Wednesday, January 07, 2009

Sick Days Are For Pussies

Heidi Ho and Happy New Year Bitches!

Sick Days Are For Pussies
I long for the days when feeling like ass meant the main obligation of the day was to mumble a brief missive of misery into your bosses voicemail. And after a furtive piss and double shot of NyQuil, you could collapse back into a technicolor slumber to shake the discomfort of horse testicles throbbing away in your throat, regaining consciousness only to glean five-minute pearls of wisdom from Dr. Oz and Access Hollywood. Sigh. Those were the days.

And only after two full days of lolling about in this fugue state, would you scrape your ass out of bed, choke down a bagel and half a dozen Sudafed, to bravely venture back into a poorly ventilated rhinovirus replication colony (the subway). You'd then emerge to spend eight hours trying to comprehend the marching orders issued by your professional superior through eardrums awash with fluid, while possessed by a pseudoephedrine high that inspires you to gnaw through ten pencils. 

Buck up, buttercup. Sick days are for pussies.

For me, the sick day has been reduced to an urban myth, an elusive reverie of my pre-production days when I could take a shit with the door closed, or actually have ten minutes to try on clothes when shopping for them.

If you are a sick day-taking pussy, please forgive my diatribe. I still love you. I'm just jealous as hell.

Jett Travolta, RIP
No one on earth should ever have to bury a child. So what if John Travolta is a frigging scientologist?  I've always been fond of him because he seems like a geniunely decent yet closeted homobeing who makes my gaydar go "Woot! Woot!" and unapologetically kisses men square on the lips. Everyone should leave him the fuck alone.

Real World, Brooklyn
Ho - ho!  Vets and tats and transgenders - oh my! This year's crop were holed up in a tricked out loft above Fairway, and oh what a crop it is.  Ryan, fresh from three tours in Iraq, is the Chandler of the group, and called poor Katelynn out on her post-op he-ness in the most childish way. It's only a matter of time before his yes bitch, Salt Lake Pink, finds his tongue down Ryan's throat, so he'd best hush. 

Of course, resident Miami-gay JD is the most mature of the bunch. He took it upon himself to whisk poor Katelynn off to safe environs like Elmo in Chelsea for some limo confessionals scored to sappy music, and much needed rest and respite from the aforementioned Idiot 1 and Idiot 2.

See the stupidity for yourself

Ally Sheedy-clone alterna-puddlejumper Sarah couldn't wait to test art therapy 101 out on Ryan.  This left bouncy-titted beauty queen Devyn and bubbly skank Baya to eyeball Scott, the beefcake from New Hampster with a strong belief in hair mousse.

As my friend Alison put it best, this season should be entertaining. No one said good, just entertaining.

Sandra Bernhard Still Reigns
Marisa and I recently hagged out with the sisters at Joe's Pub, where we caught an intimate set from none other than Sandra Bernhard.  Rivaling her repertoire was her loyal BFF Vogue's Andre Leon Talley, who was clad in a spangled fez and epaulets while frantically waiving a handkerchief at each saucy retort. 

We still love you Sandra!

That's it for now, kiddies. Obama's on. I bet he smells good.


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