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,