So, around 4:00 this morning I found myself in an emergency room in the Bronx, surrounded by skateboarding orderlies and holiday shoppers in Christmas sweaters. Things didn’t get officially weird, though, until Janet Jackson walked in, sporting that cheap-looking, malfunctional PVC Superbowl getup and pushing someone in a wheelchair that looked suspiciously like Mahatma Gandhi. Ms. Jackson (as I call her because I, of course, am nasty), leaned over her patient and gave me a creeptacular Cheshire grin, causing every wrinkle in her prematurely aged body to stand out like pleats in a Balenciaga ruched silk ball gown, only not as pretty. It was shocking, awesome, and inspiring–well, in that it inspired a petit haiku:

Lips like fat earthworms,

Sharp Chicklet teeth and lifeless brow:

Bitch has had work done

That’s the last time I down a family-size bag of Zapp’s and a six pack right before bed.

Okay, as per your suggestions, I’m starting my epistolary novel. Here’s chapter one:

Dear Fairy Godmother,

I’m sorry to bother you and all, but, like, some serious shit’s gone down in the past couple of months, and I’m gonna be busting some heads if things don’t change soon.

See, mom had this thing she was complaining about. We all thought it was just her herpes acting up, but really, it was cancer. I won’t bore you with all the details, but, long story short, she died, and at the funeral, dad hooked up with this bimbo he’d hired to be a mourner, and now she’s moved in. I’m not sure if they’re actually married or anything–I mean, there was never a wedding, so far as I know–but now the bitch is living here with her two squealing tweenage daughters, and I can’t talk on the phone or get any sleep because their door is always open and they’re listening to Disney radio at, like three bajillion decibels or something.

Still, everything was kinda fine until last night. It was a Friday, so, you know, I invited over Kevin to watch some movies and maybe a beheading or two. Nothing big. Anyway, we’d just finished watching that Princess Diaries thing when Kevin started feeling me up–which is fine, ’cause, I mean, we’ve gone all the way to third, so a little breast jiggle is no great shakes.

About that time, Poppy and Pansy (my stepsisters are fucking twins, if you can believe that) jumped out from under the bed, screaming and yelling and making faces. Well, I was all like crouching tiger and shit, ready to go ballistic on their skinny asses, but Kevin got all freaked and–get this–he jumped out the window! I don’t know if you remember my room, FG, but I’m on the third floor, and there ain’t nothing below me but moat and crocodiles. So needless to say, I’m out one very foxy, hung boyfriend–all on account of the goddamn Herbalife twins!

So you see, you gotta help me. Get me out of here. Take me to Tahiti or Siberia or wherever it is you live–it has to be better than this. Or if that’s too much trouble, just kill the twins. And make sure to shrivel stepmom’s ovaries: she and dad are so busy boinking in every freaking corner of the castle, it’ll be just my luck that she’ll drop triplets nine months from now.

Please help me, Fairy Godmother. You’re my only hope.

Love always,
Snatcherella

P.S. I know where you live, bitch.

I think it’s a little over the top myself, but the editors over at Pengiun, that’s how they like ’em these days….

Five things I’m so totally not thinking about this a-to-the-m:

1. Does black belt-wielding, former CNN temptress Lynne Russell really need to hawk lipstick and blush to make ends meet?

2. What am I supposed to wear under this kilt?

3. Does Britney really have a prerogative?

4. If I were a wombat, what species of wombat would I be?

5. Should I follow through on my plan to single-handedly revive the epistolary novel as a vital, relevant literary form, or should I just stick to haiku?

So, I have this eating problem. Well, maybe “problem” is too strong a word; let’s just call it an “issue.”

Up until about 7th grade, I ate what I wanted, when I wanted, and as much as I wanted. Then I started playing tennis and swimming and noticing Calvin Klein’s new breed of overtly sexualized male models, and things changed. I noticed that, unlike such models, my stomach was kinda flabby. In fact, when I put on my shorts, little ridges of skin rolled over the waistband. My chest and arms were nothing to write home about, either. So I started dieting.

Unfortunately, I didn’t really understand the basics of nutrition. Hell, where I grew up, no one did–least of all my mother, whose idea of fixing dinner was ordering pizza and cracking open a tub of ice cream. Not surprisingly, my version of dieting became the classic Tab-and-a-Snickers-bar routine. I’d starve myself half to death, then play tennis for four or five hours under the brutal Mississippi sun; afterward, if I hadn’t passed out, I’d gorge myself on whatever was in the fridge when I got home (usually leftover pizza and more ice cream). I was a mess.

Decades later, my eating habits are still awful. Most irritating–especially to the boyfriend–is my tendency to gorge before parties so that I won’t look like a total pig in public. Jonno says it’s unforgivably rude and really unhealthy, but I can’t help myself. I’m turning into one of those little old society ladies that John Currin used to paint: neurotic and obsessive, with a stash of Twinkies in the butler’s pantry. Only difference is, I’m rounder and not as wealthy.

Unrelated Dispatches from Tehran

Funny, this didn’t make the New York Times:

A portrait of President George W. Bush using monkeys to form his image has led to the closure of a New York art exhibition over the weekend and anguished protests over freedom of expression.

—Tehran Times

But then, neither did this:

An official said the Iranian tourism industry suffers from lack of publicity and called for advertising Iran’s tourist attractions worldwide.

…

The official pointed out that according to a World Trade Organization report, mistreatment of foreign tourists has been acknowledged by 70 to 80 people whereas satisfactory treatment of tourists is only endorsed by 10 people.

—Iran Daily

Perhaps said official should be less concerned with advertising than with entertaining the handful of tourists he’s got. Put the fatwahs and the genital mutilations on the DL, ixnay the public stonings, and then worry about building display ads for Conde Nast Traveler.

Good news: Julian has finally finished futzing with Kiki & Herb Will Die For You at Carnegie Hall, meaning that this holiday season, I have the opportunity to broaden the horizons of my straightlaced Mississippi brethren (and I do mean brethren) through the miracle of modern music.

Bad news: The final performance of Around the World…or Bust! is this Sunday at 9:00pm, so see the damn thing already!

Maybe I watch too much web porn. Maybe I read too many t-shirts. Maybe, just maybe, I’ve just got a dirty mind. But the first time I saw the ads for the Dellf campaign, I thought to myself, “What the hell is going on here? Folks complain about Nicolette Sheridan and Terrell Owens’ tongue-in-cheek hijinks, but no one raises an eyebrow over ‘Dellf’?”

Then, of course, I realized not everyone thinks like I do. Maybe no one else understands that “Dellf” is merely an acronym for “Dudes Enjoy Lucy Liu’s Fuzzbox.” Or possibly “Dame Edna Likes Lanky Footballers.” Or, in some quarters, “Dames Emmanuel Lewis Lately Felched.” The boyfriend thinks I’m making too much of this and assures me that it really stands for “Doctorow, E. L., Liberates Ferrets,” but I think he just made that up.

Speaking of franco-punko-homo graphic novels, it looks as if volume #1 of Logan’s Porky series has finally hit the shelves, and just in time for the holidays, too. In page one of the preview, it appears that our protagonist, Porky–a chubby Midwestern sex fiend (as if there were any other kind)–pays a homeless man in a Santa hat $5 for anal. I haven’t seen page two, but, you know, that’s what I’m guessing.

I’d planned to order up a batch to hand out as stocking stuffers [insert fudgepacking innuendo here], but, well, the dollar’s kinda weak against the Euro right now, so instead, you’ll all be getting Playtex living gloves and a set of colored pencils. Which is sorta the same thing, except you’ll have to do the drawing yourselves.

Well, I was going to post a couple of curious and titillating tidbits this morning–including a story in the India Times that reports a link between laptop usage, scrotal temperature, and infertility in men (which mom and dad would prefer as the reason behind my childlessness instead of my penchant for boy-kissing). But then, something came up.

See, this past Monday, Governor Blanco issued an Executive Order banning discrimination on the basis of race, sex, disability, etc, etc, and sexual orientation in the state government. (A PDF version of the Order is available here, if you’re interested.) Now, of course, the American Family Association and the rest of the right-wingnuts are in a tizzy and are urging their constituents to pelt the Governor with hate email so she’ll rescind the Order.

Obviously, thwarting their efforts, even slightly, is enough to make my day. My week, even. So I amended the text of the AFA email to voice my support of our inclusive (if inarticulate) governor, then sent it in. How’s about you do the same? Even if you’re not from around these parts, you’re a potential tourist–which may make you even more valuable in Governor Blanco’s eyes. Talk about wanting to vacation in a tolerant atmosphere. Talk about GLBT contributions to Louisiana’s cultural economy (a big buzz-term with her these days). Talk about the faboo day spas we run. Whatever.

Anyway, here’s how you reach her

Kathleen Babineaux Blanco, Governor

Louisiana Office of the Governor

P.O. Box 94004

Baton Rouge, LA 70804-9004

Primary Phone: 225-342-0991

Secondary Phone: 225-342-7015

Fax: 225-342-7099

E-Mail: Kathleen Babineaux Blanco

And here’s the letter I wrote. Feel free to use it in whole or in part, if you like.

Dear Governor Blanco,

I would like to thank you for your recent passage of Executive Order KBB 2004 – 54, banning discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation in the Louisiana state government. As someone who has witnessed a great deal of homophobia and discrimination over the years, I can say that I have often been tempted to leave Louisiana in favor of someplace more tolerant. Thanks to your foresight, future generations of GLBT residents won’t need to ponder such a move because their fellow Louisianans will understand that such discrimination is simply wrong. Your Executive Order will undoubtedly have positive economic impacts, too, as businesses are much more likely to invest in states that foster environments of tolerance.

Again, I thank you for your thoughtfulness and commend your leadership and business savvy. You will, indeed, get my vote again–and that of my friends–in the future.

So, what are you waiting for? Go to it! Santa’s not the only one who’s watching your ass…

So, a village in Japan has discovered that the best way to prevent tourists from leaving trash along the roadway is to replace “No Littering” signs with little statues of the Buddhist divinity Jizo. It’s a kinder, gentler alternative to posting, say, bloody, lifesize crucifixes fitted with eerie glass eyes or photos of nuns with captions like “Littering makes the baby Jesus cry!” but it makes a similar point, even among non-Buddhists. I guess the American equivalent would be that crybaby of an Indian from 70s TV commercials.

All of which makes me wonder, if it works in Japan, why couldn’t it work in New Orleans? I mean, if our beloved mayor really wants to clean up the city, why not post images of Marie Laveau throughout the Quarter with some snappy catchphrases like, “Use the garbage can or I use the gris-gris” or “Litterers don’t get laid.” Maybe that would get the attention of all those horny, slovenly frat boys and businessmen on Bourbon Street, swilling rotgut booze in their search for girls who have allegedly gone wild.