and the daughter I never had. I practically raised him back in the day when Cher was out partying every night like a starved cougar in heat, trying to turn back time. And despite the fact that I’ve been engaged in a nasty feud with that no-good, contemptuous shrew – I have to hand it to her for birthing such a lovely young man.
I have been glued to the television for weeks now tuning into his performances on Dancing With The Stars like the proud, preening Aunt marveling at how far he’s come since the days we’d play “dress up” in his venomous mother’s closet, and put on talent shows on our pretend stage with spotlight to an eager audience.
Well, it wasn’t so much “dress up” as it was me squeezing into sequent Bob Mackie gowns and trying on wigs while a butch little girl remodeled the interior of the closet with cedar lines shelves. And it wasn’t so much a pretend stage as much as the tool-belted girl installing soft can lighting and wide planked-bamboo floors. Oh, and it wasn’t so much an eager audience as it was a stoned Betty White giggling into her half-empty Cheetos bag.
Those were good times.
Embracing the sentiment of my strole down memory lane, I decided to surprise my little Snickerdoodle with a good-luck gift just before the season premier of DWTS. It was nothing big. Just a Bostitch 1-3/4 inch coil roofing nailer made from durable magnesium with aggressive wear guards and carbide inserts. I have no idea what it’s for or what it does, but the stalky Asian lesbian with an eye-patch at Home Depot seemed to get so excited when she showed it to me, I assumed it must be useful – or at the very least an erotic toy during foreplay.
Boys and their power tools.
Chaz was beside himself with joy over this little gesture of love and support just before his big debut on the dance floor. He was so moved, he decided to return the gesture with a gift of his own. It arrived last week. It is quite possibly the most thoughtful gift I’ve ever received…and that includes the gift certificate for “Talk Away the Gay” counseling I was given for Easter from Michelle Bachman’s wife.
I’d been talking about getting a pet for months now. It’s been rather lonely around the house since my bengal cats and chinchillas were mysteriously kidnapped just before my estranged ex-boyfriend Kanye West and his latest ho were seen walking the red carpet in floor length coats made from, surprise surprise, bengal cat and chinchilla fur.
So last week, to my joy and delight, I opened the door to a giant box with a big checkered flannel bow. The card was from Chaz, and it read, “For my favorite Aunt, with love – Chaz.” I opened the box to find the most darling baby honey badger.
Not a kitten. Not a puppy. Not a parakeet. But a h-0-n-e-y b-a-d-g-e-r.
I was touched. I scooped up the little guy and cradled him tightly and cooed and chirped as if he were a newborn crack baby just waking up from surgery to remove a third foot. It was love at first site. Or, in this case, at first bite. Because that’s what the little guy did as the fog of sleepiness subsided. He bit me. He bit the shit out of me.
Later that day, I was sitting in the emergency room at Cedars-Sinai waiting to have my right index finger reattached. I sat there wondering how I managed to let this digit get away from me – AGAIN. It seemed like only yesterday I was having it reattached after accidentally coming in between a rotisserie chicken and Oprah just after finding out Barbara Walters got the exclusive with Casey Anthony’s attorney.
“You’re just the cutest little thing!” Betty White cooed as the little honey badger licked her palm. She had a way with him. He seemed completely taken with her, and couldn’t get enough of those little Benadryl tablets she gave him as treats. “I like your spunk!”
She was right. He did have spunk. I think that’s what endeared me to him so quickly just before he bit off my finger. I liked his style – and I lost myself in all the good times we were sure to have. I thought of all the adorable couture collars and sweaters I’d buy him. The walks we’d take to the dog park where we would hand out fliers promoting desegregation and equal rights for honey badgers. I was euphoric. Or just really light-headed from the loss of blood. I’m not sure which, but it was a happy buzz – and either way it was because of that sweet, possibly rabid baby badger.
Just before I passed out and wheeled off for a blood transfusion, I decided on a name.
I would name him Buttercup.
A week later, we had just started getting somewhere with the potty training – and I was getting some feeling back in my reattached finger. So I decided we deserved an afternoon out.
That’s when the trouble started…and now Nicki Minaj is not speaking to me.
If you ask me, it was her fault to begin with. One of the reasons I established an instant bond with Buttercup is because I’ve observed that he has a fierce sense of fashion uncommon to rodents at such a young age. He hasn’t even experienced New York Fashion Week, and already has the discriminating sensibility to distinguish between chic haute couture and tragic fashion road kill. And like my dear friend Anna Wintour, he is unafraid to bare his fangs when a red carpet frock appears to be beaten down hard with an ugly stick.
So I maintain that Nicki has no one to blame but herself for nearly having her lavender tutu ripped to shreds when Buttercup went ballistic at the site of this outfit. He went straight for her neck as if to make it clear that she had no business sporting a necklace that looked like a giant turd painted in Pepto Bismol.
If it weren’t for Betty loaning me the electro-shock collar she used to keep her maid in line, I would not have been able to hold back little Buttercup from going all “honey badger” on her ass.
These girls fall like dominoes. Yo Ayo Ayo.
Fortunately, Nicki wasn’t at all hurt by Buttercup’s outburst on the red carpet. Just a bit shaken up is all. I promptly took my fashion-crazed baby badger home and grounded him for the rest of the month.
“No television. No texting. And no pistachios, Buttercup! Now go to your crate and think about what you’ve done.” I said, pointing my swollen, purple stitched-on finger in a show of exasperated disapproval.
He just starred at me blankly. Clearly, Buttercup don’t give a shit.
Love ya like a transgendered cha-cha-cha,
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,
I’m not big on celebrating my birthday.
Not because I have a problem getting older. That doesn’t bother me at all. I stopped aging 15 years ago when I started pumping my face full of enough Botox to paralyze a hippo…and whenever something starts to sag, I simply have it removed, lifted, reshaped or replaced. So at any given time, at least 85% of my body is showroom new anyway, or at the very least previously owned with low mileage. In fact, I’m pretty sure my left ear used to belong to Mary Tyler Moore.
I enjoy the process of aging with grace. I just don’t feel the need to celebrate it with grand flair because inevitably, my friends have a way of making it all about them.
Take Lindsey Lohan for example. She had to go and get herself put back in jail for failing a drug test. Then she got out of jail. It’s been a few minutes, so for all I know, she’s back in jail again trying to snort cooking flour in the mess hall.
Then Betty White totally stole my birthday thunder by winning an Emmy for her performance on Saturday Night Live. But whatever. That’s old news. I’m a little behind the times, as I’ve been gone on holiday for quite some time.
This year, I decided to make it just about me. So I left town. For like, a month. I really needed to unplug for a while. You don’t turn 25 every day – and I just felt it was important to take some time to reflect on what I’d accomplished in my short 31 years on this earth. As it turned out, my little mediterranean jaunt was just what the doctor ordered – because I returned home feeling refreshed, renewed, revived and Rejuvidermed…ready to take on 29 with the same verve I did when I turned 34…19 years ago.
I was hoping to return unnoticed – as if I had never really left at all. Enough time had passed since my birthday, I figured my friends would have forgotten all about it.
No such luck.
Without fail, every year - Betty insists on trying to surprise me with an big birthday bash. And since I’m not an easy person to surprise, every year the surprises just get more extravagant and elaborate. She insists on topping herself with a surprise greater than the last. This year was no exception, despite my attempt to escape the observance all together.
I joined Betty, Elton John, Lenny Kravitz and Ann Coulter for what I thought was going to be a quiet, low-key dinner to celebrate my 35th birthday. A gentle, demure homage to the beautiful life of Aunt Johnny. I envisioned us spending the evening reminiscing over my 47 years of bringing sweetness and light to all the lives I’ve touched.
Instead, Betty took us to a strip club where 200 of my closest friends screamed “SURPRISE” while men and women jirated on poles wearing nothing but tassels and stilettos. Upon closer inspection though, I realized my 200 “closest friends” were perfect strangers.
“Betty, who are all these people?” I asked, licking whip cream from the abs of a well-muscled male stripper, “Why would you throw me a party and not invite anyone I know?”
“Every body throws surprise parties where the only people invited are friends. But no one thinks to throw a surprise party where no one is a friend!” she screamed with delight, clapping her hands together as if she just figured out how to upload photos to Facebook, “SURPRISE!!”
As it turned out, it wasn’t such a bad idea. I met a lot of interesting people that evening. I would have met more – but I spent much of the night keeping tabs on Ann.
She is what is known as a “mean drunk”. And she started out the evening pretty angry in the first place.
If you want to get technical, she probably started out puberty pretty damn angry and hasn’t felt any other emotion since. But in this case, she was still rubbing out the sting from falling flat on her face in a failed attempt at stand up comedy at Homocon – a convention run by gay Republicans called GOProud. She was billed as the party’s very own right wing Judy Garland.
Though, I’m not sure Judy would have addressed the Umpa Lumpas by saying, “Marriage is not a civil right. You’re not black.”
For that matter, she probably wouldn’t have suggested that the conservative gay-rights movement should link up with the anti-abortion movement because “as soon as they find the gay gene, you know who’s getting aborted.”
“Look Kitten, we’re celebrating my birthday tonight – so we are not discussing your poor decision to try and befriend the gays,” I said, touching up the make up of a large breasted female stripper, “You should have known better. The gays might be damned to burn in hell – but they have a biting wit that would crack up a hick in a coma. You’re a Republican…which means, you’re not funny. You’re not even interesting. You have sharp, angular features and hair that is is so bone straight it appears to be trying to escape from your head. When you put all of this together, what you have is an unattractive woman with the personality of a barbecued rice cake standing on stage trying to wow a bunch of self-loathing fags in Brooks Brother’s button downs. Consider this a lesson learned – and stick with appealing to those who believe in maintaining true traditional Christian values in this great nation while paying for hookers on the side.”
I later found her making out with a rather efeminate guy with a nose ring and sleave tattoos. Or a really butch girl with a nose ring and sleave tattoos. I’m not sure which. She seemed to be having a good time though, so I didn’t make a fuss.
Betty disappeared early in the evening with a stripper. The bitch has got some serious game now that she’s a media darling. Her pick up line “ever seen an Emmy up close?” works every time.
At midnight, the music stopped – and Elton had a giant cake wheeled out to the center of the club. It said “Happy 94th Birthday, You Old Bitch” written on top. It was covered in lit candles…apparently, one for every year of my birthday. The flames got a little out of control and set off the fire alarm and sprinkler system.
Ordinarily, I would have been miffed by Elton’s little dig at my getting a year older. But it all backfired on him since the sprinklers ruined his sequent smoking jacket and drenched his wig. He looked like a wet yorkshire terrier in drag. Turn about is fair play, after all.
Lenny was in a bit of a bind though. He had an early flight to New York and his clothes were too soaked to dry in time. So I lent him some of mine. Now everyone is calling him so “avante garde” for stretching the boundaries of fashion by wearing leather and knee-high wedge boots – and thinking it’s ok.
You’re welcome, Lenny.
Love ya like celebrating 41 on my 23rd birthday with close friends…and some not so close ones,
Link to Ann Coulter at Homocon: http://nymag.com/daily/intel/2010/09/ann_coulters_three-for-one_slu.html
Link to Lenny Kravitz Style Watch: http://stylenews.peoplestylewatch.com/2010/09/24/lenny-kravitzs-knee-high-wedge-boots-love-em-or-hate-em/?xid=rss-topheadlines&utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+people%2Fheadlines+%28PEOPLE.com%3A+Top+Headlines%29&utm_content=Yahoo+Search+Results
I think we can all agree that I’m one who prefers to blend into the background. I don’t need the spotlight. The spotlight, it appears, needs me though – and my altruistic nature succumbs to the call more often than I’d prefer, to be perfectly frank. When I was invited to attend my dear, dear friend, Carrie Prejean’s wedding in San Diego, I made a promise to myself. I said to myself, I said “Butter Cookie,” (that’s what I call myself sometimes) “you must NOT draw focus from the bride…especially a bride who also happens to be Miss California and staunch supporter of anti-gay lawmaking. This day is about Carrie. Dear. Sweet. Homophobic. Carrie.”
As it turned out, I wasn’t able to keep that promise.
My first mistake was inviting Mike “The Situation” Sorrentino of The Jersey Shore to be my date.
Well, I didn’t really invite him, if you want the truth. He sort of invited himself – something he does entirely too much if you ask me – and I have a hard time saying no to a man who will let me wash my delicates on his stomach. Nothing gets the sand out of my satin g-strings like that man’s abs. I’m just saying.
I should have known the notion to not draw focus from the bride would be a challenge when The Situation picked me up in a Hummer limo filled with his entourage of disruptive misfits. It was me, The Situation, Snookie, Lisa Rinna, and Katie Couric.
The drive from LA to San Diego takes about two and a half hours if one has to make frequent stops to buy more booze….which we did, four times. On our second stop, we picked up The Bachelor’s Vienna Girardi- who, for some reason was hanging out barefoot and eating Teriyaki beef jerky at a “Circle K” in Downey. She seemed lonely, and kind of drunk, so we figured a wedding between a gay-hater and a quarterback would cheer her up and amp her buzz a bit.
Once she was in the limo, I did my best to keep my distance. From the moment we met, I could tell she was going to be the kind of girl who was going to invite me to validate her suspicians that her ex boyfriend (The Bachelor’s Jake Pavelka) was gay just because he refused to ever have sex with her and enjoys performing in ballroom dance competitions. I’ve gotten caught in that trap one too many times – and the last time Nicky Kidman roped me into trying to seduce Tom Cruise while wearing a horse jockey uniform to prove he was on the DL. Well I learned my lesson, and the scars from the riding crop still haven’t completely healed.
Fortunately, Snookie distracted her with a drinking game and before we reached San Diego they ended up passed out on top of each other clutching one another’s breasts. This seemed to please The Situation.
The wedding was lovely. Carrie’s breast implants were a vision in her stark white Ines Di Santo gown. She was pure as the driven snow…if snow were driven through an National Rifle Association rally in Mississippi. The groom, Oakland Raiders quarterback Kyle Boller was sexy as hell in his Zegna tuxedo…and appeared dopey with joy – as if completely unaware of the years ahead where he would be required to negotiate for sex and say farewell to blow jobs.
The trouble didn’t start until the reception when Carrie seemed less than pleased that my “plus one” kept reminding her that he thought “married chicks are HOT!” while occasionally lifting his shirt and posing as if he were on the cover of a box of Calvin Klein bikini underwear. Strike one.
She also didn’t seem happy that Lisa Rinna insisted that she understood this to be a ”BYOB” event. And to Lisa, “BYOB” meant “bring your own Botox”. Apparently the Christians don’t think it’s in good taste to walk around with a syringe between courses offering “a little freshen up”. This was strike two.
The venue was stunning at the Grand Del Mar in San Diego. The hotel is owned by an Internet chat buddy of mine, Doug Manchester. The gays unfairly boycotted his hotels when it was exposed that he gave $125,000 to the “Yes on Prop 8″ campaign opposing same-sex marriage. I shouldn’t have mentioned it to Katie Couric. She flew into a rage in the middle of the reception, grabbed a drunk bridesmaid and proclaimed that she was about to have her first lesbian sex experience in THIS homophobic hotel to prove a point. This also seemed to please The Situation.
“I’m going to have lesbian sex in every room of this hotel, gawdamnit! How do you like them gay apples Miss California? SUCK IT Manchester!” she screamed.
She wanted to tape it and post it on YouTube…but I talked her out of it. Her and her causes.
That was obviously strike three. Carrie hasn’t spoken to me since. So much for blending in. I hope to make it up to her at our next church book club meeting. The group will be discussing our latest selection, “How to Take it Up the Butt When You’re Saving Yourself for Marriage – A Step By Step Guide.”
Love ya like a laundry day “Situation”,
Link to Prejean Wedding Story: http://www.usmagazine.com/stylebeauty/news/first-pic-see-carrie-prejeans-wedding-dress-201067
Link to “The Bachelor” Break-up Story: http://tvwatch.people.com/2010/07/05/jake-and-vienna-the-showdown-gets-ugly/
Link to Doug Manchester news: http://saynotomanchester.org/
“No Love, you cannot hide out in my basement,” I said to Lindsay Lohan in a text message, “I learned my lesson about harboring fugitives the last time I hid Gary Coleman under my sink after he hit someone with his truck in a bowling alley parking lot. xoxo”
She replied with a sad face.
A warrant for her arrest was issued when she failed to show up for her court appointment where she was to give a progress report on her probation. She claims her passport was “stolen” at the Cannes Film Festival in France and couldn’t make it back into the country in time. She didn’t seem to worried about being robbed as she partied on a yacht in the French Rivera though – which is why I had to put my foot down and refuse to harbor her fugitive arse to hide from the po-po. I had to teach the girl a lesson about responsibility. That, and I was pissed I wasn’t invited to the party on the yacht. Bitch.
I don’t have time for this nonsense right now. I’ve already spent most of the day repainting my music room after I came home last night from strip bingo with Elizabeth Taylor and Betty White to find someone had painted it in a giant mural of bananas and cherries. It looked like a Starburst candy commercial from the 90′s exploded all over my walls.
“I’ve gotta hand it to Elton,” Betty laughed as she observed the room, “Of all of his practical jokes of endearment, this is one of my favorites.”
Though annoyed, I wasn’t upset with Elton John for turning my room into a gigantic pack of Skittles. The poor dear did need to blow off some steam after finding out religious conservatives are trying to ban him from Morocco’s Mawazine World Rhythms festival in the capital Rabat….so I decided to overlook the inconvenience of moving all my furniture and repainting.
“Honey, lift with your knees,” I said to Liz as she hauled bongo drums out of the room, “The last thing I need is to have you throw your back out before you’ve had a chance to move the piano.”
Anyway, the festival Elton is scheduled to perform at is backed by Morocco’s King Mohammed – and brings together musicians from 50 countries. It has drawn criticism from Islamists who say such events encourage promiscuity and alcohol consumption, corrupting Islamic values.
“We asked the government to exclude this person from the list of artists invited to this festival. This man — sorry, I should say this person, not this man — is known for bragging about his homosexuality,” said Mustapha Ramid, a leading parliamentarian from the opposition Islamist PJD party.
Ramid went on to say, “Morocco is an Islamic state where stages should not used to allow a person with such a degree of debauchery to perform because we have to shield the young from such influences.”
The festival director doesn’t seem to give a damn what the religious conservatives are spouting. He’s all,”Elton John is one of the best artists in the world. He is great and extraordinary when he appears on stage. That’s why we invite him and welcome him to the Mawazine festival.”
Poor Elton. I feel for him. I wanted to make him feel better, so while Liz dragged my life-size ceramic cheetahs to the middle of the room so we could paint the wall behind them, I sent him a text to lend my heartfelt support.
“Hey Kitten, it was so thoughtful of you to paint my music room to look like an enormous bowl of Fruity Pebbles.” I texted, “Best of luck performing in Morocco you pudgy shriveled up Piccadilly bitch! May you one day have the thighs of a normal-sized person. Besos! xoxo.”
Later, over cocktails and a Hostess Snowball, Betty informed me that Lindsey’s warrant was recalled a few hours later after her bond was posted. I was relieved. An orange prison jumpsuit would be unflattering to her skin tone and just draw more attention to the bags under her dilated bloodshot eyes.
Love ya like eating Snowballs while Liz Taylor moves my piano,
Link to Lindsay Lohan story: http://omg.yahoo.com/news/warrant-for-lohan-recalled-after-bond-posted/41170?nc
Link to Elton John Story: http://new.music.yahoo.com/elton-john/news/morocco-resists-islamist-calls-to-ban-elton-john–62001779
“Darling, you need to calm down,” I said to Sarah Palin as I prepared to flip myself upside down on the stripper pole, “I’m sure Barrack Obama’s response to your nuclear policy remarks weren’t intended to make you look like a complete stupid ass.”
Sarah takes pole dancing lessons with me on Friday mornings. Don’t laugh. It is an exceptional cardiovascular work out and stretches parts of the body that really come in handy when attending a cocktail party at Jack Nicholson’s. Besides, if one is going to make it in politics, a vast knowledge of how to work a pole is a baseline skill set required of any female Republican. If you listened to Rush Limbaugh’s radio program, you’d know this.
“He’s trying to make me look stupid!” she gasped while doing the splits midair.
I should get you up to speed. There was this recently announced shift in the nuclear retaliation policy that would rule out nuclear attacks on countries that have signed a nuclear nonproliferation treaty in cases where they attack the U.S. with non-nuclear weapons. It’s basically a “if you bitch slap me and throw a drink in my face at a bar, I can’t go and run your ass over with my Suburban in the parking lot” kind of agreement. And Sarah, guns a blazing, was all “Oh no you bitches didn’t!” and said in the media:
“No administration in America’s history would, I think, ever have considered such a step that we just found out President Obama is supporting. It’s unbelievable. It’s like getting out there on a playground, a bunch of kids, getting ready to fight, and one of them says, ‘Go ahead, punch me in the face. I’m not going to retaliate. Do what you want to with me.’”
So Obama was all, “Last I checked, Sarah Palin’s not much of an expert on nuclear issues.If the secretary of defense and the chairman of the Joints Chiefs of Staff are comfortable with it, I’m probably going to take my advice from them and not from Sarah Palin.”
As it turned out, the very public exchanging of jabs over the nuke policy was just the competitive jumpstart Sarah needed to get to that next level in her pole workout. If it’s one thing Sarah hates, it’s when people make her look stupid. I just haven’t had the heart to tell her that it isn’t actually other people who are making her look stupid. It’s just that other people are calling attention to the stupid things she says. It’s a fine line, really. But the angst it created in her made for one hell of a pole routine that we later performed at a gun rally hosted by Tom Selleck – and people loved it.
Love ya like shakin it like a Polaroid picture with the GOP,
Link to story: http://news.yahoo.com/s/ynews/20100409/ts_ynews/ynews_ts1549
I swear, I’m not making this up.
Click below first to read the story on CBS.com – and then read on:
A Ugandan pastor is showing gay pornography at church to try to garner support for a proposed law that would impose the death penalty for some gays.
Let me paint a picture for you.
Imagine you wake up in the morning, have your coffee, and put on your freshly pressed Sunday best for a heartfelt day of worship at the local church. You’ve even done three sets of squat thrusts to prepare your body for an hour on your knees dedicated to humble prayer. You’re pumped for a good ol’fashioned smack down with the Lord – and you can almost feel the words “PREACH” or “Thank you Jesus!!” and “TESTIFY!!!!!” booming from your chest as the words of the righteous fill your Christian soul.
“We’re gonna try something a little different today folks,” the pastor says as he ques up the large screen.
That isn’t gospel music you hear. And those aren’t the sounds of enthusiastic prayer. But you get the message loud and clear that while this is not like any other church service you’ve ever been to, there is no mistaking that there is some serious worship going on. Praise be.
I can’t speak for the people who attended this service – but I’ll tell you this much: I can’t think of a better reason than gay porn to get up early on a Sunday morning, do squat thrusts and scream out “Thank you Jesus!”
The Catholics are probably kicking themselves for not thinking of this first. Talk about a smart recruitment tactic. Watch a little “Good Will Grunting” – and pop right over to confession to absolve your sins. It’s all just so convenient, if you ask me.
I’m sure the Pastor had the best of intentions. I’m sure he thought that his little stunt would elicit enough shock value to scare his parishioners straight by showing them the deviant act of homosexual sex on video. But I don’t think the poor thing counted on one very important factor when previewing gay porn to those who haven’t experienced it before: gay sex is freakin hot, and a hell of a lot of fun. In his effort to promote the death penalty for gays, he really just pushed 1 out of every 10 of his parishioners from “latent” to “flaming mo” – and the world probably has at least a half dozen new Ugandan fag hags.
But isn’t that what church is supposed to be all about? Helping the Lord’s children see the world with open eyes and heart? For these fortunate Ugandan people, they have been blessed with the knowledge that not only is gay sex enthralling to watch, but our production quality is way better than straight porn…and our ”actors” have actually stepped into a gym more often than the drive thru at White Castle. I’m just saying.
Peace be with you. And also with Gucci.
Love ya like saying 10 Hail Mary’s after watching “On His Knees in Belize”,
Boy, did I get an ear full from Pamela Anderson this morning. Nothing divides a people like animal rights activism…and lemme just tell you, homegirl is PISSED. When I got to her house this morning (she gives me crochet lessons every Wednesday), she was fit to be tied.
“Have you heard about that little bitch Johnny Weir?” she hissed, “He is going toe to toe with Animal Rights groups about his insensitive use of fox fur in his costuming. It’s just disgraceful. I’ve been praying about it all morning. I just got off the phone with my pastor.”
“Oh dear.” I said. Obviously I wasn’t going to be learning diagonal v-stitch squares today. I guess this means I won’t have an afghan ready for Kiefer Sutherland’s birthday, I thought. Fuck.
Pam spent the next three hours in a tirade about the inhumane treatment of foxes and showing me a Powerpoint presentation full of slides depicting cartoon foxes being whacked with baseball bats with little dialogue clouds above their heads that said “Ouch!”
“Do you know they are electrocuted and beaten? Then skinned alive for their furry little pelts?” she sobbed in between taking bites of a Hostess Snowball.
“I had no idea, honey.”
I tried to calm her with soothing pats to the shoulder and roofie in her Diet Rite. Nothing seemed to work. She just kept going on and on. Finally, I was fed up and just sort of snapped.
“Ok, honey, look,” I said sternly, “You need to get a grip. If you’re going to get upset everytime a skating queen wears fur, you’re in for a lifetime of heartache. If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times – the gays would sell their vicodin-addicted fag hags into Russian white slavery for the sake of provocative fashion. You think they’ll give a second thought to a little electrocuted fox? Wise up, darling. Fashion hurts…some more than others. I don’t like it anymore than you do…but it’s the world we live in.”
I’m not sure if it was exhaustion from her tirade, my come-to-Jesus moment, or the roofie – but she passed out just then. I took my crochet needles and a bottle of Ativan from her medicine cabinet – and I let myself out.
Johnny – love kitten…a word of advice: if you’re going to push the envelope with avante-garde looks on the ice, have at it honey…and do it with gusto. But one word: faux. It doesn’t have to BE a fox to look like a fox, after all. Just look at Burt Reynold’s hair.
Love ya like Hepatitis in the morning,
Link to news story: http://sports.yahoo.com/olympics/news?slug=ap-weir-fur&prov=ap&type=lgns