She Bangs…But Won’t Be Banging Him
It’s taken me a few days to post this because there’s a lot that I’ve had to process and come to terms with. After John-John and before Clooney-pie, my celeb crushes were Antonio Sabato Jr. and Ricky Martin, who are probably the two most beautiful male specimens to ever walk this planet.
Antonio is so stunning that, as a friend can attest, I swerved my car and almost caused an accident the first time I saw his Calvin Klein underwear billboard on Sunset. That’s some powerful art. Then I saw him at a party and there’s a slight chance that I may have ever-so-gently brushed up against him as I passed. But I swear it was not intentional, I simply miscalculated the four feet of open space that surrounded him.
As for Ricky, I made my lust for him known in a comedy newsgroup, which is what began my rivalry with Suzy Soro, who also laid claim to him (as if SHE had a chance with him. Hmmph). Naturally, this elicited a considerable amount of ridicule from our comedy brethren about Ricky’s sexuality.
I figured the boys were just jealous. So what if Ricky has never been photographed in public with a girl on his arm? That just means he respects a woman’s privacy. And so what if pictures were published of him working out on a beach with a male buddy? Can’t two gorgeous, muscled men in banana hammocks help each other stretch without it being considered homosexual? I mean, geez, look at these pictures- how could anybody possibly think he looks gay?
I even tried to use Ricky’s purported homosexuality against the religious folks, saying that if there really was a God, He would ensure that such a magnificent creature would propagate, so either he’s straight or there’s no God.
I hadn’t taken artificial means into consideration.
This week came word that he impregnated a woman with a turkey baster and she’s just given birth to his twin sons, following in the footsteps of Clay “I’m not gay (but I soooooo am)” Aiken. As much as it pains me to say it, I finally have to admit that Ricky Martin is…wow, this is tough for me to write- give me a moment for the tears to subside…Ricky Martin is…a butt pirate. A salami biter. A friend of Dorothy. Light in the loafers. He’s as queer as a 3 dollar rim job from Richard Simmons.
Ricky Martin is gay.
Ok, I said it. And I don’t feel any better about it. This confirmation has really thrown my brain into a tizzy. Not only do I have to accept that my Ricky is gay and that I’ve exhibited George Dubya levels of denial, but I also have to acknowledge that, based on my own argument, this information means there might be a God. And if there is, it means God is a misogynist. Ron Jeremy is straight but Ricky Martin is gay? If that’s not the work of a woman hater, I don’t know what is.
God may be a Tom Leykis fan and Ricky Martin may be gay, but he’ll always be straight in my fantasies- even when Antonio Sabato Jr. is right beside him.
Things That Make Me Happy #213
… Hearing the words “please,” “thank you” and “I’m sorry,” especially when said by my nephews without any prompting.
… When my nephews yell “NENE!!” and attack me upon arrival, even though it tends to destroy my back for a couple days.
… Time I get to spend with my nephews (well, up to 72 hours. There are only so many conversations about superheroes I can take).
… People who have their money ready.
… Lines that move quickly.
… No lines at all.
… New episodes of Lost, particularly ones that are Desmond-centric.
… Suited Big Slick in the hole.
… When the U.S. provides humanitarian aid to our enemies.
… When karma skips her lunch break.
… Rumors that George Clooney and his latest girlfriend have split (at least, until I’m his latest girlfriend).
… Empty red-eye flights.
… Polls that place Obama way ahead of McCain.
… Finding drink ice in foreign countries.
… When people write my name and include the accent mark.
… Voice mail messages that say, “You don’t have to call me back.”
… The smell of the woods, the sound of the ocean, the sight of the American flag, the feel of a kitten, the taste of victory (sprinkled with salt natch).
Three Minutes In Hollywood
The action never stops.
1:12 am- Two guys run full speed toward my car. One tosses a bag to the curb as they keep running.
I’m guessing they weren’t getting a jump on the next Olympic trials.
1:15 am- I have to slam on my brakes to avoid hitting Ron Jeremy who darted in front of my car. I know he doesn’t look like he can dart but I assure you, he darted. The funniest thing to me is that even in the dark I knew it was him before I ever saw his face. He’s certainly got his own inimitable style. This of course got me thinking about the inevitable headlines had I actually struck and killed the beloved Mr. Jeremy:
“Comedian Brings Ron Jeremy’s Life To A Head”
“Driver Doesn’t See Dick Run”
“Woman Whacks The Hedgehog…For The Last Time”
“Poker Pro Offs Pro Poker”
“Porn Star Reaches His Climax After One Final Blow”
Nobody Should Put Baby On The Cover
Rumor has it that photos of Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt’s twins may have been purchased for as much as $11 million. Given that this is not the first time magazines have paid such high prices, I’m inclined to believe they do so because celebrity baby pictures actually sell magazines.
WHY??????
I get that my interest in all things baby is not on par with the average person’s but for the life of me I can not understand what is so fascinating about pictures of someone else’s newborns. They all pretty much look the same to me. I would understand the curiosity if the babies had cleft palates or cone heads– you know, something a little out of the ordinary. But we’re talking about Angelina and Brad whose bodies are incapable of producing anything that isn’t sublimely beautiful; I’m sure he poops chocolate smiley faces and she pukes rainbows.
Maybe I’ll want to see pictures of their offspring 10 years from now when the older adopted ones get pissed that they didn’t get their parents’ great genes and beat the crap out of the younger ones but in the meantime I’ll pass on the baby pictures and wait to buy the issue that features celebrities with cellulite. Now those are great pictures.
15 Minutes In Hollywood
2:30 am- A man crossing Hollywood Boulevard pulls a role reversal when he stops midway and signals for a cop car to complete its right turn. The cops motion for him to finish crossing but he continues signaling forcefully for them to turn. They go back and forth like this a few times until the cops decide that instead of making their right turn, they’d prefer to have a little chat with this obviously intoxicated pedestrian. I avoid any sudden movements in their vicinity.
2:37 am- I enter 7-11 and pour myself a cappuccino but the cup doesn’t fit under the nozzle so when I pull the filled cup out, some scalding liquid drips on my hand. It’s just hot enough to leave a dark red mark but probably not hot enough for a lawsuit. Damn.
2:39 am- I take my place behind the SIX people already in line… at 2:30 in the morning.
2:40 am- A tranny waiting for someone ahead of me compliments my outfit. I want to return the compliment by saying her outfit is “fierce,” mostly because I’ve never actually said “fierce” out loud and I want to see if I can pull it off. However, I’m not entirely certain if that’s a compliment or if straight white girls are allowed to say it and since her heels give her a good six inches over me, I decide she is not a suitable test subject so I merely respond with a meek “thanks.”
2:44 am- The grande finale: tranny fight! While I don’t advocate violence, I totally advocate watching a fight between two trannies should the opportunity ever arise. Stilettos and mini-skirts that provide the potential for a little dong slippage always make for amusing altercation attire. Naturally, I’m rooting for my fierce new friend even though she’s struggling to decide which gender identity to commit to for the brawl. Fortunately, she doesn’t disappoint when security guards break it up and she yells, “Bitch broke my nail!” How often do you get to hear a fight between two dudes end with that line?
