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,
I should disclaim to you that I’m shit-faced drunk right now – having just hosted a lovely dinner party with my two very best friends in the whole wide world – Betty White and Anna Wintour. So I really cannot be held responsible for the things said from this moment on. Seriously, I’m wasted.
I’m drunk for a few reasons:
1) Betty loves to play drinking games, and I suck at drinking games…so I always end up blitzed, wearing wigs I stole from Fay Dunaway, and drunk dialing Victoria Beckham.
2) Anna just found out she’s being honored by the Magazine Editor’s Hall of Fame at it’s annual gala in April…so she’s acting all, “I’m too sexy for this magazine” now – and all I wanted to do the entire evening was bitch-slap her ego with a rolled up latest issue of British Vogue. Translation: I’m fucking jealous.
3) Betty won’t shut up about this Facebook campaign for her to host Saturday Night Live that is sweeping the globe. She spent most of dinner tweeting on her Iphone and bragging about her knowledge of social media by using terms like “Farmville” or “status update”. If she wasn’t campaigning for more chickens and cows for her virtual farm, she was yelling at her agent on the phone to demand more money from Playboy to pose nude for their annual “GILF” issue. She’s more famous now than she was in the 80′s – and frankly, it’s just going to her head. Translation: I’m fucking jealous.
My two best friends are wildly successful and getting oodles of attention from around the world – and what do I have? Nothing. That’s what. Nothing. I just felt so small sitting at the dinner table as they both gushed about how well their careers were going.
“I’ll tell you one thing,” Betty said, taking a swig of her margarita, “If I do SNL, they better not book that bitch Beyonce as the musical guest. I’d rather die than share a stage with that over-exposed witch with a weave!”
Betty insists that Beyonce stole the role of Foxy Cleopatra in the Austin Powers: Goldmember movie right out from underneath her. She’s had it out for her ever since.
“When I was told about my Hall of Fame honor,” Anna began, “I was so excited, I couldn’t sleep for two days. Finally, I had my assistant tie Kate Moss to a chair and force feed her complex carbohydrates while I watched and laughed. It relaxed me.”
I had nothing impressive to contribute to the conversation.
“Johnny Weir added me as a friend on Facebook,” I chimed in, trying to feel important. As the words came out of my mouth, I realized how pathetic I was compared to these power bitches. So I drank. And drank some more.
And PS, I never should have accepted Johnny Weir’s friend request. He keeps posting hateful things on my wall ever since I sent him six goats for his farm. They apparently ate a bunch of his outlandish leotards and tried to mate with his Olympic fox fur costume. I guess I misunderstood that whole Farmville game.
You can imagine my embarrassment when I accidentally had a housekeeper knocked off when James Gandolfini sent me a request for Mafia Wars.
Love ya like singing “Wannabe” into the phone as Victoria screams at me from the other end,
Betty White is probably the best friend I have in the whole world, next to Anna Wintour. But sometimes, frankly, she’s just a bad influence.
We all have those friends that bring out the rebelious side in us – the inner bad boy. The hidden wild cat. The repressed whore. For me, that friend is Betty White. She brings out a side of me that most people never see. A scary, outlandish side…a wacky Courtney Love kinda alter ego that inevitably results in us breaking some laws or playing cruel jokes on Carol Burnett. In fact, if Betty White threw a party – invited everyone she knew, she would see, the biggest gift would be from me…and the card attached would say “Bitch, if I go down, so do you!”
After delivering the most adorable acceptance speech for her Screen Actor’s Guild Lifetime Achievement Award, she was in the mood to party. We both were already dolled up…so hitting the town to celebrate her being the Bell of the Ball just seemed like the right thing to do. So we grabbed a couple of friends, hopped in the hummer limo and headed for the Sunset Strip.
So it was me, Betty, Nicole Kidman, Ashley Simpson and Joey Fatone. The bubbly was flowing, the drunk texts were flying. We were having a blast. Betty is OBSESSED with Ke$ha right now – so on the way to the club, she kept blaring “Tik Tok” over and over again (I still can’t get the damn song out of my head).
We ended up at Saddle Ranch - a western themed nightclub known for it’s mechanical bull. It’s a funny place where trendy straight people tie bandanas around their necks and wear cowboy hats with their Hudson jeans.
Betty is very fond of Ashley Simpson….though I really can’t imagine why. All evening long the girl just kept speaking in abbreviations – and it annoyed the hell out of me. Things like “OMG!” or “IDK!” or “LMAO!” She was bringing down my buzz…so eventually I managed to convince her to ride the bull, secretly hoping she’d fly off of it, break a rib, and have to be rushed to the emergency room so I wouldn’t have to listen to her incessant usage of random letters in the alphabet. To my surprise, she was actually quite good at riding the damn bull. This worked in my favor though – because she insisted on riding it for the rest of the evening.
I’m not really sure what happened to Joey Fatone. One minute he was busting a move on the dance floor with a buffalo wing in his mouth, and the next, he was gone. Joey – honey, if you’re reading this, send me a text to let me know you got home, ok? You know I worry.
I was busy keeping my eyes on Nicole to make sure she didn’t get crazy. She’s a lovely woman and very refined most of the time. But get a couple glasses of champagne in her and all of the sudden she thinks she’s a stripper and starts wanting to take her top off. Meanwhile, Betty is in a corner making out with some guy. I kept trying to tell her she could do better – but she was way into him. I can’t remember his name…but I think he was married to Jennifer Lopez at one time.
The rest of the evening gets a little fuzzy.
I woke up in a hotel room at the Standard, wearing Nicole’s bra and lying next to Ludacris. I don’t think anything happened – but I’m getting a pregnancy test, just in case. Nicole was passed out next to the toilet, and Betty was wide awake sitting still by the window while a swarthy tattoo artist inked her lower back. It was a rose, and around it were the words “Thank you for being a friend.”
Stunned, I gasped, “You’re getting a tramp stamp?”
She looked up and smiled, “Of course, dear. I’m getting one to match the one you just got.”
I need to find classier friends.
Love ya like my my rose tramp stamp “travel down the road and back again”,