The story of a bottle blond with nothing to lose...
Friday, January 8, 2010
Holidays on Ice
January is a glorious month, if for no other reason that the holidays are officially over. This past season, strife and proverbial internet hair pulling exploded between Chelsea and the Castro, all played out via bitchy text messages. Pup, my twink BFF with a penchant for arts and crafts projects and hoarding meats (you should see his freezer, it looks like your grandma's who lived through the Great Depression and kept her life savings in a coffee can), initiated a cat fight when he received this photo from a friend on New Year's Eve, who assumed he would receive laudatory marks on his Birkin, eyeliner precision, and jaunty pose. But Pup was of a different heart, and channeling all the bitchiness of 2009, captioned it thusly :
"Tranny, faggy, PeeWee Herman, wannabe woman."
At press time, they are not speaking. A wind of gay détente blows (yes, I meant to do that, thank you) between the coasts. Mention this post at the Ramrod and get a free Flirtini.
When I come home to my mansion on the Upper East Side, I just kick off my Jimmy Choos, get a drink of champagne from the faucet, throw on an Hermés scarf as an apron, whip up a jewel salad, scrape off the scraps into my Louis Vuitton garbage bag, and watch my servants perform an opera they wrote while I was flying my Versace helicopter to the Congo to pick up some conflict diamonds for my jewel salad.