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,
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,