Let us all follow the Christmas tradition* of reading The Story of the Lesbian Stick.
~
* Heartfelt atheist blessings to all you people who come here and especially you special ones who have given me so much. xo
Let us all follow the Christmas tradition* of reading The Story of the Lesbian Stick.
~
*This year it’s dedicated to Max. Thanks, honey! You know how much I treasure that stick. xoxo
I didn’t watch The L Word, but The Real L Word, a new show about Real Lesbians, is providing plenty of excitement at my house. My husband finds it for me on the Showtime channel, and I sit back and talk to the TV for the whole 30 minutes.
My favorite Real Lesbian so far is Whitney, a tough white girl with dreadlocks who acts just like a horny stud. She insists that she’s a slave to her “chemistry” with nearly every woman she meets. She keeps saying “chemistry” like it’s a scientific fact and an iron clad excuse for making out with someone. “I have to admit there is chemistry,” she confesses to a needy girl in a bar who wants to know where they stand. In short, Whitney is just a dude whose balls will explode if you deny him sex.
I also like Mikey, a swaggering blond hipster who can’t get over her own awesomeness. She revels in telling us how stressful her high-powered job is. She loves to boss people around and flaunt her tattoos.
The only time I’ve had to scream out loud was when Tracy revealed the names of her girlfriend’s three children: Nickos, Daughtry and Jagger.
Why isn’t there a fine for saddling your children with awful names? I don’t think I could even be friends with someone who would name their kid ‘Daughtry’. Some things are unforgivable.
As long as the Real Lesbians don’t make me watch them have sex, I’m in. I don’t plan to follow their blogs or tweets, or to buy their special Lesbian iPhone App, but I like all the posturing and soul-searching and unusual facial piercings. I’m also convinced that if Whitney met me, she’d feel the chemistry.
I’m having trouble with Being Present. I find that whatever I’m doing, I’m somewhere else in my head.
This isn’t good. It causes a lot of household problems, because I don’t remember what I started out to do. The only time I am fully engaged is when I’m reading a book. Even reading the New Yorker, I manage to think about something else, or just think about myself trying to take an interest in the article I’m not interested in.
I’m still doing physical therapy for the broken hip, and today I noticed that while I was exercising my leg, I was thinking about my son’s elbow.
I want to be present, but I’m absent.
Is this due to old age, or all the drugs, or the result of the Internet destroying my attention span? How can I learn to be present without getting the tattoo-reminder?
If you’d rather think about Rumer Willis than my existential malaise, try watching her lesbian kiss from some TV show where she plays a lesbian (ha!) and looks just like her dad.
If you’ve been following your celebrity gossip, you know that Brad and Angie sleep in separate beds, and that Angie is a controlling psycho who giggles when the kids cry.
I have a very special secret to tell you, that you can’t repeat to anyone: No one knows anything about Brad and Angie!
As a highly skilled tabloid journalist, I can tell you that each and every cover story on Brad and Angelina is (shhh!) complete fiction. The fights, the reconciliations, the secret calls to Jen, the arguments, the wedding plans, the ‘real’ relationship, the family dynamics…..all of it made up, for you, the valued reader of Us, In Touch, Okay, Star, etc etc.
Sometimes, when there’s no story to make up, the resourceful journalist will have to divulge Angie’s Shocking Diet, or Brad’s Bedtime Phone-calls to the Kids. Sometimes, you just have to channel Brad or Angie. When he’s away making a movie, Angie is withdrawn. Or else maybe she’s bonding with Brad’s mom! Or, no, she’s fighting with Brad’s mom.
Whenever I read something exceptionally stupid and far-fetched about Brad and Angie (or any big celebrity) I can’t help feeling perversely envious of the writer who came up with such a whopping lie, thinking, Fuck! Why didn’t I ever think of that angle!
I totally admire the writer who came up with this one, at ShowbizSpy, about Angie’s lesbitious crush on Johnny Depp’s wife, Vanessa Paradis:
“Angelina,” the source tells American tabloid the National Enquirer, “just loves Vanessa’s raw, natural beauty, and has always said how lucky Johnny is to have landed her. “Who knows? Maybe she wants more than friendship with her?”
Genius! Go check it out.
I think I might be the only person in the world (besides Jesse James) who thinks this woman is hotter than Sandra Bullock. I just tried to get my husband to agree, but no dice.
I don’t care if Sandra Bullock is “America’s Sweetheart,” she looks like a man to me. It’s probably the no-top-lip thing, which I am very sensitive to. Plus, I’ve always had the feeling that Sandra is gay.
Hot or not?
It’s an official tradition*; every year at this time, I have to post The Story of the Lesbian Stick. If it doesn’t bring a tear to your eye, then you know nothing of lesbians or the Spirit of Christmas.
Love and Blessings, SW
*p.s. This is for Ann xoxo
~this is a reprint from 2006, and a true story.~
Tonight, when I told my older son that I’d found a good Baby Jesus to steal, he reminded me of the Lesbian Stick.
A long time ago, in a galaxy right next door, my neighbors moved away to live near their grandchildren, and sold their house to a Lesbian Couple. The husband Lesbian was Nancy Something, a gray-haired hatchet-faced woman who wore severe eyeglasses and identified herself as a “Pain Therapist”. Her wife was a younger, softer Latina named Concha. Nancy’s opening gambit as a new neighbor was to announce her plan to build an 8 foot wooden fence between our houses, for “privacy.”
We objected to the fence project, and asked the Lesbians to reconsider. Phonecalls were exchanged. Tempers were riled, and property lines were debated. Concha called and told us that her husband would no longer speak to us: she needed time to Heal. We named her Doctor Pain
Doctor Pain hired a pair of weathered Lesbian Workmen to erect the fence. One had a crewcut and the other spoke in an awful Scandinavian accent. I befriended the Workmen, since they liked Laurie Anderson, but engaged in bitter combat with Dr. Pain. The fence went up, blocking the light and lending the effect of a prison compound.
Time passed and I tried not to look at Dr. Pain when I saw her outside. Her voice was piercing and nasal, her teeth looked like they wanted to bite you. We smelled incense coming from her backyard, and wondered if she was burning human sacrifices. I turned my anger toward the big gnarled stick on her front porch…..a “staff” of some kind, around seven feet long, perhaps a trophy from a hike somewhere.
I ranted about the stick to everyone. I hatched bizarre plots involving the stick, and asked friends for advice. Someone suggested that I burn the stick, and send little charred pieces of it to Dr. Pain. Someone else told me to kidnap it, and demand a ransom if they ever wanted to see it alive again. Finally, I ran next door and moved the stick from the left side of the porch to the right side. I was dizzy with adrenaline. In the morning, the stick was back on the left.
At Christmas, my son wondered what to get for me. I asked him to get me the stick. When he brought it up to our door, he held it aloft, and I tried to sing the theme from “Rocky.” It was a joyous, shining moment; he is the best son a mother could ask for!
More time passed and it was Christmas again. I was desperate for a piece of typing paper and since Dr. Pain’s car was gone, I went next door to ask Concha for a piece of paper. She led me into the house, which was filled with vintage images of saints. Shit!!!!! I told her that I also collect old Catholic Icons, and we bonded under the gaze of St. Theresa. “Come over to my house some time, and see my stuff,” I gushed. On Christmas Eve, Concha appeared at my door with her parents, who were visiting for the holiday. I invited her in warmly, forgetting until that instant that her stick was on display in my bedroom. My life flashed before my eyes. Somehow, I mumbled that the bedroom was messy, and managed to hide the Lesbian Stick under my bed just before she walked in to see my Saints.
Dr. Pain split up with Concha, who stayed on alone for a while before they sold the house. Before she left, Concha and I hugged. I’m sure she found a better looking Lesbian to share her life with. And the stick is leaning in a corner of my bedroom, along with the smaller sticks that Dr. Pain put out on her porch, in a futile effort to replace the original one.
Merry Christmas!
For the last few days, I’ve had the feeling that there’s nothing interesting on the Internet. Anywhere. For me, as an addict, this is pretty scary. How much fashion, YouTube, politics or gossip can anyone stand? How many weird medical disorders, conjoined twins, opinions, rants or Wikipedia entries can anyone absorb? It’s all bullshit.
On that note, here is a quiz to test your knowledge of pop culture. I’m going to make it up as I go along. Remember that the more questions you can answer correctly, the more you should probably just kill yourself.
No cheating!
1. Madonna may be upset, but ——- “is her rock.”
2. Which young celebrity/drug addict is NOT a lesbian.
3. Who is her lesbian girlfriend’s famous brother?
4. How long did Angie breastfeed the twins?
5. What sickening actor likes to be pictured without his shirt on?
6. Who is Jessica Simpson dating?
7. What is Beyonce’s new alter ego called?
8. Name Gwen Stefani’s two sons.
8. Name her husband’s teenage daughter.
9. Tom Cruise is —.
10. What is a ‘tweaker?’
11. Donatella’s daughter suffers from ——–.
12. Leonardo is dating ___ ______ because he likes ——.
How did you make out? 12 out of 12=tragic. 8-11=sad. 6-10=average student of pop culture. 1-5=great job, keep it up! 0=cheater!
* I’m not giving answers, because you know if you know them. If you don’t know an answer, give yourself a nice pat on the back, you’re better off.
