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,
“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,
“Dude, you’re like, 42.” I said to Mariah Carey over mimosas and gummy bears this morning.
I was about three pitchers into my usual Sunday morning ritual of drinking and thumbing through the day’s headlines. Just as I was turning the page from an in depth feature in In Touch where Bristol Palin reveals she lost her virginity with Levi while being blitzed on wine coolers, I noticed Mariah’s new ad promoting her trio of fragrances “Lollipop Splash the Remix.”
She wasn’t paying any attention to me. She was captivated by a pink baby rattle shaking in front of her face as Betty White cooed “Who’s the pretty girl? Who’s the pretty little girl with stretch marks and crows feet? Who is it?!?”
Mariah just giggled and chewed on the ear of her Hello Kitty plush doll. Then she burped.
“Mariah, dear…aren’t you a bit old now for bedazzled butterfly hair clips and lollipops in your perfume ads? You are a mother of twins now – and about two Divas Live concerts away from hormone replacement therapy and hot flashes. I think it’s about time you ditch the aging tween schtick and start looking at adopting a more age appropriate sophistication. At a very least, finding a bra that isn’t three sizes too small.” I urged.
She was texting now as she smacked her strawberry flavored Bubble Yum.
“You’re wasting your breath,” Betty chimed in. “She’s been working the same tired trampy school girl with a butterfly fetish look for the last twenty years. You think she’s going to stop now? You’d have better luck getting Elton John to wear beige Converse and khakis.”
She had a point. I was just concerned. It just seems to me that a woman in her 40′s wearing charm bracelets and butterflies while sucking on a lollipop in a perfume ad is about as tragically self unaware as a bald man’s combover or heterosexual marriage to Tom Cruise. Someone HAD to tell her – and after three pitchers of mimosas, it made perfect sense for that person to be me.
Her latest fragrances — a trilogy inspired by her playful personality — are Never Forget You (“gourmet jelly beans and golden peony”), Vision of Love (“French macaroon and purple jasmine”) and Inseparable (“raspberry, mango, jasmine and orange flowers”). It’s the ideal bouquet to compliment the succulent scent of Chuck E Cheese pizza at a Build-a-Bear party.
Rather than spend any more time trying to convince her that her “sweet-and-innocent-without-a-gag-reflex” image was embarrassing for a woman old enough to have released albums on cassette tape, Betty and I decided to humor her and spent the rest of the day doodling boys names on Pee Chee folders and taking the “Does He Really Like You or Does He Just Want a Blow Job” quiz in Seventeen magazine.
Love ya like hoping he just wants a blow job,
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/
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,
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
Betty White has a rather unhealthy obsession with collecting comic books – in case you weren’t aware. More specifically, an obscure genre of comic books about gay bears that fight crime using bedazzled broomsticks and have an endearing affection for kittens. I know. It doesn’t make sense to me either. So she dragged me out to San Diego to the Comicon convention – the world’s largest comic book/sci-fi/action adventure/koo-koo-for-cocoa-puffs convention of it’s kind.
It’s basically a giant costume ball orgy for geeks and dorks. And I mean that in a loving, nurturing kind of way. After a couple of days there, I concluded that Comicon is a lot like the Renaissance Fair. An excuse for nerds with bad hygiene to get dress up in ridiculous outfits and act out strange fetishes in public without risk of being arrested or getting a wedgy from the high school quarterback.
As it happens, these crime fighting gay bear comic books aren’t exactly easy to find – so we spent the better part of the first day on a gay bear scavenger hunt …going through bins of dusty comic books and pushing aside the occasional midget in a Wonder Woman costume.
“Now pay attention,” Betty said emphatically, “Take this whistle, and blow it hard if you find anything that looks like a gay bear. I need you to take this very seriously. FIND THE GAY BEARS! Do you copy?”
I nodded my head and feigned my very best impression of a soldier salute.
We probably would have been more productive with our time if I hadn’t kept blowing my whistle and screaming “Where are all the gay bears? Gay bears where are you?” All that did was draw the attention of a few dozen bearded men of large proportion who kept pinching my ass, asking if I’d ever seen Cher in concert, and comparing me to various types of gourmet sausage.
While Betty was furiously rummaging through crates of creepy comics, I decided to take a break and visit a panel discussion. The one I happened into was featuring the new movie “Salt” – so Angelina Jolie was there looking stunning in black leather. Once I saw her, I sort of hunched down in my chair hoping she wouldn’t see me.
I should clarify that I have nothing ill to say about Angelina Jolie. I think she’s a lovely person, perfectly adequate actress, and can take an acceptable photograph. But for reasons I’m still not completely clear on, she cannot stand the site of me – and has on more than one occasion called the authorities to have me forcibly removed from the premises. I may have attended one of her movie premiers wearing a sandwich board sign with a photo of Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston on one side, and the word “Home-wrecker” on the other. But that doesn’t seem like reasonable cause to dislike someone, does it? I know. I don’t get it either. But the bitch doesn’t like me, and there’s not much I can do about it.
She spoke thoughtfully of her character in the movie, Salt – and how she could identify with the fact that the character is “a little off.”
“There’s a real duplicity to her personality,” she said. “There’s a part of her that’s not necessarily a good guy, and because of certain things that happened to her, she’s a bit damaged. She’s not just heroic. She’s not even. She’s not just brave. There’s something a little off about her, and maybe there’s something off about me.”
She then went on to explain that she did all the stunts for the movie and even sustained an injury that left a scar on her face.
Whatever. That, dear friends, was a lie. She most certainly did not get that scar from doing a stunt. Not that I’m surprised. She’s always inventing little stories that paint her conveniently in a brighter, more heroic light. It seems to make riding the train in that koo-koo-ka-choo head of hers a more pleasant journey. Like the time she claimed I released live rats into the overhead compartment of her private jet. I would never do such a thing – and I find it offensive that she would think it appropriate to make up such heinous lies about me. They were not rats. They were mice. Very cute mice, might I add.
Because I’m a gentleman, I’m not going divulge the truth about how she really got that scar. Lets just say an innocent round of Rock-Paper-Scissors may have gotten a little out of hand. How was I supposed to know you’re not supposed to use real scissors?
I spent the rest of the afternoon roaming around the convention center looking for Betty. Eventually I found her standing in line to get an autograph from the woman who played the Admiral on Star Trek Next Generation – Natalija Nogulich…who is really quite stunning in person. Betty wanted Natalija to autograph her left breast – and when Natalija refused, Betty put her in a headlock until she agreed. It was an embarrassing spectacle…but it seemed to take Betty’s mind off of the fact that she still hadn’t found the gay bear comic books.
We never did find them – and Betty has been despondent ever since. So if you happen to know where I can find one in good condition, please email me. I’ll pay up to $4 for it. $5 if it isn’t stained with unidentified bodily fluids.
Love ya like filling Angie Jolie’s gas tank with salt ,
Link to Angelina Jolie at Comicon: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2010/07/23/angelina-jolie-my-face-wa_n_657515.html