U.S. Politics

Takin’ a spin on a Gigolo +PLUS+ Didja notice…?

There exists online a European-based hook-up site for gay

men called “Recon” – recon as in reconnaissance, as in gay men meeting up online to do offline, and sometimes even online, what only we can do; and if you examine the links closely you will soon find an invitation to visit their online store.  (“Shop till you pop?”)

Follow that link, Murgatroyd, and once in their store you’ll find, among the jock straps and cock rings and puppy costumes made of rubber—I know—and lube, and ball gags fit for a queen, a product called, with that certain European flair, “F-Machine Gigolo”, and I’m just guessing that “The One and Only Acme Butt Bandit” didn’t make it through the branding brainstorm.

Please remove your unoccupied hand from your eyes to see the image on this page, an image which you will, by the way, never be able to forget, ever.

This is when “je ne sais quoi” becomes “je sais very well indeed quoi! Taber-NAK!!”

F Machine Gigolo

Hey, Big Spender! Who’s a naughty 2017?

Ze F-Machine Gigolo, she is, ‘ow do you zay, quite ze va va voom, ja?

Ja! Und sie also sells for 399 Euros, not including the probably helpful F-Machine Anchor, and the obviously almost stupidly important F-Machine Suction Base Universal Adapter with USB port.

We all knew that boys and their toys were a sublimation of sex; now it seems we’re advanced enough to dispense with the sublimation and get right to the, as it were, shameless meat and potatoes.

Can’t you just hear them over at “Fred’s Garage and Live Bait Open 24/7 Closed Sunday” :

Jim:   Sweet F-Machine Gigolo, dude!
Fred:  Frickin’ AWESOME!
Bert:  Sweet ride, man!

Which may give “take her for a spin” a “hole” new meaning.

Geddit!?  “Hole”?!!!?? L M Friggin’ A O!

(Secondary bonus: Martha Stewart reports that your F-Machine Gigolo makes short work of the twenty-six egg whites you’ve been saving for meringue in a Tupperware container in the fridge, just the ticket for those “Floating Islands” you’ll never in a million years do anything but aspire to.  TIP: Remember to Wet Wipe first! Yowza!)

You know, and can I just say, seriously.  I was trying to come up with a way to describe the year 2017, to distill its essence; to find solace, as does a sub under the bull-whip, in a metaphor that would encompass its sleazily impersonal yet obnoxiously persistent modus operandi; then I casually clicked on that store link and—!  Whaddaya know! Eureka!

I have found my metaphor, distilled my essence, and she is beautiful, to wit:

Two thousand seventeen is a lean, mean, bend-you-over-against-your-will, spread-those-cheeks-and-prepare-to-die fucking machine. (And the white girls sing: Oh, yes it is, uh-huh, uh-huh, oh yes it is.)

Take America.  Please.  Shoved face first to the sawdust-strewn floor of the bar by Trump, pants yanked down.  Prepare to die, America!  You ARE Korean bar-b-q, extra kimchi version! Crank that Gigolo up to HIGH!

Two thousand seventeen is, first and foremost, the year of Trump. TR-R-R-R-UMP! The name rolls off the tongue like that unchewable wad of gristle from a cheap cut of steak that you can’t swallow but still can’t bring yourself to spit into your napkin.

Well. At least he survived the second disaster of his Presidency.  The first being, you know.  His Presidency.

Hurricane Harvey strikes, answering the diabolic chants of every gay male in every coven from Salem to Esalen; Melania, ever devout, petitions Saint Manolo of Blahnik to intercede. And while we’re on that topic: Was there a conversation before their departure for Texas?  Something along these lines?

Hey Mel. Mel?”

“Yeah, what?”

“It’s the shoes. The six-inch stilettos. The hooker heels. With the Capri pants.”

“Yeah, what?”  

“How much did I spend on that.”

“You like, baby?”

“They’re fucking awesome.” 

“This I am also thinking.”

Admirably suppressing any pesky brain cells that might get in the way of his being irrelevant, Trump rhapsodizes about hurricane water:  “This is big water!  The biggest water ever! So much water! It’s like frickin’ ten infinity pools at Mara-Lago!  This is just— so much the biggest water! Than was ever seen! Ya know? Like, check out this water! Lotsa water! WOW!”

Gettysburg Address, I Have a Dream, Ask Not What Your Country Can Do For You? Keep your Lincoln Memorial, I see in its place Donald’s Water Speech carved on a plinth, topped with an inflatable Trump, as if there were any other kind, rendered by Jeff Koons in 24-carat gold.

As in art, so in politics: If you’re a hideous and hideously expensive joke, a 24-carat balloon, everything depends on how many people you can fool, and there’s a helluva lot of fools in the U. S. of A.

trump-0cbb608c-6e23-4639-9e35-a301f82f6f65

Margaret Atwood and Doug Ford?

But back to me <heaves audible sigh of relief> and my insular yet glamorous Toronto life of rent tribunals, NSF charges that are bigger than the actual payment I missed, and being the hostage in home invasions.  How I find the time to twirl my big toe in the dirt and weave those garlands of daisies, I’ll never know!

I’m seriously post-trauma. At least, I will be when I figure out when one trauma ends and the next begins. The sound of the bedroom door chunking open like a missile silo at Cape Canaveral to blast Roommate # 335a into my face, and the metallic slap of the mail slot against my front door after it vomits another unpayable bill on to my porte-cochère set my heart to pounding and my blood pressure spiking like Oprah’s weight, but without the soothing mud mask that helps her forget. Impending strokes are my cardio, though given the choice, I’d sooner implode.

“Let me guess, 805?” snarls my super to my buddy, caught walking while black, who has decided to follow another tenant inside instead of ringing up.  I realize that, to Timbercreek Property Management, I am the living Christ: Their personal put-upon scapegoat in cheap sandals that taketh on the sins of the world. I can just about live with it as a final phase.

The next day, a car jumps the concrete barrier to the underground parking at my building and crashes; I contemplate sending a note to management apologizing just in case I actually did cause it. It feels quite possible. I’m looking a lot like Carrie White these days, all drab hair and bald spots, cardboard shoes and unchanged panty pads. Ashtrays vibrate on the corners of desks at my approach.

There’s more. The rental office tells a prospective roommate that my apartment is the source of cockroaches for the building. The source! I am forced to write to them stating in no uncertain terms that I’m far too busy dealing with my own roaches to supply the other tenants. They will unfortunately have to provide their own.  Score: Dave, 1.

Next, we top the Danish open-faced sandwich of public life with yet another steaming-hot curlicue of horror, this being the announcement by Doug Ford that he has decided not to spare us the inevitable. Yes, he will run for Mayor of FordNation!

Well, puncture my toe with a rusty nail at Hanlan’s Point, he never! Let’s hop right on that Gigolo and never dismount till 2019, and what you wanna bet she’ll be corkscrewing outta my ear before this baby’s done, hot damn!

Seriously, is there no respite? How many, oh lord, how many more zombieFords still float in their tanks of formaldehyde like so many Damien Hirst prototypes, awaiting reanimation in that festering Fordlab littered with empty buckets o’ chicken and Labatt’s 50 cans? It feels, here in the City of the Undead, like we barely managed to kill off the last one, and just in time, too, before he tore down Margaret Atwood and replaced her with a casino.

Nine PM. A strapping young lad decides to make my online day. “Hey, Gramps!” he chirps.

Yeah. Shoulda stuck with the pics from ’85. They got a great response, perfect if you’re into bondage, long walks on the beach and door shock (as a bottom).  I reckon, or Recon, he’s German. He probably meant to say “Gran”. Or “gnädige”.

I decide to tackle those Christmas cards from last year I never sent out.

Things just might be looking up.

~

Didja notice my redesign and didja like it?

Even better:  My online store is now at shop.slowpainful.com.  That’s right.  I configured a sub-domain.  The tits are off the bull!

Check out the link “Buy Merchandise” at the top of the page.  Tell me what you think. And buy merchandise.  Kind of thing?

And if you enjoy my blog, why not consider 1.  Making a donation through Paypal; 2. Buying merch; 3.  Adopting me so I can live in your penthouse.   I could really use the support right now.

And a Gigolo.

DR

 

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“Obamacare Watch” exclusive: National Rifle Association steps up to the plate with no-payer health care solution for GOP.

healthcaretardsbillboard

In an inspired, audacious,

“why-didn’t-anyone-think-of-this-before?” move that has Americans smacking their open palms on their foreheads from Fire Island to Big Sur, the Trump administration and the National Rifle Association have joined forces in an unprecedented nation-wide initiative to reduce and eventually eliminate health care costs.

“Stand Your Ground Against Health Care-tards!” is the second program implemented under Trump’s so-called “Great Big Yuge Agenda”, just two weeks after the start of “What Has Intelligence Ever Done For YOU?”,  the educational program which has Betsy DeVos overseeing the winding down of the public school system.

But what about rumors that the new health care plan was inspired by a recent shooting at a New York City hospital?

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Senior citizens enjoying their final Christmas Surprise as part of Trump’s “Stand Your Ground Against Health Care-tards!” initiative.  A NRA-approved program.

I caught up with Ms Peggy Wagstaff, Trump’s most trusted personal confidante and official White House Playmate of the Month, half-way into her graveyard shift at the Trump Tower Full-Pay Medical Clinic and Make America Great Again Souvenir Concession.

“We were watching the news about that hospital in the Bronx, and—well, I guess you could say it was a lightbulb-over-the-head moment,” said Miss Wagstaff, as she carefully arranged ashtray replicas of the Las Vegas replica of the Great Pyramid of Ra.

“Cuddles got this weird look on his face, and then suddenly he shouted, ‘Health Care-tards!  That’s it!!  It’s fiscal responsibility, state lottery and reality show all in one!!!’  You know how he gets.”

First steps?  Ms Wagstaff hesitated for a moment.

wagstaffGun

Ms Peggy Wagstaff, Spokesplaymate for “Stand Your Ground against Health Care-Tards!”, and all-round good-time girl.

“I mean, the plan’s a little rough around the edges at this point, but so far we’ve issued firearms to all the doctors, the residents, senior nursing staff, the secretarial pool, and Mrs Pereira the night-shift cleaning lady, but we’re still fifty-fifty about giving one to that old guy with the aluminum pie plate hat who sleeps in the biohazard bins in the alley.”

Ms Wagstaff began polishing an enormous Jeff Sessions crystal paperweight, $49.99 on special.

“Donald says your average American does not want some little punk with a disease regular people can’t even pronounce lying around on a gurney the rest of us paid for, talking to a stuffed animal and getting sassy with the grown-ups, you know? Demanding more than his share of rice pudding and whining about the choice on the cable TV.”

What was the message here? Was this a teaching moment?

“Hmmm. Well, basically we’re talking I am not your keeper, every man for himself, all the things Ben Franklin put in the, you know. Bill of Franklin. Oh, snafu, or was that Bill Wrights?”  She sighed. “There’s so much to remember!”

Bill of Rights? I suggested.

But Ms. Wagstaff was interrupted by an anxious-looking elderly woman carrying a small suitcase and sleeping bag. She handed Ms Wagstaff a bunch of crumpled papers.

“Hey there, Mrs… Campbell!  Let’s get you sorted out! I see you’ve been booked in for our Half-Price Exploratory Heart Valve Procedure today at three. That’s awesome!”

I couldn’t help but be impressed as Ms Wagstaff moved on to the up-sell.

“Would you care to “Super Size” that to full open heart surgery for only fifty grand extra? You’ll also get an additional night in our shared single room, our post-op free gift of two aspirin and a glass of water, AND sheets for the bed!”

The woman opened her mouth as though to answer, took one loud, wheezing breath, and fainted dead away.

“Is that a definite ‘no’?”, said Ms Wagstaff, which I thought was pretty droll under the circumstances. “Alrighty, then, dear, no problem!  You’ll find it’s two floors up then hang a left for your pre-op holding pen.”

“Cheapskate,” she added, as a couple of Candy Stripers dragged the woman up the stairs marked Economy Class. “Doesn’t seem to matter to some people that I’m on commission.”

Ms Wagstaff strapped on her holster, donned a fresh white lab coat and gestured for me to accompany her.

“Walk this way,” she said, heading with a no-nonsense stride down the hallway.  I followed her through the double doors marked “Maternity”.

“I think this would be a great time to demonstrate the Random Cull”, Ms Wagstaff continued. “So, like—everyone in emerg, or everyone with a name that starts with C, or like today, I think we’ll do—black single moms. You get the idea?”

Ms Wagstaff suddenly whipped out her Glock, took aim and blasted the relevant beds and their occupants to kingdom come.

My ears were ringing from the explosions. Wagstaff grabbed an orderly by the arm as he ran by.  “Hey, you! Wipe that blood off your face and go tell Mrs. Pork Chop in Housekeeping we need her up here, pronto. Routine spill. Thanks, sugar.”

Ms Wagstaff looked wistful.

“Just between you and me, sometimes I wonder why Cuddles hired me in the first place. Whenever I ask him, he just laughs his head off and says, there’s two great, big, YUGE reasons, Pegs—but then he never tells me what they are.”

~

Ben Franklin and Bill Wrights are—still flying their kites.

~

In which I get all squishy about Melania.

Good morning, I’ve had a most

instructively contrary twenty-four hours and damn it, I mean to share.

I’ve bashed my erstwhile Monday Man-Crush, The-Person-Called-Trudeau (I didn’t mean it, baby, it must have been the string beans, honest!) in broad daylight on The Guardian’s website (on the other hand you never picked up your cell, and you dance like a str8-tard, nyah!); and now, in response to » a deliciously spiteful article on Medium, I’ve stood up for The Great Mannequin, Her Royal Trophy-ness, The Missus Melania—and may every Progressive worthy of the name heave great gobbing globules of spittle on me should I dare show my face in public again.

And how much, I ask myself, do I really care?  And do I agree with myself?  Politics is so confusing.

Here’s the link to the Medium article:

» Melania Trump Isn’t a Black and White Issue

And here’s my response:


When I, progressive as I am

Melania-trump-wife-of-donald-trump-modeling-pictures

Melania deserves – less Photoshop?

down to my toes and up to my increasingly wrinkled brow, see a — critique? Article? such as this one — searching for the right word here. What do they call it when someone is denounced from a pulpit? Anathema.

Anyway, when I see an, err, anathema, I have a strategy. First, I read it through, even though I may have to prop open my eyelids like they do to Malcolm McDowell as the protagonist in “A Clockwork Orange”. I find cocktail toothpicks work well for this.

It’s not that I’m bored. Far from it. In fact, in the case of this particular anathema, from the first sighting of the words “gets what she deserves” I’m filled with revulsion. Now, as a writer and an artist, I know that revulsion is often a good sign, a sign that the work has had a profound effect on me. I mean, I didn’t set out to read anything with the word “Trump” in it expecting a day in the country and a hamper from Holt Renfrew, you hear what I’m saying?

Second, and I know you’re all following along here, I put on my conservatard-proof full-body nuclear jumpsuit, ready for the onslaught of “you liberals” and “nothing better to do” and “nyah nyah you lost we won” off-the-rack progressive-bashing, which involves little imagination but a lot of spraying saliva. Check.

And third, I attempt to fashion a reasoned response, because though I don’t agree with a lot of what you say — and maybe even you don’t agree with a lot of what you say — I am darned determined to back you up as much as I can, as though we were a divorcing couple who hold hands in public but fight at home with the curtains closed.

So honey, now that the curtains are closed — I understand your righteous indignation, and I’m all for it, but let’s talk. Let’s leave “she’s costing the taxpayer money”, because that’s just silly. Anyone in the role of FLOTUS is costing the taxpayer money, vapid or not. And it’s interesting to speculate on the hand-brushing-away thing, but neither you nor I nor anyone has the slightest clue what that is about, not really. You are reading into that gesture a confirmation of a story you have built up about Melania.

Melania Trump made choices that many women might have made had they had the opportunity, and I don’t particularly see anything vile or even surprising about them. She had, as far as I’ve read, a successful career, she married a wealthy man and took every advantage of that—and what would the rest of us do, eat Pot Noodles and shop at the Sally Ann?— and now, (here’s my story) to her astonishment, and possibly horror, she’s married to the President, with every eye upon her. She may be unfit, she may take a deep breath and rise to the occasion. I suspect the latter.

No, let’s be honest, I hope for the latter. I want women to be strong and successful and rise to the occasion; I’m just a sucker for hope, that way.

But in no way, no way, is she responsible for her husband’s performance or his policies. No way is she responsible for his crass behavior or his beliefs, assuming he actually has some. No way does her position as first spouse necessarily mean that she supports him.

What am I saying, ultimately? Resist the urge to blanket condemn anything that Trump touches, including his wife. It’s not a black and white issue, your words, not mine; but your insistence on having Melania play the role of “evil consort” leaves no room for nuance, and nuance, god help us, is what we crave more than ever.

Have some empathy for someone caught up in a role they never anticipated, have some faith. And never, never put your sister down.

Great piece, by the way.


In Which We Discover That Our Suspicions Were Correct: It Was All a Big Fucking Joke! ++ PLUS++ For Happier Mondays, Think Pink!!

alt-big joke

Sanders at the UN?  Hillary for Prez?  Toss a coin, try some Pizza Bianca Monica and… pull the other one, it’s got bells on!

 

Exclusive Story by Glossolalia-Jeezus “Real” McCoy, Girl Reportress
“All the news that gives you fits, in print!”™

May 8th, 2017
WASHINGTON / NEW YORK—

The world is heaving a sigh and chortling itself sick

as it absorbs the events of the past few days, during which it was accidentally revealed that the whole “Trump thing”  was exactly as most people had suspected—an elaborate joke of vast proportions.

As the scope of the scampy subterfuge unfolds, it’s apparent that absolutely everyone was in on it, starting of course, with Trump himself.  It was The Donald, that li’l ol’ freckle-faced rascal, who burst the bubble with one of his quasi-adorable slips.

Speaking to Australian Prime Minister Malcolm Turnbull,  Trump opined:

Right now, Obamacare is failing. I shouldn’t say this to our great gentleman and my friend from Australia, because you have better health care than we do —

Oopsies!!!  And this only moments after the Republican-controlled House voted to dismantle Obamacare, the better-than-nothing sorta-healthcare kinda-system which had brought almost-affordable though short-of-satisfactory protection to millions of America’s uninsured, or so those scallywags had convinced themselves.

The cat was out of the bag, the ball was rolling and who knew if the fun would ever stop as Trump, clearly unable to contain his delight, began—to use a theatrical term—”corpsing”, or breaking down with nervous, uncontrollable laughter: a weirdly appropriate term considering the circumstances.

This quickly triggered his Australian counterpart, who seemed to appreciate the delicious irony—heck, let’s give the man his due—the lunacy to rival the Marx Brothers’ best, of Trump praising single-payer, tax-funded health care.  Pull the other one, it’s got bells on!

” ‘Course it’s all a big joke!” Donald admitted when we called him after his Turnbull photo-op for an explanation. “Oh, my ribs and death panels! Are you guys retarded or what? Lemme – oh god – lemme catch my breath here…!”

He continued, “It’s a joke, just as sure as I’m a Ph.D. Magna Cum Laude in Mediaeval English Literature! And I am! Princeton, Class of ’82!  Would you care to read my ground-breaking dissertation on the uses of proto-feminist iconography in Chaucer?

“The Times Literary Supplement called it a page-turner that not only rivals Moby Dick—it surpasses it on every page in scope and ambition!  Not bad for a poor farm kid from Nebraska, right, Vlad?”

“Da!  Da, baby!”  Even by phone it was unmistakably Vlad Putin, butmellow ?

“Listen,”  Putin continued, “Cuddles now going, yes? I makink fresh blinis and any minute Liza’s comink over, she is then teaching me Fosse neck, jazzing hands and something pikantnye with a chair. This Leessa! She is introducing me always charming homosexuals whom I love every day more!”

Putin a sultry romantic with a newly-awakened taste for well-aged trouser snake and the occasional gay icon?  That bad boy routine was all a big blustering charade after all!

Intrigued as all get-out, we turned next to the redoubtable* Bernie Sanders. We’d already experienced our beloved Nutty Professor on CNN as he turned his signature beet-red and threatened Trump with “holding him” to his comments on healthcare.  What did our trouble-haired also-ran have to say for himself?  Did he realize the scope of the deception?

Sanders confessed, “Yep, it’s true—Hillary, Cuddles and I—oh, Cuddles? That’s what we call Donald—yep, we’ve been planning this little escapade since 1980! We never thought you’d buy that I was presidential material!

“C’mon dudes!  Socks with sandals, dandruff on my corduroy jacket lapels and that vague but persistent urine-y old-guy smell—Seriously?  And talk about age!  Christ Almighty, never mind the nuclear codes, I’m lucky if I make it to next Tuesday!!

“I’m just sorry we didn’t get to do that prank—you know, when I kit up in a Mao suit, address the General Assembly of the United Nations and then halfway through I unwrap a peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich because ‘my blood sugar is low’, then lecture them on five-year planning!  Man, I wish I coulda taken a run at that one, just to have seen their faces!”

Wiping the tears of hilarity from his cheeks, he added, “Do you think I’ll be able to get a refund for these Birkenstocks?  The fuckers are killing my feet!  No wonder the Krauts won World War II!”

Our final port of call in our exposé of Washington wacky dust was the Clintons’ palatial estate in upstate New York, where it appeared that an enormous “come bare as you dare party” was winding down.

“Y’all come on in to the Yellow Drawing Room”, said Hillary in her characteristic Arkansas drawl as she opened the front door.  The former Miss World and college-drop-out-made-good, her hair damp and slicked back, her voluptuous curves barely masked by a Martha Stewart bath sheet, waved us in with a welcoming gesture.

“This ol’ cluster-fuck’s been going on since the election”, she said with an endearing giggle as she padded bare-foot across the parquet. “Or rather, the ol’ coin-toss.

“You see”, she explained, “we decided the winner by tossing a quarter, best two-outta-three, and whaddaya know, it was Cuddles!  Then it’s just a question of makin’ sure the press gets sent the right results.  You get mah drift?

“Frankly, I was relieved!  I gotta whole bunch of new pizza franchisees opening next week and I’m workin round the clock on product development —that’s right!  It’s always been mah dream to bake! Y’all try this lil ol’ sample now—”

Clinton held out a plate piled high with various silver-dollar-sized nosh.  I chose one at random—was that mozzarella?—and popped it into my mouth.  “It’s delicious, what’s with the funky smell?”

“Shhhh!  Top Secret!  It’s the Pizza Bianca Monica—all white, but boy does it leave nasty stain on your shirt!  Damn!

“Anyways, what with the tension of keeping this whole surprahz under wraps, we’ve all been a bit frazzled, y’all know how it is. So Billy and I decided to call in a few favors, if you get my drift and just – ”

We were interrupted by the appearance of James Comey and Paul Ryan, both wearing nothing but a light beading of sweat, who without so much as a by-your-leave whisked Clinton away to what they called the “Interactive Discussion Room”, apparently located somewhere in the upper floors –  traditionally forbidden to the press.

“Hey!” Clinton shouted back to us as Ryan and Comey carried her up the celebrated circular staircase. “These boys tell me it’s tahm for mah double-teamin’!  Woo-hoo!!  Hey, y’all know how to shoot me up?  We’ve got just the best crystal in from Palm Springs—and it’s makin’ me me feel sooooo—reckless —!”

Looking crazed and dishevelled, Bill Clinton and his playmate Ivanka—having finished at least the first round of discussions by the fireplace—and chortling fit to bust, scampered up the stairs behind them.

But Hillary – was it possible?- had one more surprise under her bath-sheet.  Bless her ol’ cotton socks!

“You know about Billy?— Whaddaya think honey, shall I break it to them? Shall I?

“Well, y’all finally maht as well know—Billy, he’s mah cousin, right?!  You betcha!  Old Arkansas tradition!!”   And with a final guffaw, they were gone, leaving us standing speechless in the foyer.

Laugh?  Laugh??!!

We nearly died.

~

With reporting from Glossolalia-Jeezus “Real” McCoy, girl journalist.

— AP / Reuters  ©2017

UP NEXT: “Barry” Obama takes up smoking.  That li’l ol’ freckle-faced rascal.


And speaking of Helen Keller,

HAPPY MONDAY EVERYONE!

pink

But especially:

To the women everywhere–

Banish the black! burn the blue ! and bury the beige! – from now on ….

Think Pink!
Think Pink when you shop for summer clothes –

Think Pink!
Think Pink when you want that “quelque chose”!

The redoubtable* Kay Thompson, who oughta be inducted into the Homo Hall of Fame as an honorary gay man, was Judy Garland’s vocal coach, which tells you a lot, and, when not flailing her arms about while talking and calling it “cabaret singing”, also wrote a series of children’s books called “Eloïse”, about a little girl who lives at the Plaza Hotel in New York.

Yep, the Plaza Hotel. From these humble beginnings, Eloïse sallies forth to have Pirate Adventures, among others, though we must forever regret that Thompson shuffled off this mortal coil before updating us with “Eloïse Gets Shtupped While Unconscious At Studio 54″.

The opening musical number of Funny Face, “Think Pink”, features Ms Thompson, plus her swirly-skirted minions—who for reasons never explained speak in unison, like borg—and a virtual steam room’s worth of  butch-dancin’, Bronx-talkin’ “we’re not gay, no way!!” male dancers dressed in overalls.

Please, I beg you, before watching, turn out the lights, put down your Bayeux tapestry restoration work and resolve to give this gem your full attention. For this is not just another musical number, oh no.

This is one of the supreme camp moments in cinema. It is the Sistine Chapel ceiling, it is the Cellini “Perseus Holding the Severed Head of Medusa” of camp.  Often imitated, usually by me around 3AM when I think everyone’s left, but rarely equalled

except by the crack-addled ad minions of the late Eatons department store who, in their desperation for another ball of hard, not to mention their jobs, churned out an eye-popping parody, “Aubergine”, a paean to the Pantone© spot color used in the soon-to-be-dead-as-a-beaver-tail Eatons branding.

And I have the dinner plates to prove it.

Kay-lounging

Kay Thompson, casually, you know. Lounging. On her bed. The way we all do.


*redoubtable:  If anyone is aware of the meaning of this word, which just kinda sounded good at the time, please contact the News Desk. —G.-J. “R.” M.

Breaking News: Attorney-General Sessions calls diplomats “gossipy”; Democrats accuse Attorney-General of being “not-telling-the-truth-y”; Definition of “recuse” sought by anxious White House staff.

Ms Peggy Wagstaff arrives at the Oval Office for "dictation".

Ms Peggy Wagstaff arrives at the Oval Office for “dictation”.

MARCH 3rd, 2017:

U.S. Attorney General Jeff Sessions today recused himself

from investigations into possible Russian involvement in the 2016 Presidential election, a surprise move that had White House staff scrambling to find a copy of any dictionary they could lay their hands on.

“At first we were like, did he say excused,” said Peggy Wagstaff, Senior Technical Advisor and Playmate of the Month to President Trump, who spoke on condition of anonymity.

“I was like yeah, he totally said excused, and maybe he was just, you know, having another ‘mini’ or something”, continued Ms Wagstaff.

“But then one of the guys said, no it was refused, and where was I brought up, in a barn? and some other choice language.

“But I was like, totally sure it was excused and so were a couple other people, but the guys were like, no refused, moron, and then one of the other guys called me a stupid bimbo and grabbed my — you know.

“Well, that pretty much ended the polite part of the discussion, so we decided to find our “Pictionary” set and see who could draw it better, and then that will be what he said,” explained Ms Wagstaff.

The allegations around Sessions have invited comparisons to “Watergate”, the wiretapping scandal of 1972 that resulted in Nixon’s resignation after he attempted a cover-up, then later admitted knowledge of the events.

In some ways, however, it could be argued that such comparisons are unwarranted. Nixon’s actions in resigning clearly indicated the existence, however vestigial, of some sort of moral sense, and his cover-up, though unsuccessful, demonstrated at least the attempt to deceive the public.

So no worries on either score, and can we please just ease up on the Watergate thing.

Nonetheless, what about the calls for Sessions’ resignation, on the basis of his alleged perjury?

Shortly after Sessions recused himself, we contacted newly-appointed Education Secretary Betsy DeVos for her insights.

“Re-cused”, she responded, sounding guarded. “Did you say — hold on, can you repeat that? Your voice is breaking up. Are you on speakerphone?”

DeVos continued, “Did you mean accused or maybe reused? You sound like your parents may have scrimped on the school vouchers, honey.”

When pressed to explain, DeVos added, with obvious impatience, “Why drive a Ford when thirty thousand more will get you a Mercedes? Why settle for a tatty old second-hand Hillary when a billion gets you a shiny new Donald? You get what you pay for!

We also made numerous attempts to reach anyone in the Attorney General’s office who’d take the call, but without success. Clarification finally came in the form of an official statement from Sessions himself:

FROM THE OFFICE OF THE ATTORNEY-GENERAL OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

FRIENDS, and also colored folks:

I must object in the strongest terms possible to allegations by Al Franken and other anonymous Democratic sources that I discussed election rigging with Russian Ambassador Sergei Kislyak over a simply fantastic luncheon or two.

Sorry, I mean, discussed anything with anyone.

Shit.

jeff-sessionsYou know, it may seem like that’s what I said, but whatever I said just kind of slipped out under pressure, which any patriotic American will know is a key feature of witch-hunts historically, and besides, you must be imagining things.

So that’s why I make this solemn oath to the American people that next time I’m asked anything, I’ll first determine if it requires any form of truth-telling, and if it does, I will speak real slowly so I make sure to get my story straight. You heard it from me, guys: No more “oopsies”!

As for recusing myself, I always thought that was a proofreaders’ error for “refused” or “excused” but my staff tells me there’s a big old definition of recused in our Merriam-Webster dictionary. Well, well.

May I just point out that dictionaries by default share word definitions with everyone, and sharing stuff with everyone is not only gossipy—it is how Communism takes root.

It all starts out innocently enough with definitions for the masses, whether or not they deserve definitions, and the next thing you know everyone’s picking sugar beets in a workers’ collective and singing Shostakovich ‘a capella’.

But fellow Americans, I promise you one thing: by the Grace of God I will not see the Koch brothers’ invaluable time and money tossed out the window for any kind of publication that gives solace to the enemy.

Bless y’all

Jefferson Sessions

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Kellyanne Conway is still in hiding.

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