For Filth.

(Spoilers ahead… duh.)

Another season of Drag Race has come to climax and again we are left to congratulate the winner and mop up the mess.  Heinous bitch Bianca Del Rio pulled off a deserved win as the undisputed star of this season.  Drag Race has been frequently criticized for ignoring established drag veterans in favor of featuring fishy newcomers, but as her competitors frequently pointed out, Bianca is a seasoned drag veteran.  See, Bianca didn’t win (just) because she was the most talented.  She won because she was the smartest.  Bianca knew how to create a compelling narrative and she set to work in formulating her Bitch with a Heart of Gold-schtick from the get-go.  Much has been made of the fact that the show allows the audience to vote and choose the winner but it doesn’t matter whether the audience votes or not.  TV has a set formula that nearly everyone bows to.  If you can make your story read and combine it with a little wit and sparkle then the audience will arrive at the same conclusion that the producers would.  Bianca got this and now she’s got one hundred thousand dollars.  Smart bitch.

But if you’re a cunt like me, you don’t care about that.  With no real underdogs, rebels or wild cards in the season to distract them, the audience was left with one prime target for the kind of A-Grade filthy pleasure Schadenfreude that Reality TV is founded on.  Thank you, gay Jesus, for the gift of Laganja. Laganja Estranja’s slow, protracted demise was the ultimate cunt-pleasure of season six.  If Alyssa Edwards was so bad she’s good, then Laganja Estranja was so bad she went past good and back to bad again.  Laganja was a cornucopia of guilty pleasures.  The busted outfits!  The shrill catch phrases!  The endless tears!  The strained affectations!  The girl delivered.  Laganja did all she could to ape the mannerisms of her drag mother, Alyssa Edwards, and her persistent failure to effectively do so made for incredibly compelling television.  She’s my pick for All-Stars Season 2.  If Alyssa Edwards is the Beyoncé of the Haus of Edwards and Shangela is the Kelly Rowland, then Laganja Estranja is the Solange.

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Harsh, I know.  But hey, she’s got legs for days and no one can take that away from her.

Enough analysis.  Time to read these hoes for filth.  Consider this the definitive T on season six:

Kelly Mantle: Last?!?  Has the world turned upside down?  Any queen that has done a proper homage to the motherfucking queen deserves immunity for at least 3 eliminations.  That’s just common sense.

Magnolia Crawford: This bitch knows about commitment to a bit.  After debuting as the absolute worst Drag Race contestant in herstory, she followed that up by releasing the absolute worst Drag Race track ever.  Hey, if you’re going to be the worst, be the worst of all time.  I have a certain respect for that.

Vi Vacious: When you’re upstaged by a Styrofoam wig head then you know your act’s got problems.

April Carrion: Out of drag, she’s the absolute twinkiest.  She must be a veritable magnet for dirty old men, so I understand why she crossdresses.

Gia Gunn: Gia Gunn is a terribly underrated drag queen. Not only is she pretty but she defies stereotypes. She proves that not all Asian people are smart.

Milk: Artfully curdled.

Laganja Estranja: I’d say that she’s a clown but clowns are supposed to be funny.

Trinity K. Bonet: This season’s most decorated entry into the Drag Race Dental Hall of Shame.

Joslyn Fox: The girl was so damn sweet I almost lost a foot.

Ben Delacreme: I preferred her out of drag.  None of the other queens on this or any other season has served menwholooklikeoldlesbians.com realness like this bitch and no one ever will.

Darienne Lake: The world’s whitest drag queen.  We’re talking Spiced Pumpkin Frappuccino in a Lexus level white.

Courtney Act: I saw a YouTube video of her performing on a gay cruise.  It’s crazy that YouTube has the power to simultaneously depict her past and predict her future all at the same time.

Adore Delano:  She’s not the first washed up Reality TV star to wind up crossdressing for singles at Hamburger Mary’s and she won’t be the last.

Bianca Del Rio: I’ll have to admire her from afar.  The heavy unblended eye shadow is giving me shades of Pogo the Clown.  I’m scared that she’ll chop me up and bury me in her basement.

Stay gorgeous, ladies!

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Babe of the Month: Lucian Piane

Life is long, arduous and frequently tedious.  Were it not for the existence of incredibly hot men I would have lost the last tattered remnant of my sanity years ago.   On that note I would like to introduce a new feature to my blog- Babe of the Month!  Each month I will be introducing a new piece of fine ass for your viewing pleasure.  It’s not often that I take to flights of optimism but I’m willing to occasionally venture out to more reverent pastures when hot ass is involved.  It is with great esteem that I introduce the first ever Embittered Queen Babe of the Month, Lucian Piane.

Lucian Piane has done a ton of shit.  He’s a music producer who has worked with scores of people, though most gays know him as RuPaul’s producer.  This is fortunate timing as we are standing on the eve of the finale of the latest season of Drag Race and Lucian’s annual appearance on Drag Race is consistently the highlight of every season.  Lucian Piane is a little gummy bear of a man whose adorability is of epic, uncharted proportions.  He’s like a life-size Keebler Elf but instead of serving cookies he’s serving unbridled sexiness.  Observe:

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God fucking damn.  What can be made of this teddy bear in man form?  He even comes pre-scruffed, though any homo worth his salt would gladly lick that cutesy stubble right off his face.  There are precious few men on this Earth who can serve cuddly Caucasian sex bomb like Lucian Piane and it is a sight to behold.  I am including a link to his Instagram for those who demand more photographic evidence.  It is my hope that the radiant hotness on this page will comfort and warm all my readers in their loneliest moments.  I have found that his Instagram is best viewed mid-crying jag, just before the Xanax kicks in.  I have no doubt that the alienated curmudgeons who make up my readership will feel me on this.

In order to be an Embittered Queen Babe of the Month, it’s not enough to just be hot.  You have to be foxy and there’s no shorter path to foxiness than brilliance.  Genius is sexy.  Always.  Case in point, his work on RuPaul’s last single, “Geronimo.”  This song is like Buffy Sainte-Marie’s “Adam” crossed with TLC’s “Hat 2 Da Back.”  PJ Harvey fuzz guitars over a double dutch beat?  Slay me.  That is panty creaming brilliance at work.  I mean… it’s just soup down there right now.  Lucian must beat suitors off with a stick.  He even adds a vocal track to the song, performing in his best vocal approximation of an 1840’s gold prospector.  Thrill us, Lucian.  Thrill us.   His genius is at work in all 10 tracks of RuPaul’s newest album, Born Naked.  That particular album sold well, prompting a Deluxe Edition re-release.  (I had naturally assumed that the Deluxe Edition would come with a photo spread of the producer modeling the latest in men’s swim wear.  That feature is cruelly absent.)  Piane brought Drag Race to new heights with his acclaimed Shade: The Rusical and it seems like everything he touches turns to gold.

One day being an Embittered Queen Babe of the Month will be the highest honor.  Men will fight me for the glory and the privilege of being a part of the legacy.  Until that day comes I humbly present to you its first entry, twunk superstar Lucian Piane.  May he stay hunky now and forevermore.

In Memoriam: Vito Cammisano’s Kitty.

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So wait… which one is the bottom?

Thus was my initial reaction to the now famous lip lock between Michael Sam and his number one twink, Vito Cammisano.  A brief bit of internet research has uncovered the terrifying truth- Vito is in fact the bottom.  Shocking but true.  Given this unfortunate fact, I would like to hereby dedicate this post in memoriam to Vito Cammisano’s asshole.

We can use the past tense; that poor thing is long since annihilated.  As soon as news broke that Michael Sam was the first openly gay man to be successfully drafted into the NFL, queens across the world were gagging to know who the tiny twink was that Sam was towering over.  This historic gesture might one day be a footnote in the Pro Football Hall of Fame, but Vito has already earned himself an irrevocable spot in the Bottoming Hall of Fame.

If I was getting slammed regularly by a defensive end four times my size, there would be nothing left but a quivering pile of jelly.  Mind you I’ve packed an awful lot of dick.  That Cammisano is still alive, well and prospering is testament to a true blue bottom.  That is Christ-level masochism right there.  I’d imagine that a crucifixion is only slightly more painful.  My sincerest sympathies go to the shotgun wound that is his asshole.  That anyone would shred their kitty to such Michelle Duggar extremes is indicative of the truest love that any two men can share.  Michael Sam is a lucky man.

This entire ordeal has shocked me, stunned me and thrilled me, however it has also (briefly) restored my faith in humanity.  I thought myself an atheist but there has to be a benevolent God looking over us for the first out gay man drafted into the NFL to be picked up by a team called The Rams.  That’s not a coincidence, that’s the hand of God at work.

The gays get two gifts here: the emergence of Michael Sam and the instant celebrity of his boyfriend.  Now a bona fide gay superstar, Cammisano is but a stone’s throw away from his own Real Housewives show on Bravo.  His asshole may resemble hamburger meat, but his star can only rise from here.

Help Kickstart Gay Abortions.

Pictured below is a recent courtside photograph of celebrity ménage à trois Beyoncé, Jay Z and Jake Gyllenhaal.  (Side note- Beyoncé must be into pegging, because I can’t imagine Gyllenhaal’s adventurous enough to attempt vaginal intercourse.)

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Clearly Jay-Z is having none of this femme shit between wifey and Beyoncé.  It’s not too hard to imagine the context of the conversation.  Given the look of complete disinterest on Jay Z’s face and the rapt attention on Gyllenhaal’s face, the conversation is clearly centered on bronzers and the Velvet Remy Silky tied back into Jake’s ponytail.  I certainly hope the game was good because I couldn’t imagine sitting through 2 hours of that shit.

Speaking of gay shit, a fundraising project of note is in its final hours on Kickstarter.  The campaign was started by Kit Williamson, an actor who coincidentally resembles a less gay version of Jake Gyllenhaal.  Williamson is trying to raise funds to film the second season of Eastsiders.  Eastsiders originally aired on Logo but since that network is primarily funded by food stamps and the merchandise they steal and then return for store credit at TJ Maxx, there’s no money for a second season.  That’s a pity because I actually kind of liked Eastsiders.  Any TV series that involves gay sex and abortion references is a winner in my book.  The series centers on Thom and Cal, two hyper-promiscuous gay men who struggle to keep their relationship alive amongst endless cheating.  So basically it’s about two gay men who exist.  Also they live in Silver Lake and not WeHo, so they’re totally of the people.  In Cal’s words, the relationship has to survive “or else Chick-fil-A wins,” so the stakes are high.

Willam Belli is slated to appear in the 2nd season.  Belli desperately needs this gig to finance future song parodies about Grinder asshole pics (or as I call it, community service), so please give this campaign some money.  Ask yourself, are you going to beat off to a Beyoncé-Jay Z-Gyllenhaal ménage à trois fantasy tonight?  If so, you probably wouldn’t do that if you hadn’t read this post.  And you would never have read this post if not for Kit Williamson’s butch Gyllenhaal realness, so give a bitch some cash.

Courtney Love Is The World’s Most Glamorous Cold Sore

Capturing the filthy, volatile essence of Courtney Love is no small feat.  Though she conjures any number of pejoratives, you just can’t quite nail her down.  Courtney Love is many things, musician, actress, harlot, goddess, self-promoter, schemer, but above all she is indomitable.  She’s a crazy bitch, but she’s the last crazy bitch standing and it will always be that way.  Like cockroaches, herpes or body glitter, she never goes away.  As a nation we simply cannot rid ourselves of her.

Nor should we ever want to.  Love conducts herself with a patent absurdity that has kept tabloids running for years.  Her naked hunger for attention and reverence often serves to parody herself, but that is a distraction to the immense artistry she displays simply by living and breathing.  Sure, there is the subject of her criminally overlooked music, with Live Through This in particular enduring as one of the absolute best commercial rock records of the 1990’s.  Moving beyond that any truly learned and studied hoe must bow down and venerate their goddess.  She is not a whore, she is the whore and every media hoe that has followed her has merely walked the path she treaded.  Aesthetically even mighty titans like Peaches and Khia cannot quite match her, but popularly she has personified, molded and epitomized the trope of the crazy media clown whore.  The Courtney Stoddens and Amanda Bynes of the world pop up and dance to our delight, but they burn out soon enough.  They are merely disciples worshiping at the altar of Love.  I imagine that in her quieter moments even Lindsay Lohan herself takes time to reflect on how thoroughly her own path has been paved by Mother Love.  Courtney Love is the alpha and the omega of our filthy society.  No crazed bitch can match her.

She released a new single today.  Two actually, a double A-side “You Know My Name/Wedding Day” harkens back to the antiquated marketing of rock and roll vinyl.  Both songs seem like more realized and coherent extensions of the upbeat punk sound she druggedly tried to capture on 2004’s doomed America’s Sweetheart.  They’re not extraordinary songs but they are respectable pieces of punk rock.  What’s most notable about these tracks are how exceptionally raw they are.   She howls over both tracks with a rugged tenacity that is still unmatched by either her contemporaries or her successors.  Courtney Love’s roar is one of the mightiest sounds to ever grace rock music and it’s still fully intact after nearly three decades in the business.  At 49 Courtney shows no signs of mellowing with age.  This is a fitting gesture seeing as how her entire career has served as an act of defiance against a society that has perpetually shamed her.  Love seems to have no interest in producing pleasant folk rock melodies for the latter part of her career.  Instead it would seem she has chosen the Jayne County route, rebranding herself as a punk rock glamor hag angrily snarling into middle age.  No matter what, she endures, and it is a glorious thing.

Courtney Love is the world’s most glamorous cold sore.  She’s stubborn, unyielding and sometimes oozes over with puss.  She persists throughout it all to remind us that she’s still here and we are richer for it.  Thank you, slut goddess, for all that you have done and all that you will still do.