By Gustavo Arellano
By R. Scott Moxley
By Alfonso Delgado
By Courtney Hamilton
By Joel Beers
By Peter Maguire
By Charles Lam
By Charles Lam
Photo by Amy TheligIt has come to my attention that some of our more conservative friends are somewhat—hmmm, how to maintain my usual courtly politesse?—ignorant and retarded. Not retarded in a lovey, nice, sweet way like a retarded adult you might see in the grocery store, holding onto his dear father's hand. In fact, scratch retarded completely. Let's make it ignorant and dick-mouthedinstead. But not dick-mouthed in a fun, liberated, gay way. More like in the insano, toxically repressed way of the Right Reverend Lou Sheldon. You know: like someone who's got a mouth full of dick!
But what is bringing out these terrible unkindnesses from between my gentle lips?
Well, we here at Weekly HQ have been bombarded with idiots these past few days, threatening, among other things, to have our paper "shut down" and, um, "kill [us]." I mean, I haven't because as you might imagine, I'm pretty well universally beloved, but my tall, urbane editor? He's been fielding phone calls from lunatics like he's Ann Coulter's on-call shrink.
Where shall I begin, my pets? A) We don't shut down papers that disagree with the gubmint in the United States of America; we leave that to Paul Bremer and the freedom-bringers of the Coalition Provisional Authority calling the shots (get it?) from one of Saddam's lovely and tasteful palaces. B) If you thought last week's cover story on Ronald Reagan was bad—me, I found it hard-hitting but with an overlay of awfully respectful—you should have seen the one we ran a couple of years ago [Jim Washburn's "Not Too Late for a War Crimes Tribunal," Jan. 31, 2002] that a number of us wanted to save for when The Gipper finally kicked it—assuming he would ever actually die, as you know what's truly evil can't be killed. C) What's with all you victims who say you're being harmed by someone's opinion? Weren't you just yesterday ranting about the liberal pansies—and their idiotic political correctness—who were supposed to be the victim brigade? Or was that before all the coloreds and feminazis started beating you out for college-admission slots? I'm always amused—when I'm not screaming and punching something—at the way our friends on the Right shriek stuff about us when they do the exact same thing but worse. Par example: Bill Clinton was castigated for years for Travelgate—he fired some people in the White House Travel Office so he could appoint some cronies—and for looking at White House appointees' FBI files. But Valerie Plame's file wasn't just looked at—the Bush administration outed her as an undercover CIA agent to get even with her longhaired-hippie-freak of a diplomat husband's not swearing the Loyalty Oath to Karl Rove. Even more recently, a White House schnauzer huffed that John Kerry was "beyond the bounds of acceptable discourse" for saying at a black church, "The Scriptures say, what does it profit, my brother, if someone says he has faith but does not have works?" before out-of-boundsily continuing, "When we look at what is happening in America today, where are the works of compassion?" Funny, the White House saying all this religion talk is out of bounds—while the National Catholic Reporter (NCR) published this tidbit this week: "A Vatican official told NCR June 9 that in his meeting with Cardinal Angelo Sodano and other Vatican officials, [President] Bush said, 'Not all the American bishops are with me' on the cultural issues. The implication was that he hoped the Vatican would nudge them toward more explicit activism."
Like denying John Kerry, you and me Holy Communion! Me, I'm not even pro-choice, and I still wouldn't be able to receive the holy cracker—being pro-gay-marriage is godless enough to deny me my sacred rites as far as our not-Catholic president is concerned, while he's busy deciding dogma for the Holy See. Jesus, am I still talking? Talk, talk, talk!
So there we were at the Canyon Inn, and Long Tall Gina had found a victim. Very soon, she would make her cry—at least, according to Gina.
"All my friends tell me I got really screwed in the divorce," Blondie was reputedly whining before later saying as Gina gave her a ride home, "Oh, you live in the ghetto part of Anaheim Hills . . . comparatively speaking." Anyway, it seems she only gets $5,000 per month in alimony—plus the 700 grand cash settlement—and that this is something to feel deprived about. Gina, while long and tall and unmitigatedly hot, is not generally a good shoulder for cryin'. She told her to get off her ass and do something with her life, called her an uneducated floozy, and suggested she tell men she was a waitress or whatever else she wanted to tell them, as long as she didn't tell them she had $700,000 in the bank or she might—inconceivably, I know—attract fortune hunters. "That's happened to me twice!" gasped Blondie—who was actually really, really nice, but c'mon! "What are the odds?" Gina screamed at her with her patented lacerating sarcasm. And the lady sobbed.
But you wanted to hear about the 21-year-old who felt me up. And so do I! So there he was. He was 21. And he had that soft, floppy hair that's so cute on the Absolut Hunk. And he was 21. We started to chat. What did he do? "I work with special-ed kids," said he, oozing not-lyingness. Honey, I know it works on most of your pretty victims, but I was born a lot less yesterday than you were. I laughed! Ha, ha, ha, ha! So what did he do for real? He's working on a satirical novel about World War II. We talked long and hard about Joseph Heller("Are you funny?" I asked him. "No," he said. "Satire doesn't have to be funny." Oh, like Dennis Miller! Then he explained that his work is more in the vein of Orwell, "like 1982," to which I replied, "1984 is hilarious—to smart people"), and as I opined and deconstructed and lectured and opined some more, he never took his eyes from mine and seemed to follow right along as his right hand crept to my left breast. Hey, hey! I'm talking here!
Still, it was smooth, except that it most certainly and preposterously was not.
I pulled myself to my greatest five-foot-two and froze him to pieces with my patented icy, affronted southern lady glare.
"What are you drinking?" I chirped, and then I bought him one like the sad, old, sugar mama I will someday be. Someday I also hope to pay lots and lots of alimony to some pathetic loser.
See the picture above? This was from Orange Idol at the Orange County Crazies' Don Cribb Theater. I was a judge, and though the "comics" weren't necessarily "funny," the panel of judges kept itself in stitches. It was actually superfun, but I'm pretty much out of space.
All you really need to know about the night—except for the mortifying fact that it turned out I embarrassingly was acquainted with the heckler (we called him "George") who was embarrassing himself with lame heckles all night, although not as lame as the guy who shouted to Dave Chappelleat the Irvine Improv some time back, "Show me the money!" and then, "You're a goddamn dirty coon"—was that one of the black dudes won, which meant that there were a whole bunch of white dudes who didn't. And then we wouldn't let them into college, either, and we gave away their jobs!
Am I still talking? Talk, talk, talk! And all you wanted to know was: so anyway, the 21-year-old felt me up. God bless the child.