So, Southern Decadence is officially over–and I don’t mean “over” as in, “Whew, I’m so glad that exam is over, I’m gonna smoke crack for a solid week!” Nor do I mean “over” as in NYC drag lingo “ovah,” as in “over the top,” as in “Darling, your face may look like Christina Aguilera dragged you from her bumper for miles and miles, stopped, hurled you into one of her Puerto Rican ravines, smeared bacon on your face and threw you to the alligators, then took out her own personal ugly stick and beat you with it, but that gown, lady, is fucking OVAH! I must have it….” No, dears, I mean “over” as in Valley Girl lingo, as in “This party is so totally over that I think someone must have, like, spiked the punch with Demerol.”
On behalf of New Orleans’ glbt community, I’d like to thank the sprawling metropolis of Houstonatlantadallas for sending every single shirt-phobic, ghb-philic fudgepacker within its city limits to the Crescent City this Labor Day weekend. Each of these pansies has worked diligently to ensure that the party is truly unbearable. If any of these nancy boys would like to rent a house for Decadences yet to come, I’m happy to offer mine for an exorbitant fee.
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