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,