“Sarah, you need to calm yourself down, Love-Biscuit. We both know that it’s impossible to extinguish the burning brush of young love. If Levi and Bristol are determined to make a go of their relationship, no amount of campaigning to the contrary will make a difference,” I said to Sarah Palin on speaker phone while I cracked eggs into my cake batter.
I was baking a cake for Lindsay Lohan. She really loves my Red Velvet Surprise – the surprise being a delicious center filling of Ghiradelli’s chocolate and Adderall. She requested it to sooth her nerves on the eve of her 90-day jail term that began today. She’s like a daughter to me, that one. So I was more than happy to appeal to her sweet tooth during these dark times. And by sweet tooth, of course I mean drug habit.
Poor dear Sarah was riled up after hearing the news that her daughter had reconnected with her baby daddy – and the two were planning to marry. They are also shopping around for a reality series to document their newlywed antics. It isn’t as though either one of them are qualified for much else these days – and the bills must be paid if they ever hope to build a college fund for little baby Tripp. And by college fund, of course I mean rehab.
“I really think you’re underestimating the power of their bond,” I continued, mixing in sifted cocoa, “Show me one reality show couple who hasn’t represented all that is good and pure about love and marriage. Ozzie and Sharon Osbourne. Nick Lachey and Jessica Simpson. Vienna Girardi and Jake Pavelka. All shining examples of true love that serve as beacons to us all for what everlasting romance should look like over 18 episodes.”
At that point, Sarah put me on hold so she could shoot the beaver she’d been hunting in the woods all morning. I used it as an opportunity to click back to my phone sex date with Mel Gibson. When I clicked over, he was still screaming.
“Uh huh, yeah baby,” I breathed in monotone, “Yes, of course you deserve to be blown. Yes. Yes. I am a gold-digging whore. Yes. Hey honey, can you hang on a sec – I need to reattach my nipple clamps…they’ve come loose. Oh I’m such a bad boy!”
Our phone sex trysts have been getting rather intense of late. There is just something INSANE about his delivery these days that makes going to confession at the Catholic church more graphically descriptive – and my priest seems to really enjoy that.
I clicked back over to Sarah only to hear her giggling with loud gunshots in the background. My baking assistant, Betty White decided to help by adding two cups of rum to the cake batter.
“For the last time, Betty – this is NOT a rum cake!” I snapped, slapping her hand with my mixing spoon. “You never mix uppers with downers! That is the first thing they teach you in culinary pharmacy school! This cake has to be perfect for my baby-girl Lilo. Now hand me a pack of those Marlboro Reds. I’ll bake those in too so my little pumpkin has something to exchange for pills and lesbian sex.”
Over martinis and a joint, Betty and I spent the remainder of the afternoon icing the cake with my special cream cheese hydracodone frosting. Betty is really quite good at cake decorating, if you didn’t know. It’s fascinating to watch as she forms perfect borders of ribbons and pills – finishing it off with an even sprinkling of powdered sugar. At least I think it’s powdered sugar.
Unfortunately, the joint gave us both the munchies by the early evening – and we ended up eating the cake meant for dear Lilo. It’s just as well. It’s a smoke free jail anyway.
Love ya like prescription strength cake,
Link to Bristol/Levi Story: http://tvwatch.people.com/2010/07/20/bristol-palin-levi-johnston-reality-show-deal/
Link to Lindsay Lohan Jail Story: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2010/07/20/lindsay-lohan-surrenders-_n_652638.html
Link to Mel Gibson scandal: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2010/07/20/mel-gibsons-alleged-tripl_n_652352.html
You may not know this, but I have been doing psychological screening for the Catholic Church for years now – screening potential seminarians to make sure they are the “right kind” of Catholic. And by “right kind,” of course I mean, not gay. But as you can imagine, a career track that affords a slimming black uniform, dim lighting and access to lots of red wine – it’s obviously a calling for many a flaming mo. So the task of weeding out the fags and perverts is not an easy one – and occasionally the Church has to call in the big guns to “sniff out the gay” in situations where a potential seminarian has a sexual poker face that requires a stronger hand. And by “big guns”, of course I mean me and Betty White.
According to the New York Times, in recent years the interview process for a man who wants to spend his life in the Roman Catholic Church, a series of awkward moments are required in order to rent a room in the House of the Lord.
Questions like, “When was the last time you had sex?” or “what kind of sexual experiences have you had?” are typical interview conversation starters. If you manage to answer those satisfactorily, you move on to the bonus round of “Do you like children more than you like adults?” and “Do you like pornography?”
It is part of a soul-baring obstacle course prospective seminarians are forced to run in the aftermath of a sexual abuse crisis that church leaders have decided to confront, in part, by scrubbing their academies of potential molesters, according to church officials and psychologists who screen candidates in New York and the rest of the country.
“The best way I can put it, it’s not black and white,” said the adviser, the Rev. David Toups, the director of the secretariat of clergy, consecrated life and vocations of the United States Conference of Catholic Bishops. “It’s more like one of those things where it’s hard to define, but ‘I know it when I see it.’ ”
“Does it make you feel aroused when I touch your leg like this?” Betty asked a strapping young would-be priest as she puckered her lips slightly.
“For the last time Betty, we are NOT allowed to ask those types of leading questions!” I snapped. “SO unprofessional!”
“Me? Unprofessional? You’re the one who is massaging his shoulders and offering him martinis,” Betty complained.
I didn’t dignify her remark with a response. Everyone knows that interviewing for a new job is stressful – and getting into the priesthood is harder than taking the bar exam, if you ask me. I was merely trying to ease the tension of the moment.
Later, I was sitting in the Bishop’s office sipping communion wine, debriefing him on my morning interviews and trying on liturgical garments.
“Does this robe make my ass look big?” I inquired, staring at myself in the mirror doing my very best Virgin Mary pose.
He wasn’t paying any attention. His gaze was fixed on a particularly riveting Adam4Adam.com profile online while he softly hummed Madonna’s “Like a Prayer.”
“He’s as gay as a false eyelash sale at the Mac counter,” I said, “He knew the theme song lyrics to the 70′s sitcom “One Day at a Time” and appeared to break into a sweat the minute Betty White gave him a lap dance. He was clearly aroused by it – which obviously indicates he has a ‘Golden Girls’ fantasy. If that isn’t an over exposed Polaroid of gay, I don’t know what is.”
The Bishop still wasn’t paying any attention. He continued chatting on instant messenger with someone who’s screen name appeared to be “WrshpOnMyKnees”. I assume it was work related or breaking news from the Vatican.
“Anyway,” I continued, “We cannot possibly allow such perversion to permeate the walls of this great Church. So I was very gracious and told the young man that we would keep his application on file, but that we didn’t feel he was a good fit for our congregation. He seemed a bit forlorn, so Betty took him for jello shooters at the Abbey in West Hollywood.”
Later I got a bunch of incoherent text messages from Betty. She was clearly inebriated. So I assumed when she said, “Light a candle for my sins tonight, Bitch!” that meant she got home safely.
Love ya like confession shots at the Abbey,
Link to New York Times story: http://www.nytimes.com/2010/05/31/nyregion/31gay.html?pagewanted=1
“Give yourself a break, honey. How were you supposed to know there were two Wheaton Colleges?” I said to Ann Curry as she sulked while flipping through her morning National Inquirer, “You’re a journalist for goodness sake. You can’t be expected to be factually accurate without a working teleprompter in front of you. It was an easy mistake.”
I was in a chipper mood this morning, so I didn’t mind offering her a little TLC after her embarrassing gaffe at Wheaton College’scommencement ceremony where she mistakenly raddled off a bunch of notable graduates who never actually stepped foot on the Massachusetts campus because they attended the other College in Illinois. She is one of my dearest friends, but she can be somewhat of a dingbat sometimes.
For example, I haven’t had the heart to tell her that the National Inquirer she’s always reading isn’t actually the Wallstreet Journal. But she appears so well informed after reading it, so I don’t make a fuss.
I do realize that this kind of an embarrassing mistake probably comes as a complete shock to most people – because she’s usually so polished and poised as she’s reporting the news to us every morning on The Today Show. But anyone who knows her like I do isn’t the least bit surprised. She’s been attending game night with the girls for ages now, and she still gets every one’s name wrong and can’t seem to remember what game we’re playing at any given time. She’s been calling me “Aunt Jermaine” for weeks. For a year before that, it was “Aunt Jemima”…and before that, it was “Aunt Bernice”. Of all of them, I favored Bernice the most.
“GIN!” Ann cried in excitement as she threw down her cards in triumph.
The reaction around the room was mixed.
“Well look at that,” I said, “You do have Gin. But we’re playing Poker, darling.”
Laura Bush just rolled her eyes and took a sip of her Highball. Donatella Versace grimaced and threw a lit cigarette at her. Betty White, delighted by the suggestion, reached into her pocket and pulled out a flask.
“I love gin.” Betty said, taking a swig.
Appearing confused, Anne turned to Tim Gunn and said, “Teresa, so does this mean I didn’t win?”
He looked at her with the lack of expression only found on Orange County Housewives just after a Botox party, and said, “Just make it work.”
I said (as I pointed in Donatella’s direction), “Honey, just go over there and sit next to Donald Versace. She’ll teach you the game. I’m going outside with Lolita to smoke a bowl.” I took Laura by the hand and off we went.
When I came back, the group was playing Twister. Donatella appeared to be winning (she is really quite flexible, that one). Ann was circling around a bar stool waiting for a signal to pounce on it. Rather than break the news that we weren’t playing Musical Chairs, Betty awarded her for winning with a used BevMo gift card from her purse.
Love ya like a Full House of Gin,
Link to Ann Curry Story: http://news.yahoo.com/s/ynews/20100525/ts_ynews/ynews_ts2234
“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
“You know what your problem is, don’t you?” Betty White turned to me and said as we sat in the waiting room for our bikini wax appointments, “You’re not political enough.”
This is what I get for bitching to her about my love-life (or lack there-of).
“You would get laid more if you had a seat on the senate,” she went on to say, “Just look at that Republican Senator Roy Ashburn, for example. If his anti-gay lawmaking, middle aged ass can find a trick in the middle of a sleepy town like Sacramento, so can you.”
She has a point. People do seem to be attracted to power…and Senators are pretty powerful right? Look at this guy…he’s voted against every gay-rights measure to come across his latent homosexual desk since he took office eight years ago. This clearly gives him an pick-up advantage at bars because he probably has a really cool intro line, like “Hey Baby, I voted against your having equal rights…so since I’ve basically already fucked you, can I buy you a drink and do it again?”
That’s so hot. He’s so lucky. I could never come up with a sexy line like that.
“Meanwhile,” Betty segued, “I have more men than I know what to do with. That hot piece of British ass, Robert Pattinson thinks I’m sexy.”
She was referring to an interview the Twilight saga star was recently quoted in - saying he thought she was one of the sexiest women in America. It was in that moment I realized WHY we had bikini wax appointments in the first place.
“Really?” I responded, “Does he know you have a vagina? You know he’s allergic, don’t you? He wouldn’t shut up about it in his Detail’s magazine interview.”
Well, when Betty White wants something, she doesn’t let something as silly as a vagina allergy get in her way. So after we got waxed, we spent the rest of the afternoon taking seductive nude photos of her wearing vampire fangs and with a Harry Potter book placed over her crotch. She felt sending them to him along with a DVD set of the Golden Girls was a nice way to break the ice.
Love ya like trolling for Senators at the Manhole,
Link to Pattinson story: http://www.people.com/people/article/0,,20347963,00.html
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,
You should know that I’m not afraid to admit when I’m wrong. It doesn’t occur very often – but when it does, I’m the first to hold a press conference to announce it. So let the record show that today, on the eighth day of February, Aunt Johnny is admitting to the world – I was wrong.
For the record though, I never give my opinion unless asked for it. So when Megan Fox asked my honest opinion about a Super Bowl commercial she was doing for Motorola, I gave her some bad advice…because now the media is all up in arms about the fact she used a thumb double.
I was having lunch with Betty White so we could get our stories straight in case anyone questioned us individually about Charlie Sheen’s recent car theft. Megan came to the table looking positively distraught.
“Auntie, I’m so confused!” she said, welling up with tears, “I’m doing this cell phone commercial – and they want me to use a thumb double! A DOUBLE! I’m mortified! For ME! I’m so embarrassed. What should I do? They are paying me a lot of money for this damn commercial!”
Rolling my eyes at Betty, I took a sip of my martini – set it neatly down on the table – dabbed the corner of my mouth with a cloth napkin, and took a deep breathe as I looked up at her pathetic doe eyes and said, “Use the thumb double, darling.”
Betty nodded in agreement and pinched the ass of a waiter walking by.
“Seriously?” Megan asked, seemingly appalled by my response.
“Dear, the world is not ready for your freakishly stumpy thumbs,” I said in a matter of fact tone, “The object is to sell mobile phones, not scare people so much they stop texting all together and start sending communication via the US Postal Service. You’re a pretty girl – but you have the thumbs of an arthritic oyster shuck-er.”
She looked down and frowned. “I guess you have a good point.”
I sensed that she needed an encouraging pick-me-up, so I said, “Kitten, it is not your fault you’re horribly disfigured. We all have those things about ourselves we don’t like. Take me for example – I have a hideous freckle below my left ankle that ended my career as a foot model before it started. The trick is getting passed it and finding confidence in the things about us that are beautiful. I’m fortunate that my exquisite ear lobes draw focus completely away from that devil freckle.”
Betty was nodding again. “It’s true. My left tit is almost twice as big as the other, so I have to keep back issues of AARP magazine on the right side of my bra to keep myself balanced so I don’t fall over. Did that stop me from being a successful actress? No. I’m a fucking Golden Girl for fucks sake!”
Betty tends to curse a lot after her third Bloody Mary.
“The point is,” I said to Megan, “You have a career to think about – so unless you want to be cast as a beaver in a high-def National Geographic movie, you need to hide those clubbed nubs from the camera indefinitely. Now, honey…would you mind going back to your own table now? People are starting to stare at those sledge hammers.”
Now, apparently people all over the world who have Megan’s condition (brachydactyly, a rare condition which is probably better known as a clubbed thumb) are pissed off that she “sold out” by using a thumb double.
I should have told Megan to stand proud on national television and text her heart out with those little tree stumps. But in my defense, I was lunching with Betty White when my advice was asked for – and frankly, Megan should have known better than to listen to me after I’ve had my fourth martini and rolling on ecstasy.
Don’t judge me. The ecstasy was Betty’s idea.
Megan – Love Tart…I’m sorry for giving you such bad advice. The only way people in this world will ever be able to accept the things that look, sound, act or appear different is by putting it in their face with unapologetic confidence – giving them the opportunity to know better. The price of progress is often discomfort and unease. But with time, people will find that you’re just like anyone else – deserving of the same rights and privileges as any other human being.
It’s not like you’re a fag in the military or something.
Love ya like full frontal thumbs,
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”,