Last night I actually got off my dead ass and went out for an evening’s adventure in the city — something I haven’t been interested in doing much as of late. The dark months make me want to hole up and hunker down in my home — which, being a hopelessly devoted Winter person, is an activity that I quite relish. Give me a stack of pillows, a soft blanket, some jammies, a good book, Antiques Roadshow, some engaging embroidery, and Gregory, and I am one delighted biotch. But last night I wrassled my inner mole to the mat and headed out to West Hollywood with my compadre, Billy.
We had been enthusiastically invited by our old friend and love-hooker, Leslie Jordan, to a club screening of last night’s episode of “Ugly Betty”, in which he played a vicious, flaming, lilliputian gossip columnist who was after dirt on Betty’s no-talent meathook boss, Whateverthefuckhisnameis. The reason I don’t know his name is that I have never before watched the show — and please allow me to say that after surviving last night’s episode, I shan’t again anytime soon. Aside from the always brilliant Leslie and his darling special guest co-star, Octavia Spencer (who was also at last night’s shin-dig and is even more darling in person), I have to say that despite all the cultural drool being dribbled at its feet, that fucking show stunk on ice. Dear god — I was just floored by the blindingly annoying art direction and the even more cartoony, manic, and embarrassingly over-the-top performances. Yes, I understand that everybody’s slobbering all over it for championing and empowering Ugly Fat Girl (who, by the way, is neither fat nor ugly) — but that small leap forward for womankind aside, I just gotta say that the show blows choad.
Highlights of the evening included seeing all 4’11” of Sir Leslie in an oh, so hip vintage polyester Versace dress shirt and itty-bitty white bucks; belly laughing whilst watching gorgeous top-shelf boys dance in their underpants at several gay bars on the boulevard; and listening to my own boys’ hilarious plans for ordering me a hoodie with a skull and crossbones and the words “Fag Hag” emblazoned across the front. I cannot wait — I shall wear it with great pride and devotion to the post.
And best of all? When we arrived at the club, en masse, we blew right past that bulgy, blue-haired meathook, Perez Hilton, who was standing by himself, hoping like hell that we’d recognize him and acknowledge. Not a chance, motherfucker. Trust me, that guy cannot fuck.
A grand time was had by all, and we’ve even decided to institute a mass once-a-week Bitch Brekkie at various coffee shops and cafes around the city — to be attended by some of the best young writers, actors, directors, agents, producers, and astonishing minds this city has to offer.
Algonquin Round Table? Look the fuck out.
From the astonishing mind of one of them — my friend, Leslie Jordan, whom I love with all my heart:
“Someone said there are two classes of gay people in the United States: the fabulous and the fearful. There’s nothing really in between. The fabulous, we’re on both coasts, but we forget about that huge country out there.”
muffy bolding 
