The Foehr Kidz...

It really is a blessing that I was born in 1981, cause if I was ten years younger, my Thespian president, A Capella choir singing, theatre tournament competing, freestyle swimming, “oh no you didn’t screaming,” gay ass would be all over youtube.

Whilst surfing the net, I came across the two most adorable kids ever, the Foehr kidz (the youth of America are so hip they add a Z at the end). This brother and sister team from Bloomington are pure comedy. They’ve uploaded tons of videos of them dancing like crazy to every song imaginable. Personal favorites include Paper Planes, Hot As Ice, Let It baRock (they get political), and Shaggy’s It Wasn’t Me (with a special appearance from Mama Foehr). In “It Wasn’t Me,” he’s dressed in a tux and his mother wears a lovely black Kohl’s dress. You know they just got home from Show Choir Banquet.

First of all, when you put yourself on youtube like that, you really be putting your shit out there. As proof, twenty-seven year old bloggers in New York will blog about your ass.

Oh, and I love the way they fix their hair and adjust their glasses every few 8 counts.

Womanizer...

She’s done it. Lady Spears has managed to put on a wig that she didn’t buy from the dollar bin at Ricky’s. This is huge. And the video is damn hot!

However, who is this nonunion piece of crap that plays her love interest? (Stephen Dorff must have been unavailable doing extra work on Damages.) Every time she grabs him by his tie and pulls him in she’s thinking, “Work with me you nonunion piece of shit.”

Britney's next two singles were written by Lady Gaga—and she gives good “bangs.” I feel like Lady Gaga went behind the counter at Taco Bell, wrapped me up a gordita crunch, and handed it to me and said, “Eat it bitch.” I’d be Lady Gaga for Halloween if Christina didn’t already steal my thunder at the VMA’s.

And in other news, her little sister is most likely pregnant again. She didn’t think she could be pregnant while she was breast feeding. Bless.

A trip to the bank...

Yesterday I dropped off all my change at The Commerce Bank Penny Arcade. My ass be broke. Nacho cheese gordita crunches don’t pay for themselves. And true to my democratic style, this was some change I could believe in.

Now, when you drop off your change at Commerce Bank, they put on a little show. It’s kind of hot. You meet Penny.

Penny is an animated Dora-the-Explorer-esque hot slut that gladly takes your money. She might as well star on The Housewives of Orange County. She’s all, “Let’s play a game. How much money do you think you have?” However marries that hoe should make her sign a prenup. Anyways, so I make a guess--$100 bucks. If you’re $1.99 away from your guess, you get a special prize. Suddenly, I’m playing The Price is Right on my lunch break. Hell yeah. I drop in my change, some lent, a National Honor Society tie tac circa 1999 that somehow ended up in the pile, and that shizzle starts counting.

My mind starts to wander. I bop my head to Vanessa Carlton playing on my ipod. I love pianos. Oh, Penny’s talking to me.

Penny’s all like “Oh! Ah! My goodness! (Giggle giggle) Let me catch up! You got a lot of change! I can’t keep up!” Penny might as well be an anime porn star.

It finishes. The receipt pops out. Penny waves goodbye like the tranny hooker she is.

And then out of nowhere, an alarm starts to ring. Is Beyonce here? I look up to see if she’s coming down on a bungee cord with a yard full of hair extensions.

Stop.

Do I have time for a Beyonce musical break?
Wait… There’s always time for a Beyonce musical dance break…

Ring the alarm
I've been thru this too long
But I’ll be damned if I see another chick on your arm

Won't you ring the alarm
I've been thru this too long
But I’ll be damned if I see another chick on your arm

Back to blogging.

So, I’ve won. Grand total is $99.39. Hell to the yeah.

I hop, skip, and jump over to the teller with my receipt in hand. I imagine Beyonce back up dancers are standing behind me. I knock over some pregnant lady in the process. (Note: The only time it’s kosher to knock over pregnant women is when you’ve won at the Penny Arcade, you’re trying to get a seat on the L Train, or if Sarah Palin is with child.)

And I am awarded… are you ready for it? Are you sitting down? I won a plastic luggage tag. Excuse me? You rang the alarm for a luggage tag? I ask, “Is there anything else I get?” “Well, we may have pencil cases.” Now, I’m not going to lie. The idea of a pencil case makes me tingle down there a little bit. She searches… but there are no more pencil cases. Some people win the lottery. Some people win a date with Ted Hamilton. I win a freaking luggage tag.

Phelps on SNL

Michael Phelps made a bad decision. He spoke. It was kind of awkward, and you knew it was going to be—but you watched anyway. You know how on Christmas Day, that one network plays a video of logs burning on the fire. And that shizzle gets ridiculous ratings. Michael Phelps should have just stood there shirtless for an hour and a half. Give the ratings ten minutes. He’d start, he’d take his shirt off, the mass texts regarding a shirtless Phelps (sans face) would go out, and every queen and bitter lonely girl would be running for the nearest television. The only people left at “BoysRoom” would be a confused Amanda Lepore and John Travolta wearing an “Eyes Wide Shut” mask.

The Baby of All Babies...

I can’t wait for the Will Arnett/Amy Poehler lovechild to pop out. Screw the Brangelina twins, that baby will be pure comedy and will pop out SAG eligible. Most likely, it’s going to come out dancing like that Ally McBeil dancing baby. When I have my child, I’m going to be like Mama Rose meets the Texas Cheerleader killer mom. My baby is going to be adorable—and I will parade Baby Christian (cute name huh—totes biblical) all around every New York City casting office. My baby will book before I wheel that stroller off the elevator. Gimme a few years—and it’s on. By then, Ali Lohan will probably have a baby, and we’ll be arch rivals. Yes, her Momma taught her well, but she can’t compete with me. Do you know the difference between a pit bull and a stage Dad? Lipstick… But we apply like a democrat. We know when someone is a “fall.”

A Freaking Dorable...

Check out the cast of my adorable new pilot, "Astoria, Queens" presently in post production.

I Heart Nachos

It has recently been brought to my attention that there's a running theme of Nachos throughout my blog, and I must say, I'm glad America's paying attention. I'm glad I'm reaching out with the important facts. As a writer, I believe it's important to write two things: 1: What you know. 2: What you Care About. And I know lots about nachos.

First of all, I give good nacho. I give amazing nacho. It's a special Rotel/Velevetta concoction that spanks you in the face. I have to import rotel from Texas and Oklahoma -- they don't be selling that shit in New York - except for one Eckerds in Park Slope - and I sooner die than take the F train.

San Loca gives good drunk nacho. You're in the East Village. It's Friday night. You're crying at a gay bar. It's okay. Just walk down 2nd Avenue to San Loco. Have a little chicken nacho.

It's Happening

Cancel my Zoloft/Effexor cocktail. She’s skinny. She’s marking choreography. It’s only a matter of time before she washes her hair.

Scene: Chipotle 4:00 PM. Union Square. Friday – Labor Day Weekend.

First of all, whoever invented the Burrito Bowl is one hot bitch. You are a genius. Teach me your wisdom.

Now, I’m at Chipotle with my man preparing for the Labor Day weekend holiday. I like to kick things off right with a trip to Chi-pote-lay. And I’m not alone. Bitches be shoveling beef and sour cream down their throats before heading to the Hamptons and pretending to be vegetarians.

We get our food, we look around, there’s no where to sit. Shit. I am not afraid to stand there and eat my burrito bowl next to the trash can, but my boy prefers to sit with napkin in lap with fork and knife. Whatever. Opposites attract. He’s cute to me.

Cut to five minutes later. I’ve already eaten 3/4s of my burrito bowl. My man’s still looking around waiting for someone to get up. There are some options. Option One: A Four Top by the window in which some queen’s skinny ass is taking up one seat. His silver purse the size of an eight year old takes up another seat. And the other seats are full of shopping bags. He’s on the phone pretending to talk to someone—trying to make up for the fact that he’s eating alone… but he’s done eating. He’s just sitting there. So, we go up to him, and out of nowhere, some dude swoops right in and asks to sit down. The queen is a nice guy (so irritating) and lets him sit down.

Turn 180 degrees. Option Two. This man is getting up. Okay. Bring it. We walk over there to stake out the seats, and out of no where, two understudies from the West Side Story revival storm in, and say to this man, “We’re going to sit here.” One saves the seat. The other goes in line to order for the both of them. Biiiiiiiiitch. So, I take a picture of her because trust, I’m going to blog about you. That’s why I bought a domain name.

We are dejected. We are defeated. I wore flip flops for the first time in years, and my feet are getting blistered. I’m falling a part. My man is hungry. I want to eat ¼ of my burrito bowl in peace. We are Mary and Mary, and there is no room for us at the inn.

Cut to four minutes later. A four top opens up. I throw a bag of tortilla chips several yards, which lands on the table. It is ours. Ha! Jealous?

We sit down. And for whatever reason, the West Side Story Chupacabras decide their table isn’t good enough for them, so they get up, and come join us at the four-top.

We sit together. But we can’t speak. Chupacabra #1 is like, “I’m am so drunk already! This Margarita is so strong.”

What!!!!!!! They have Margarita’s at Chipotle? They have everything. They have the seats, they’re drunk off five-dollar margaritas, and they get to be in a Broadway production that will last all of 84 performances. They have it all. It’s so not fair.

Someone Fix Her Face

This bitch isn’t joking. She is dead serious. I’m sorry, but America cannot elect a woman that after 44 years of being a lady, can’t figure out how to apply her foundation. She has a line going down her chin. Seriously. You are a Vice Presidential hopeful. Stop buying Cover Girl on sale at the local Duane Reade and spend twenty minutes at the Mac counter. Let a democrat apply your makeup. I’m vetoing your face, bitch.

It's Been A While

Stop with the hate mail already. I know, I know. I’m a horrible blogger– I’ve made no blogress. I’ve gotten some complaints (Thanks for your support, Maureen), that I haven’t blogged lately, but calm down people. Eat a Jello pudding cup and take a deep breath. Rebookmark this shazizzle. I’m sorry. I’ve been busy writing, directing, and producing a situational comedy for a 18-30 demographic. Oh, and I’m also a model and an actress. Snap. Here I come. Blog the Bounty Manhunter is back.

All I Need Is Some Dip

Good Karma has come my way. I’m going to name my first daughter Karma. Wait, I take that back. Karma’s a bitch.

You know how people like to lay in bed and eat tortilla chips, look on the back of the bag, and then go to the company’s website, click Contact Us, and kindly state their comments and concerns regarding the zesty corn flavor. Stick with me on this one.

Holy shit. When you do that, you get coupons in the mail. I think I told them their Yellow Corn Chips tasted like homeless cardboard ass, but their blue chips were fantastic and to keep on sending the blues my way.

It is on. I am so happy I’m Happy Freaking Gilmore. Thank you Pamela. You’re the best “Consumer Relations Representative” ever. Way to represent.

God Bless America

It’s fleet week and you know what that means. None of my straight girlfriends will talk to me. During Fleet Week, it becomes my personal mission for my girlfriends to bang a sailor. I like to control my girlfriend’s “javinas” like Mama Rose.

Men—gay, straight, whatever. If you had any kind of sense, go to a costume shop and rent a sailor costume. Next week, you’re a Village Person reject. This week, you’re “walking sex.” Get er done.

Carry Me Away

I love the new ads for the Sex and the City Movie. I prefer my Carrie Bradshaw photographed with a fan. Once I’m a famous screenwriter, my intern will follow me around with a fan, a lifetime supply of 3 Musketeers bars, and San Loco chicken nachos. I dream big.

Is that a TGI Friday's in the background? Now I want a Tex Mex Tower and spinach dip. Never blog hungry.

I love how it says “Only In Theaters.” That’s helpful, cause I was planning on watching the film in Morgan Freeman’s asshole.

One week from today. Buy stock in cranberry juice and Absolut.

So You Think You Can DANCE, DANce, Dance, dance...

Are you ready for it? And by it, I clearly mean Mary Murphy and Mia Michaels Mayhem. (Actors should warm up by saying that in acting class)

So You Think You Can Dance started this week, and I was ready. I stretched. I went to Capezio. I vomited my morning bagel. I was ready for them to let me have it.

Yes, I know you’re overwhelmed. You had to sit through American Idol so you can see the SYTYCD TV spots. You’ve had to Step It Up and Dance for the past couple months (Go Nick Drago!!!). But the time has come. It’s here.

As a child, I loved Star Search. No, I mean I loved Star Search. I used to tell people Ed McMahan was my father. I would tape all the dance performances, and teach myself the routines. Afterwards, American Gladiators came on, and I developed my love for red, white, and blue spandex. Bless form fitting fabrics.

Alliteration is the new black. Deal with it.

This Monday night May 26th will be another 2 Hour Episode at 8/7 Central. Tell me what you thought!

Do you love her or do you love her?

It’s official—the gays can marry in California and bridal registry will never be the same. Lord a mercy—you know queens are running around Crate and Barrel, Pottery Barn, and Universal Gear with scanners like they are Charlie’s freaking Angels. Crate and Barrel had to import shopgirls from Minnesota. (All bitchy shopgirls come from Minnesota).

Note: Whenever a shopgirl acts bitchy to you—kindly remind them they work in a shop and that they’re from Minnesota. They’ll start to cry immediately and realize all they have left is a 30 % discount... and they still have bad shoes.

Ellen Degeneres rocks the kazbah. Did you see her talk to McCain? Open a new tab and watch that bizsnatch immediately. After agreeing to disagree, Ellen asks him to walk her down the aisle. She is brilliant, and once again, she catapults us two giant steps forward.

Don't Mess With Me or my Top

And by that, no I don’t mean my sexual partner. Get your mind out of the gutter. I mean my top. My Gingham top. Don’t mess with us. I’m like Blog the Bounty Hunter.

Scene: Last night, I was at Cherry Tavern (8th and A) enjoying the hottest drink special in Manhattan: For $5 one can purchase a can of Tecate and a shot of Tequila. That my friend is how it is done. Cherry Tavern knows how to take care of people. If they opened a Cherry Tavern in California, I would have my wedding reception there.

I was wearing my brand new Gingham shirt. I love Gingham. I get that from my mother. That and my ability to sew pleats. Anyways.

My top and I were having a fantastic day. On my way to work, the birds were singing “That’s a Really Cute Top.” Construction workers put down their jackhammers, did several Russian split leaps, and bellowed “That’s a Really Cute Top.” Kelly O’Hara and the Broadway cast of South Pacific burst onto the L train and sang, “That’s a really cute top.” It was raining, but a shield magically appeared, and my top didn’t get wet. Even the rain said, “Dude, that’s a really cute top.”

Then, while enjoying my company at Cherry Taven and listening to Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, some boring British man walked up to me and said, “Are you British.” Me—taking a moment to quote Sex and the City replied with my best Southern accent, “Me? No. I am from Macon, Georgia.” He then said, “You should take that table cloth off your chest.”

I had no witty comeback. I had nothing. I was hurt. Defeated. Shocked. Did he not get the memo that I was wearing a really cute top?

Now, I knew I could fight him, but I didn’t. A can of Tecate was thrown in his direction, but I opted not to fight seeing as though Brits often carry knives, and the last thing Cherry Tavern needed was another knife fight that night. So, I snapped my fingers, and my friends and I headed to the LES to a bar that has a bull riding pin. Bulls and Gingham go together. I knew my top and I wouldn’t be shunned. And as we left, boring British man’s friend arrived. His friend… was wearing… wait for it…wait for it… Are you ready? Are you sitting down… Boring British man’s friend was wearing… Black and White Gingham. It was perfect. Now that my friend, was a really cute top.

And the Hipster's Rejoice...

This charming man has something special to report. The Cure has released their first single “The Only One” from their upcoming album which drops September 13th. Every month until then, they will release a new single.

So, tie that bandana around that left toe “Oh, how’d that get there—I don’t try to dress like this,” put a PBR in your favorite ironic koozie (Yes, that’s how you spell it), and download “The Only One" from Itunes. It's bound to make you smile.

New Fall Schedule

As if we even care? Unless Cheerleader U is having a Marathon, I don’t even bother turning on my TV.

TV’s pretty much crap these days. Unless Rudy Huxtable is dancing on a staircase for her grandparent’s 50th Wedding Anniversary, I can’t be bothered.

Note: I can do all the dance sequences from the opening credits of all The Cosby Shows ever—in season order. It’s just what I do.

Remember the good ‘ole days with Cheers. I loved Norm. Note: I saw George Wendt in Hairspray last week, and he looked like he was about to fall over and die any minute of exhaustion. He should just sit on a bar stool the entire show. Now, that’s worth the price of free house seats.

Oh, the days of Friends, Seinfeld, Roseanne, 3rd Rock from the Sun, California Dreams, Saved By the Bell, and Murder She Wrote. Angela Lansbury is one hot bitch! She was sixty years old when she did that show—jogging around murder scenes in a track-suit with a towel around her neck. I would do anything to be her intern—bring her iced tea and change her typewriter ribbon. Love her.

Lipstick Jungle isn’t being cancelled—which is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard in my entire life. You couldn’t pay me to write for that show… Actually, you could. But, they lost me at the pilot. In the pilot, these three women which are noted as being a few of the New York Post’s “50 Most Powerful Women,” walk around Washington Square Park and smell scented oils, shop for crappy scarves off the street, and purchase black and white $5 photographs of New York City. Why? Bitch, please. I know these women, and that’s not what they do during their lunch hour.

All I have is my 30 Rock. I love you Tina Fey. You make Must See TV must see the next morning online.

If you care, the following shows are "outtie."

NBC: 1 vs. 100, Amne$ia, Bionic Woman, Clash of the Choirs, Journeyman, Las Vegas, My Dad is Better Than Your Dad, Phenomenon, Quarterlife, The Singing Bee, Scrubs (moved to ABC)

ABC: Men in Trees, Big Shots, Carpoolers, Cavemen, October Road, Women's Murder Club, Cashmere Mafia, Miss Guided, Notes from the Underbelly, Oprah's Big Give, Here Come the Newlyweds, Dance War: Bruno vs. Carrie Ann

CBS: Moonlight, Shark, Jericho, Viva Laughlin, Welcome to the Captain, Secret Talents of the Stars, Kid Nation, Power of 10

The CW: Aliens in America, CW Now, Life is Wild, Online Nation, Beauty and the Geek, Crowned: The Mother of All Pageants, Pussycat Dolls Present: Girlicious

Fox: Back to You, New Amsterdam, Nashville, Canterbury's Law, K-Ville, The Return of Jezebel.

I Blame This Bitch for Ruining My Year

...and let me tell you why. Yes, you failed with Britney. She forgot how to suck in her tummy. She didn’t take an upper before her VMA performance. You let her leave the house with that weave thing on her head like a Jamaican tourist from Kentucky. But there was still hope. Her name was Jamie Lynne Spears.

If you were any kind of a mother, you would have taken Jamie Lynne to study at Broadway Dance Center, stapled some blonde extensions to the back of her head, and thrown her on a red carpet with Zac Effron. But, no. You let your baby have a baby.

Okay, it happens. Sixteen-year-olds girls get pregnant in hot, passionate fits of romance in Sonic parking lots everywhere. Love is a beautiful thing. Fine.

But a real mother would have locked Jamie Lynn in a basement for nine months and sent that baby to some nice family in Wyoming. Or put the baby on Craigslist.

So, I’m over it. All of you. See if I ever teach my nieces the choreography to “Oops I Did It Again” in their red footie pajamas again.

Sudoku People

Who are you people, and why do you do math for sport? Yeah, you. You know who you are. You’re not even reading this right now. You saw the sudoku posted on top, and you immediately printed it out and are on line #2. I can’t do sudokus. I was a dancer—I can only count to 8.

But seriously—back to the Sudoku people. What do you people do for a living? One would think you’re an investment banker, an accountant, or invented the abacus or something. But you’re not. You work at H & M on 34th and Broadway. People: There’s more to life than simple math. Buy a wii or something. Oh wait, I should talk. During my childhood I diagrammed sentences for fun. My parents wouldn’t buy me “Chose Your Own Adventure” books. Those came from the devil.

UPDATE ONE: I'm going to have to request that my friends and family stop emailing me and telling me "You just don't take it line by line. You can't already be on line two" --- Not that I hang out with Sudoku people.

UPDATE TWO: Stop doing the Sudoku, scanning it, and emailing it to me.

UPDATE THREE: If it increases readership, I promise that every day I'll post a "Sudoku of the Day."

The Deep V

Can I do this…or will I look like some sort of VMA J-Lo reject?

About once a week, I roughly spend around two hours of my life in an American Apparel dressing room finding the courage to swipe my debit card and purchase a deep low V-neck. It haunts me.

It’s like the time when I bought my first skinny pant. Now, this was a big deal for me. Being 6’4” I looked like a dude in stilts at the Big Apple Circus. The first time I wore them out {Note: “Out” means to a location where “the gays” mingle}, I couldn’t walk up the stairs at Element and knocked over three queens cause I kept tripping over my shoelaces. Bending over to tie my shoes just wasn't going to happen.


RANDOM QUEEN
Hey, your shoe’s untied.


KYLE T
And, so it is... Jealous?


Kyle T flips his hair.


RANDOM QUEEN
Why are you drinking your beer out of a straw?


KYLE
Why are you drinking your beer out of a straw?


RANDOM QUEEN
I’m going to leave now.


KYLE T
Don’t forget to send me a friend request.

And scene.

The deep V is also a helpful tool in picking up guys. The new "farmers tan" now burns on your chest. That way, on the beach, you can tell who's gay cause they have a pink triangle across their chest. Thank you American Apparel.

Hey Big Spender

New York I love you, but you’re freaking me out. The other day, I was walking down Houston (cause I don’t go above 14th Street), and some homeless hot mess was selling the contents of someone’s purse on a sheet on the sidewalk. Pretty much they were selling some bitch’s eye makeup and contact lens case. “Pink Eye! Pink Eye! Five Dolla! Five Dolla!”

Now, if there’s anything that makes me happy, it’s a garage sale. Hell to the yes. Before I moved to NY, I sold almost everything in my college apartment, and a six year old boy that was dressed like Alex P. Keaton walked up to me, handed me a pamphlet, and asked, “Would you like a letter from God?” Adorable. I almost became a Jehovah’s Witness. If my son doesn’t look like a miniature Alex P. Keaton, I’m sending him back.

I have five older sisters, and when I go home to visit—it’s like, “Where’s my knock-off purse, Boy?” I open my suitcase. “I didn’t want Kate Spade…I wanted Coach!” I am then slapped and sent to the kids table.

When I walk down Canal Street—its like Sweet Charity. I’m famous.


“Hey, Big Spender. I know you. You wanna come into the back of my van….”


“Hey, Big Spender. I give you good rate. I give you good rate…”


“Hey, Big Spender. Your sister’s will love you long time…”

I'm Getting Carried Away

There’s nothing original about me. I like to jump on bandwagons. I joined Barackobama.com. I moved to a loft in Williamsburg cause people told me it was cool. So, yes. I'm like everyone else as I count the days until the Sex & the City Movie comes out.

First of all, you know everyone ‘gotta be the “Carrie Bradshaw.” Scene: You’re with your three best girlfriends casually drinking flirtinis in the meatpacking district, and then the casting begins. The slut immediately says, “I’m the Samantha.” “Well no, shit. You just banged some stranger you referred to as “The Columbian” in the bathroom—of course you’re the Samantha.” Now, you’re down to three. The girls shoot evil glances at one another—“I’m the Carrie.” “No, I’m the Carrie!” Of course, being the gay man at the table, I got two choices: Stanford or the wedding planner, Mario Cantone. Note: I once saw Mario Cantone at Pier One Imports and was so disappointed by how normal he was acting. I prefer my Mario Cantone standing on wicker and shouting Kirstie Alley impressions at strangers.

Although I’ve tested more Charlotte, I think everyone that moves to New York has a bit of Carrie Bradshaw in them. People that move to New York—especially those that move here alone—come to New York to find something bigger than themselves. Whether you skip a meal and buy Vogue cause it feeds you more or put yourself out on a limb for love, New York can be the “Oz” to self-discovery. I moved to New York to write, to dance, to drink, to become apart of a business that inspires me.

Michael Patrick King is a big hero of mine, and by the trailer alone, I can pretty much guarantee: Michael Patrick King is going to let us have it!

This film’s got everything! Charlotte gets her adopted baby. I’d adopt an Asian baby just to strut down the 8th Avenue Runway with it strapped in one of those “things” across my chest. Oh, and I should be carrying a Whole Foods bag. Cute.

Fergie does the opening credits song. I love Fergie cause she spells. Fergie Story: I work in casting and one of my good friends works at a talent agency. We went to a private party and Fergie performed. When she came out and sang, “If you ain’t got no money take your broke ass home,” we went to coat check.

SJP does plenty of “Big” puns. “And I let the wedding get bigger than Big.” Of course you did, honey.

What? Possibly Steve cheated on Miranda. That’s cool—no one can stand his voice. Charlotte could be pregnant? Is it a dream sequence---is it not? Carrie in a wedding gown at St. Patricks. Samantha in floppy hats! No bizness! It is on. May 30th. All together now…Let’s get carried away.

Is Orange the New Black?

Ten minutes ago I saw a pumpkin faced, crippled, bearded lady on Spring and Crosby raise her eyebrows at me, and then realized—shut the hell up that’s Marc Jacobs. (Consider that my mass text to all my friends that Marc Jacobs ‘kinda ‘sorta not really at all cruised me). Anyways, why is he orange? What is wrong with these fashion designers? Have they all bought Caribbean Islands and moved them into their penthouses? Marc Jacobs—you’re orange. Michael Kors—I watch you on Project Runway and you make me think the cameraman forgot to white balance the camera. What is wrong with you people? Someone should slap you guys in the face if it wasn’t a hate crime.

Okay, fine. Whatevs. I’m just bitter that a single tan in New York City is $28.00. I’m coping.

Donatella Versace—I adore you galore. But, really now. You look like you died two years ago and no one told you to go lay down.
You're orange and you look like Alexis Arquette after a long night at The Cock.

Why Kylie Loves Miley

First of all, we must talk about the father of the prosti-tot: Billy Ray Cyrus. I’d buy him brunch the next morning. He looks like he’s stuck in that faze that all boys go through right after they come out of the closet. He grew out his bangs. He got blonde streaks. He bought pleather pants from the women’s section at Hot Topic, and his fag hag was pissed because he wears a size 10 and she’s a size 12. He got an arm band tattoo. He went to Daffy’s and bought Calvin Klein tanks at discount prices to wear to Splash. (Cause he thought Splash was the only gay bar.)

Personal story moment: When I was in the fifth grade, my Catholic school homeroom class went to Sam’s in Addison, TX, and performed the Achy Breaky heart line dance. Why you ask? I’m not really sure. However, I was blocked front and center (because I complained when I was in the back—I’m like Sheila in A Chorus Line). When everyone raised their left knees, I pretty much did a high kick—which took some serious training cause I’m right leg dominant. Then, we (and by we—I mean me, my friend Isie, and my other friend Jerome) put on black T-shirts with white pieces of tape on the front collar—total costume change from cowboy chic to minister sleek—and did “I Will Follow Him” from Sister Act I. I played the tamborine. I was a hot mess.

Anyways.

A couple of months ago, I was on a roadtrip and discovered Miley Cyrus via pop radio. Somewhere along Albany “See You Again” was on the “Top 8 at 8” and I was like, “This song is awesome: Hanna Montana’s going to be pissed.” You know, cause the name of the CD was “Hanna Montana: Meet Miley Cyrus” and I thought, Hanna Montana introduced Miley into the world, and Miley Cyrus has totally served Hannah with a hit single. I was later informed that Miley Cyrus and Hannah Montana are in fact the same person and that I was a fucking idiot.

Back to the topic: Miley Cyrus’s shizzle has gone fazizzle. I love you Miley Cyrus. You do everything for Jesus, but then pictures emerge of you dry humping an unattractive random like Elizabeth Berkley in Showgirls. HOT!!!! You show your naked back and give your father a slight lap dance (which I totally get—Hello Daddy!) in this month’s Vanity Fair.

You let her Madgesty “have it’ by busting out with a far superior video to “Four Minutes.”

You’re fifteen-years-old—and your best friend is a twenty-two year old pussy cat doll wannabe who couldn’t get extra work in a National Lampoons film.

You have your own wing of the house.

And until Britney Spears gets skinny again—you’re all I have. I love you Miley Cyrus.