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21
September

LIFE AND DEATH (PT. 3)

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(Continued from LIFE AND DEATH PT. 2)
Last week, my seven-year-old son Ethan nonchalantly told me that upon my death, he intended to use his sizable inheritance to buy mountains of candy. He further asserted that as my funeral service and burial would be a mere formality on his way to a life of sugary goodness, he had no plan to attend either.

“But wouldn’t you miss me?” I asked naively?

“Maybe a little, but it’s OK if you decide you want to die.” he answered.

Ethan maintained a rather pragmatic view of death. To him, my death would be an unfortunate, but necessary step on his way to a dreamy, polysaccharides future. The moment my small, wiry, Juvaderm and Restalyne infused body was placed in the sun-kissed yet stunningly fire-prone, Forest Lawn grounds (I was not able to purchase a plot near Micheal Jackson, as those fascists at Forest Lawn insisted I was neither a celebrity nor a ‘person of note.’ To my dismay, I had witnessed the funereal equivalent of the velvet rope!) my son Ethan’s life would morph into the real world equivalent of CANDYLAND. His dreams of a never ending buffet of M&M’s, Snickers, Three Musketeers, Kit Kat Bars, and Butterfingers would FINALLY come true and would culminate in a fantastical marriage to the dowager of CANDLYLAND, Princess Frostine, who would no doubt be administering the Insulin injections he will ultimately require. Like a high-fructose corn syrup SID & NANCY, Ethan and Princess Frostine will wind up in some seedy motel, the floor of their room littered with empty candy wrappers, cookie bags, and cake tins. Unable to break their shared addiction, Princess Frostine will have to support them both by turning tricks in the molasses swamp with Lord Licorice, Jolly Dino, King Candy and those fucking annoying, tree-stump-living Keebler elves, while Ethan lies unconscious in the filthy motel bed due to an Entenmann’s-induced sugar coma.

I’ve decided to keep living, just to spite him. Besides, whatever sizable inheritance he thinks is coming his way will be spent on ‘necessities’ such as costly facial fillers, plastic surgery, and various go-go boys who will moonlight as my ‘assistant’ or ‘companion.’

Of course, none of this occurred to me years ago, stranded in that ghastly Iowa town. I stood alone in a church basement, surrounded by narrow-minded biddies, protectively clasping my crying baby son to my bosom. Having not the slightest inkling that the tiny, helpless infant I held would someday blossom into the stunningly beautiful, yet frighteningly conniving cave troll who would eventually wish me dead, I decided to take a political stand. (I pray to God that I’m NEVER placed on life support and left in my son’s ‘care’ as I’m certain that given the choice of keeping me alive and finally realizing his dream of never-ending, golf ball-sized chocolate bon bons, he will make speedy, legally-binding use of the non-resuscitate clause in my will. I can almost see him feigning sadness at my Shiva while sneering to assembled loved ones that he preferred to end my life with ‘dignity,’ while a big, chocolate mustache stained his greedy mouth.)

As the narrow-minded, Pat Buchanan-loving, Fox News-watching town matriarchs slithered up to me, I resembled a Prada and Gucci-clad version of The Madonna with Child. I sat imperiously in a chair and allowed each old lady an opportunity to view the infant. They all finally gathered around me in their TJ Maxx sweater sets, munching on mayonnaise sandwiches (I kid you not) and clucked about George and his mystery wife being so lucky in producing such an adorable baby. As I stared incredulously at these clueless old broads I began to wonder if these women were so sheltered and delusional that the appearance of two immaculately attired and coiffed ‘confirmed bachelor’ men (wink, cough) bearing an infant could be ANYTHING but two LA fruit flies and their larva. I suddenly channelled my inner Margot Channing and instantly came to my feet. I twirled around furiously and snarled, “Ladies, fasten your seat belts, it’s going to be a bumpy night. George has no wife and I’m neither his business partner, army buddy, or ‘colleague.’ I’m his lover and this is OUR baby.”

They stood silently gaping at me, their cheap, Cover Girl hued mouths forming a perfect ‘O.’

(To Be Continued)
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18
September

LIFE AND DEATH (PT. 2)

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(Continued from LIFE AND DEATH)

My good friend Kate, whose affluent and sheltered life in Austin, Texas degenerated into a Gothic novel of sex, drugs, and rock-and-roll debauchery, is surprisingly proud of her DAR roots. At first, when she alluded to the DAR, I thought it was some kind of acronym for drug rehab or sexual addiction as at the time we were stumbling down Hollywood Boulevard, having been evicted from a dive bar for our ‘innocent’ accosting of some fat tourists whose ghastly December-in-Los Angeles wardrobe choice of fanny packs, ‘Daisy Duke’ short shorts, and day glo knitted tube tops offended our ‘we’re-in-the-entertainment-industry-therefore-better-than-you sensibilities.’


Kate, staggeringly drunk on organic cranberry & cucumber, anti-oxidant martinis, (only in LA) slurred in my ear that the DAR stood for DAUGHTERS OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION and drunkenly elaborated that her racially ‘pure’ bloodline of Anglo-Saxon, land-grabbing, Native American-murdering, alcoholic, oil industry executive ancestors could be traced back to their arrival aboard the good ship WILLIAM AND MARY during the formative days of this country’s bloody break with England. Having proudly shared her family’s lily-white, blue-blood origins, Kate suddenly lurched forward, turned a pale shade of green, and projectile vomited all over Ronald Raegan’s star on the Hollywood Walk Of Fame. Like any good girlfriend, I held Kate’s hair as she purged herself on our 40th President, her DAR ancestors no doubt spinning in their graves due to her blatant disrespect for Raegan, who certainly shares a condo with them in that special place in Hell reserved for thieves, rapists, axe murderers, and actor-turned-politicians. As we continued to trudge down Hollywood Boulevard, Kate leaning into me, her head perched semi-consciously on my shoulder, I begin to reflect on my own family tree – or in my case, family shrub.

According to my mother, my ancient ancestors were the lowest-of-the-low thirteen tribes, shit-kicker Jews who dug ditches, disposed of animal carcases and probably cleaned Egyptian latrines with their tooth brushes. As the centuries slowly passed, my ancestor’s fortunes did not improve. Housed in dense urban ghettos or far-flung Russian ‘Shtetls‘ (towns) my relatives piously prayed to God to improve their fortunes – only to see themselves the victims of discrimination, pogroms and eventual annihilation. Disillusioned by the God that had seemingly forsaken them, my relatives, including my great grandfather, emigrated to the United States in the latter part of the 19th century seriously pissed-off. Eager to shed his Judeo-Russian roots, and acclimate his immigrant family as quickly as possible in this strange, new land my great grandfather, a tailor, joined the garment union and imprudently became a founding member of THE COMMUNIST PARTY. That’s right sports fans – unlike Kate’s revolutionary ancestors who shit stars and stripes, my ancestors were not only lowlife Jews, but were ‘commies’ to boot!

As we drove through the verdant corn fields of Iowa, my son Ethan uncharacteristically asleep in his car seat, surrounded by George’s suspiciously polite Midwest relatives, my thoughts drifted to Kate’s revolutionary ancestors and my BETTER DEAD THAN RED great grandfather. What would they have made of a gay, Jewish man arriving in the nation’s heartland, his grieving male lover, rent-a-womb baby, and ostentatious Louis Vuitton luggage in tow? All of these revolutionaries – Kate’s DAR ancestors and even my idealistic, misguided great grandfather fought and died for their beliefs despite impossible odds and inconceivable struggle. What, if any beliefs did I have, and what sacrifices was I willing to make for those beliefs?

Having deposited our luggage at the horrifying MOTEL 8 that to my astonishment lacked the most basic of hotel ‘necessities’ such as a pool, 600 thread count sheets, or a decent mini bar, George, Ethan and I were whisked over to the funeral home for the formal ‘viewing’ of George’s dead grandmother. As my husband George, our son Ethan and I entered the funeral home, I could see the assembled friends and relatives glance our way and secretively whisper to one another. The room suddenly fell silent as George and I approached the casket. George glanced down at his dead grandmother and tenderly kissed the top of her head as a single tear slid slowly down his ruddy face. As I stood there holding OUR son, George’s aunt, a small, round beetle of a woman approached me and hissed into my ear how nice it was that George could attend his grandmother’s funeral despite his wife’s absence, and how considerate of me as his ‘business partner’ to bring their baby.

As I watched her scurry away, I remained silent out of respect for George’s grandmother. Outside on the steps of the funeral home, feeding Ethan his bottle, I began to seethe. In my fury, my revolutionary mission and plan of action suddenly became crystal clear. I thought of the great American patriot Samuel Adams who once wrote, “It does not take a majority to prevail… but rather an irate, tireless minority, keen on setting brushfires of freedom in the minds of men.”

I held Ethan tightly to my chest as I glanced out over the graceful, undulating fields of Iowa corn, a matchbook from THE MOTEL 8 crushed in my palm.

(To Be Continued)
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5
September

LIFE AND DEATH

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When introduced to a new acquaintance either at a movie premiere, school board meeting, Shiva call, or patiently waiting for the cashier to ring up my bottles of Veuve Clicquot Champagne at the spotless, overpriced Gelson’s supermarket near our home (At our place, Veuve Champagne is NOT a luxury – my family can live without so-called ‘staples’ like milk, bread or eggs, but NOBODY better try and take away this baby’s bottle. Were I to be down-and-out and living on government subsidized food stamps, my husband and son would probably suffer from rickets, scurvy or worse for our weekly allowance would be gladly sent to Reims, France so that the good people at the Veuve vineyard could continue to churn out the addictive, bubbly nectar I demand and deserve!) the conversation will invariably turn to how my husband George and I were able to make our son Ethan ‘happen.’ I am slightly perplexed by this question, as it makes our son sound like some kind of weird science experiment. As I patiently explain that Ethan is not adopted, but rather is ‘ours’ and conceived and birthed through surrogacy, even the most liberal and enlightened person wrestles with the complicated semantics of the process.


To me, it has always been a fairly simple recipe. Take one whiny, neurotic fag (me) combine with one controlling, autocratic fag (George) throw in a mountain of money, et voila, you end up with a tyrannical, insomniac baby who wreaks utter havoc on your life. This simple, easy-to-follow recipe for our offspring is a regular laugh riot at our swanky cocktail parties populated by drunk, entertainment industry wannabes. However, when controlling, autocratic fag’s salt-of-the-earth grandmother had the bad taste to die during whiny, neurotic fag’s trip to the second happiest place on Earth, Provincetown, and required whiny, neurotic fag and child to travel to Iowa (Oy Vey), I would come to learn that not everyone in America shares our enthusiasm for ‘California-nouvelle-family-cuisine.’

Despite my angry assertion that interrupting our family vacation and dragging a one-year-old to a funeral halfway across the country was unwise and possibly emotionally scarring to our young son (Of course I didn’t believe that ‘emotional scarring’ shit – I had been working diligently on my tan and had the good fortune of locating a local babysitter who not only worshipped my son but worked for peanuts!) my husband George insisted that we attend the funeral for his ancient grandmother, for despite my unbridled tanorexia and my unethical and possibly illegal nanny employment practices, family was family.

Deeply embittered at having to leave my charmingly bohemian, yet wildly expensive oceanfront holiday cottage to attend the funeral of a woman I barely knew, I refused to speak to George on the flight despite my inebriating liquid lunch. As we touched down in Iowa, George casually informed me that unfortunately there were no Ritz Carltons or Four Seasons in the obscure country town his grandparents resided.
Horrified, I hissed “What do you mean no Ritz Carltons or Four Seasons?! Where are we going, eastern Europe? We’re still in America aren’t we?”

I was soon to learn that while heaven is a place on earth, so is hell – it’s called a SUPER 8 MOTEL.

(To Be Continued)

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2
September

THE FIRING SQUAD PT. 4

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AT DEATH’S DOOR?
Infant unhurt in alleged coyote attack despite

careless, DIPSHIT dad.

By Sean Hannity

Hannity & Colmes

LOS ANGELES, California (FOX News)–Tongues were wagging in left-wing, culturally elitist Hollywood today as word spread of a possible coyote attack upon little-known, bewilderingly unprepared marketing executive Tod Abrams, whose irresponsible and negligent idea of ‘fun’ is to take his new born baby hiking through treacherous, bone-dry back country with neither baby supplies, map, compass or cell phone. Abrams, who had reportedly gained 15-20 pounds of ‘baby weight’ due to his addiction to fruity Apple-Martinis and Starbuck’s Grande Caramel Frappuccinos, thought an early morning sojourn through steeply wooded, wild-animal-infested terrain would be just the ticket for his fatty-fat self and helpless infant son. Abrams, whose ‘flamboyant’ and ‘colorful’ hiking ensemble can best be described as woefully inadequate, appeared to suffer only minor scratches despite the alleged coyote ‘attack.’

“He look really scared,” says avid Korean hiker Mae Kim Won, “He run down the hill screaming like little girl.”

According to neighbors, Abrams, who is homosexual and ‘married’ (Isn’t that illegal?!) to longtime-companion (Gag!) George Bamber has a long history of hyperbole and self-delusion in addition to an unhealthy affinity for squeezing his blubbery, middle-aged self into ‘outfits’ kindly described as ‘too youthful.’
While there seemed to be no physical evidence of the coyotes who allegedly attacked Abrams, both father and son were transported out of the area by paramedics. In an extremely telling development, Abrams’ unharmed infant son, bound in some curious, third-world jungle sack seems to have remained peacefully, and unbelievably asleep during the entire ‘ordeal.’

In a statement released by Commissioner Barry A. Sanders of the City of Los Angeles Department of Recreation and Parks, Abrams’ ‘drama queen’ claims of a coyote attack were quickly dismissed as a ‘publicity stunt’ and the citizens of LA encouraged to continue using Griffith Park’s magnificent hiking paths and playing fields.

After being treated for their ‘injuries’ and released by Cedars Sinai, Fox News pressed Abrams regarding his specious claims of a coyote attack. With his infant son screaming at the top of his tiny lungs, and holding a can of RED BULL, Abrams stepped theatrically into his gleaming Towncar, waved, but declined to comment citing ‘nervous exhaustion.’

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