Splitsville Now Has A Castro District.

Gay divorce: it’s not just for Melissa Etheridge anymore.  Such is the case for the most recent refugees to Splitsville, Johnny Weir and Victor Voronov.  The present tidal wave of gay matrimony brings with it the inevitability of gay divorce, and thus endless fodder for black-hearted gossipmongers such as myself.  Celebrity divorce is a perennial bullseye for the blogosphere, but like everything else in this world, it is made infinitely more magical when it involves Johnny Weir.

At first it would seem that Voronov took my advice and got the hell away from Johnny before incurring irreversible scarring, but further time spent sifting through their train wreck reveals a man that may actually be the drama queen equivalent of Johnny Weir.  If you can possibly fathom that.  It took no time at all for Voronov to threaten with scandal should his former lover refuse him alimony and he made good on that threat.  Among Voronov’s laundry list of now court-documented complaints is that Johnny cheated on him, caroused with porn stars, forced him out of the closet and totally acted like an absolute cunt-ass-bitch.  (Alright, I added the last one myself, but you know damn well that was included in the first draft.)

I would like to focus on this alleged “outing” for a minute.  What dumb motherfucker enters into a public relationship, much less marries, the Earth’s premiere Pretty-Pretty-Princess and later declares a forcible outing?  Just being in the same room as Johnny Weir can make a Kinsey 4 into a full blown 6.  Johnny Weir is gayer than Richard Simmons’ asshole.  Are we to seriously buy that Victor Voronov was merely a bicurious introvert before accidentally falling into a relationship with the world’s Supreme Ice Princess?  I call bullshit and I’m sure the court will, too.

Weir countered with his own set of allegations, namely that Voronov was a Stanley Kowalski-esque brute who drunkenly hounded him with the constant specter of abuse.  As if it couldn’t possibly get any better, Voronov has since petitioned the court to demand the return of over 50 designer handbags, 2 Birkins and an entire closet full of designer fur.  It’s like God just took a page out of my wet dreams and made it into reality.  Dan Savage was right; it does get better.  I had long feared that the gay community’s all-consuming obsession with marriage equality was little more than a tedious call to assimilation, but gay divorce has proven me wrong.  If this is any indication, gay divorces will exceed their straight counterparts in both flamboyance and malice, and it leaves me in ecstasy.

As a final tantalizing tidbit, Johnny and Victor did not have a prenup.  The filth and the fury has only just begun.

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Miss Piggy Made Me Gay.

One of the staples of Pray-The-Gay-Away therapy is the concept of the Homosexual Root.  Given that homosexuality is a not a product of biological happenstance or residence in San Francisco County, but rather a deliberate choice made by sick individuals, the concept of The Root seeks to identify the exact moment where childhood trauma bolstered the gay individual into a lifetime of homosexual depravity.  Time made me a curmudgeon and bitterness made me a cunt, but I’ve long wondered just what it was that made me the cock glutton that I am today.  After spending many years agonizing over this question, I believe I have at last come upon an answer.

The subject of my tragic queerness can be traced back to a chance visit to a Planet Video in the late 90’s.  Drama Club had let out early and I had wandered over to the video store to look for a way to pass the lonely Friday night.  After carefully deciding against renting Romy and Michele’s High School Reunion for the 13th time, I came across the image of a decidedly saucy-looking pig riding a motorcycle.  I am of course referring to the iconic artwork for the 1981 puppet classic, The Great Muppet Caper.  There was just something about that pig’s wind-strewn weave and tight white jumpsuit that stirred something deep inside of me.  Intrigued, I made my selection.

I popped in the VHS tape as soon as I got home, entirely unprepared for what I would see.  The plot of the movie is rather unextraordinary.  Based off the rather conventional premise of a band of puppet detectives working to uncover the truth behind a baffling series of jewelry heists, the film is somewhat predictable, but this is not what makes it such an enduring classic.  It is this movie, more than any other Muppet movie, which most directly centers on Miss Piggy.  The Great Muppet Caper served as a direct platform for the unyielding fierceness of Miss Piggy and it still remains her greatest work.  From beginning to end, Miss Piggy dominates the film, setting the screen aflame with her intricately affected sex appeal and indomitable glamor.  Yes, it is here that the seeds of my future gayness would be planted, placed in fecund soil by the world’s most glamorous pig.

There is one very specific moment in the film that would launch an entire generation of sodomites.  Cruelly imprisoned after being framed for a series of jewel thefts, Miss Piggy refused to go down without a fight.  In a moment of iconoclastic rebellion, Miss Piggy clenched the cell bars between her mighty hooves and ripped the bars asunder, thus escaping her imprisonment.  Stepping out of her cell, not a hair out of place, Miss Piggy seized her destiny and set out to extract revenge against those who dared deceive her.  Cultural anthropologists often point to the works of Helen Reddy or Gloria Steinem when seeking to identify instances of iconic feminine liberation.  That is a fool’s errand, for there remains no greater moment of seismic femme rebellion than Miss Piggy’s iconic jailbreak in The Great Muppet Caper.

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It took just one quick scene to rescind every remaining trace of my heterosexuality.  Looking on in wide-eyed reverence, I saw a woman in complete control of herself.  I instantly recognized that my life could be so much better, so much fiercer.  How could I, an impressionable young boy, ever hope to resist the hypnotic allure of Miss Piggy’s lavender eyeshadow and flaxen blonde mane?  Resistance was futile.

This theory remains a controversial one and I know that there are many people that will fight me on this.  In my heart I know that I am right.  Before Miss Piggy sashayed into my life I distinctly remember being totally down with pussy.  I was just a regular red-blooded American boy who enjoyed He-Man action figures and Madonna records.  My life will always be viewed in two parts; before The Great Muppet Caper and after the Great Muppet Caper, for in my heart I know that it wasn’t until after I viewed that movie that I turned irreversibly queer.

As evidence for my theory, I point to the emergence of the gay community in the United States.  Are we to believe that it is merely a coincidence that the gay community would come into progressively wider visibility following the release of this film?  It has long been the insistence of cultural anthropologists that the emergence of the gay community can be attributed to a wide variety of sociopolitical factors following the sexual revolution.  I disagree.  I think it’s Miss Piggy and America’s about the find out just how right I am.

There is a new Muppets film, Muppets Most Wanted, featuring notorious gay-enabler Tina Fey.  Promotional stills from the film feature Miss Piggy featured prominently in a skintight black catsuit and stiletto heels.  America’s ailing manhood is about to get flushed right down the shitter.  The Great Muppet Caper was just round one of the lavender menace; given our culture’s current hyper-saturation with major media, this time we’re all going gay.

This may be unwelcome news for heterosexual women, but I, for one, welcome the looming wave of gayness.  Granted the population will surely plummet and economic anarchy will invariably ensue, but for homos this is going to be a new renaissance.  For this we all have Miss Piggy to thank.

How fitting that this saucy pig would turn an entire generation of young men into dick pigs.  Though my life is one of sad, perverted depravity, I wouldn’t have it any other way.  Thank you, swine goddess, for being one fierce pig.

The Gayest Thing

I’ve done it.  After years of painstaking research, I have at last found it: The Absolute Gayest Thing on the Internet.  It is with great esteem and some trepidation that I present the following video to you.  Such a work of exquisite beauty needs no introduction, and even the finest wordsmith would fail to truly capture its pulpy, faggy essence.  Simply sit back, brace yourself and behold:

 

Yes, that was a music video for Kylie Minogue’s Get Outta My Way.  Anything in any way related to Kylie Minogue is faggy enough to begin with, but God bless the canny, queer genius who thought to combine Kylie Minogue’s words and music to this imagery.  “Can’t possibly make Kylie Minogue any gayer,” you arrogantly think.  But how about Kylie Minogue…  as lip-synced by gay porn stars?  And with this simple gesture all of our minds are as blown as those gentlemen’s cocks.

This blog is routinely visited by faggots, so I’m sure the lot of you can make a drinking game out of naming all of the Randy Blue porn stars that appear in this masterpiece.  I could not begrudge any of my readers a chance to blow a load or two or four to this video, but I advise you to take a moment away from dildo-pounding your stretched out assholes to savor the simple beauty of this video.  I know of no other thing on this Earth that can so effectively restore my faith in mankind.   This is just… so pure, so magical, so whimsical.  The whole thing would be downright wholesome were those men’s bodies not so thoroughly riddled with human papilloma virus.

Bless you, Satan, for bringing this into my life.

Ice Capades, Courtroom Style.

It was with orgasmic glee that I learned of Johnny Weir’s recent New Jersey court date.  With a little luck and a sprinkling of fairy dust, this incident will hopefully come to be the start of a long list of legal disputes for the fading Ice Queen.

Weir sashayed into court this week to answer to domestic abuse charges for biting his husband Victor Voronov during a fight.  Yes, biting.  He bit his husband, something that would actually be kind of kinky if it didn’t involve Johnny Weir.   It figures that Johnny Weir fights like a 14-year-old girl.  Presumably the bite occurred in-between hair pulling and proclamations that Voronov is a fat skank.  Regina George herself would surely tip her hat to such a grade-A catfight move.   Well done, Mr. Weir.   If I were Johnny Weir’s husband (that’s a horrifying thought), I’d keep my wits about me.  Given the inevitable escalation of these types of things, the cocking of a weave-blade is surely next to come.

Now don’t get me wrong, domestic abuse is never funny… unless Johnny Weir is the perpetrator, then it’s always funny.  I celebrate this for many reasons, and not just the ones you might imagine.  Yes, this is the sort of low-brow trash that people like me feed off of, but that’s beside the point.  The more important thing here is that this act is proof positive that Johnny has studied and learned well from the track record of the one true and unquestioned Queen of the Ice, Tonya Harding.  This marital tussle is giving me shades of Tonya Harding’s 2000 arrest for throwing a hubcap at her boyfriend’s head after an argument, a feat that landed her a 3-day stint in jail.  I live!  Again, well done, Johnny Weir!

For years I was skeptical of your potential, Mr. Weir, but now I know I was wrong.  I had feared that you were an overrated dilettante skating by on cheap witticisms and a dubious fashion sense, but now I know that you’re the real deal.   It takes a true artist to give authentic shades of Tonya Harding, yet you did it with such deftness, such aplomb.  I take this as proof that your media clown-whoring is here to stay and will excite and titillate me for years to come.  I await your next transgression with bated breath.

Weir’s husband accompanied him to the court hearing and asked the judge to drop the charges, which he did.  They skipped out gayfully, and though neither of them made an official statement, it would appear that all is well in Candy Land.  I’m not so sure.  Johnny Weir clearly has a deep wellspring of rage to work from.  His book sucked and his skating career ended in shambles of its former glory.  Furthermore the fashion career that he spoke so excitedly of has never materialized.  That’s a genuine shame as I so dreamed of purchasing the full range of a Johnny Weir fashion line once it hit the clearance rack at Target.  Time tends to ferment rather than allay the rage in fading divas, so I don’t think we’ve heard the last of this.  Victor Voronov would be well advised to get the hell out before a Stoli bottle lands on his head.

Crossdressers Assemble!

It’s that time again.  Logo has scoured the nation for its finest transvestites, crossdressers and pretty-pretty-princesses for the newest season of Rupaul’s Drag Race.  This time the show premiered twice, splitting the debut of the initial 14 queens into two separate episodes, which wasn’t confusing at all.

Part one premiered last week.  (Spoilers coming.  Duh.)  It was slim pickings as the first 7 queens attempted the stock Crap-Into-Dazzle! opening week challenge.  Seattle’s Ben Delacreme won, sporting the sole outfit that didn’t appear to be crudely fashioned out of shower curtains.  Everyone else floundered fantastically, flopping around the runway like a dying goldfish out of its aquarium.  I suppose that would be “fishy,” so I guess it was a success.

Tragically, immensely tragically, Kelly Mantle was the first queen eliminated.  I could not fathom it.  OK, I’ll grant you she was a little raggedy.  Yeah sure, so she maybe should’ve run a comb through that wig before hitting the runway, and yeah, maybe she should’ve tried to cobble out some semblance of a silhouette out of that gown.  But that bitch was serving undeniable rolling-at-the-renfaire realness.  Just hand her a hunk of meat on a stick and she’d have hit perfection.  Whatever.  It doesn’t matter what she looked like.  Kelly Mantle is the sole contestant who has paid a proper homage to the motherfucking queen, Miss Khia Shamone.   Surely the producers caught her epic cover of Lick It.  That alone should’ve bought her at least 3 weeks of immunity.  Bullshit.

Kelly’s departure afforded New York City’s Vi Vacious another chance to vie for the crown.  Ordinarily I have nothing but respect for a man who rolls himself in rhinestones and lavender wall paper and declares himself pretty, but that shit was a mess.  Vi Vacious hit the runway with the rolling gait of an elderly woman with severe back pain.  It was all downhill from there.  That motherfucker looked like a vejazzled Grimace from your happy meal topped in a Cindy Brady wig.  Goddamn.  Yet underneath all my rage and confusion, I still have to give the girl a pass.  Vi Vacious may not have been sick’ning, but Ornacia sure was.  Experience has shown me that anyone who communes with a Styrofoam wig head is kind of neat.  So you win this round, Vi Vacious, but know that Ornacia carried your ass.

Round 2 of the premiere dropped tonight.  This episode was much less busted, though it sadly climaxed in the elimination of Magnolia Crawford.  Sure, she was kind of a cunt, but just as I’m starting to get into her soccer mom blowup doll couture they have to send her packing.  Is there no relief?  Miss Crawford shall forever live in infamy for her extraordinary interview/expose of Taylor Swift.  Hopefully she will choose to take this setback in stride and refrain from violently venting her rage on any of her drag daughters.  That’s what rosebushes are for.

This week’s runway was significantly less dismal, so it seems that there’s hope for this season.  Bitches better get their shit together, though.  Not just anyone can be an Akashia or a Nicole Paige Brooks.  Get to work, ladies.

A Discharge Too Many.

Tragedy has struck in Tinseltown as it appears that Katy Perry and John Mayer’s passionate romance has come to an end.  Reports indicate that it was Perry who broke up with Mayer (a shock, I know) for unknown reasons.  While I would like to credit my own breakdown on Mayer’s manwhoring as Perry’s impetus for the breakup, I think that the true cause of this split is all too clear: trichomoniasis.

Trichomoniasis is a STI caused by microscopic parasites that infect the male urethra and is thus spread to the male’s sex partners.  The Center for Disease Control states that trichomoniasis is one of the leading causes of bacterial vaginosis, vaginal chafing and breakups with John Mayer.   Symptoms of trich in women can range from the standard itching and discharge to much worse, but sadly the disease is easily spread as it usually produces no symptoms in men.  Of course in Perry’s case, that wouldn’t have mattered.  John Mayer’s cum has looked and smelled like expired mayonnaise for years, so there’s no penile pus or goo imaginable that would make Mayer schedule a trip to the clinic.

I would like to credit Perry for coming to her senses and shucking off Mayer before it’s too late, but given her previous decision to court, date and even marry grotesque barney Russell Brand, it seems far more reasonable to assume that this was a discharge too many and the final straw that broke the camel’s back.  While I suppose it’s tragic that John Mayer has lost a sugar momma, if this is what it takes to ensure that another stale piece of shit like Who You Love is never released again then the nation is all the richer for their breakup.

The true loser in this split (aside from Katy Perry’s pussy) is John Mayer.  The man is rapidly running out of potential young, single sugar mommas and his M.O. is getting increasingly obvious to all but the densest women.  It’s growing clear that a relationship with John Mayer leads to a bad reputation and that bad reputation invariable leads to a host of sexually transmitted infections.  Unless you like your shit raw and prolapsed (just because it worked for Britney doesn’t mean it’s going to work for you) you’re better off passing on a relationship with John Mayer.

So what’s a manwhore to do?  More than likely Mayer will continue with his old antics, so Hollywood’s young leading ladies need to stay on guard.  My advice to Selena Gomez is this: if your door bell rings and John Mayer’s there, don’t answer it!