Come for me, bitches.

I am pleased (and flattered) to announce that this here post has been cross-posted over at Justine Larbalestier’s blog.

If you are not yet aware of Justine’s awesomeness, hop to it.  You are missing out.

It is Black History Month and boy am I feeling the love.

Just yesterday Rush Limbaugh (or as I like to think of him, the Phantom Menace)  derisively referred to the health care reform bill which is swimming its way upstream through Congress as a “civil rights bill” and “reparations.” To be clear, what he means by using “civil rights bill” and “reparations” as a pejorative is “this health care bill is another attempt by the lowly, lazy, complaining Black folk to take bread from the mouths of hard-working honest White Americans.  First they took February, what’s next?  March?.”

Last week the fine gentlemen of Pi Kappa Alpha decided to throw a party to “honor” Black History Month which included a very helpful how-to for the ladies so that they might properly comport themselves as “Ghetto chicks.”
 

“Ghetto chicks usually have gold teeth, start fights and drama, and wear cheap clothes – they consider Baby Phat to be high class and expensive couture. They also have short, nappy hair, and usually wear cheap weave, usually in bad colors, such as purple or bright red. They look and act similar to Shenaynay, and speak very loudly, while rolling their neck, and waving their finger in your face. Ghetto chicks have a very limited vocabulary, and attempt to make up for it, by forming new words, such as “constipulated”, or simply cursing persistently, or using other types of vulgarities, and making noises, such as “hmmg!”, or smacking their lips, and making other angry noises,grunts, and faces.”

But it was John Mayer (singer, songwriter, Poor Man’s Stevie Ray Vaughn) that got the month started off right with an interview that he did for Playboy where he proved that he doesn’t have the good sense (or graces) that God gave Kanye West.

MAYER: Star magazine at one point said I was writing a tell-all book for $10 million. On Star’s cover it said what a rat! My entire life I’ve tried to be a nice guy.

PLAYBOY: Do black women throw themselves at you?

MAYER: I don’t think I open myself to it. My dick is sort of like a white supremacist. I’ve got a Benetton heart and a fuckin’ David Duke cock. I’m going to start dating separately from my dick.

PLAYBOY: Let’s put some names out there. Let’s get specific.

MAYER: I always thought Holly Robinson Peete was gorgeous. Every white dude loved Hilary from The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. And Kerry Washington. She’s superhot, and she’s also white-girl crazy. Kerry Washington would break your heart like a white girl. Just all of a sudden she’d be like, “Yeah, I sucked his dick. Whatever.” And you’d be like, “What? We weren’t talking about that.”

That’s an official Nice Guy FAIL.

These harbingers of Black History Month can get a girl a little down.
But not me. I am thankful that I have a partner who loves and cherishes me for the supreme delight that I am.

I am also thankful for the amazing strong black women that I have in my life as role-models.
Without my mother, Oprah Winfrey and Barbra Streisand, my confidence in my smokingness (both intellectual and physical)  might have been dimmed by that young-man whose mother must be really ashamed of him right now and who is actually making me sympathize with that Jennifer Aniston person.

But lately I realize that I’ve been leaving out one deserving woman in my SBW list of might:  RuPaul.

Nownownow, I know what you’re saying, “But BPD, RuPaul’s been around since forever how come it’s taken you so long?”   Really, I have no excuse.

From the revelatory, Super Model, with its clarion cry that got me through many a grueling show choir rehearsal (damn you mirrored gym) to the present RuPaul’s Drag Race – which is not about cars [but just… can we all agree that if RuPaul hosted a muscle car show with say Joan Rivers or Tina Turner {that pair would be a mother-fucking wig-off} that show would be ridiculously awesome] – RuPaul has given me the balls to get through the tough times.  RuPaul has made me the man I am today.  And by man, I mean small black lesbian gay-dandy. (2010 is the year of the bow-tie.  Look out people!)

When I’m about to do something that seems super important, I think, “You better work, bitch!”
I chant, “It’s time to lip-synch for your life!” when it’s time for me to move mountains.

Vodpod videos no longer available.            ……….Minute 37 is where the real magic happens.

RuPaul is about knowing who you are and owning your fabulousness.  RuPaul is about ripping people’s faces off with your fierceness and leaping in your stilettos over the shit.  Most importantly RuPaul is not about some trifling mess of a boy that even Ghandi would slap.

With Ru and the other SBW in my life, I know my worth.  I’m not even going to sweat it.  Because I know, that despite how hurtful and how hateful what John Mayer said is, it’s not about me.  It’s not about any other woman of color (or woman, frankly) in the world.  It’s about him and the dick-shrivel that he is.  I’m not waiting for the world to change.  I am the change that I seek in the world.  I am the light that I want to see.  I am fabulous.  I am fierce. I am magnificent.

Come for me bitches.

.

Do you see what I see?

Dear Mike Huckabee,
Thank you so much for recommending that part of my fair City be jack-hammed off to float out into oblivion.  Your desire to annex part of the Union really speaks to your patriotism.  Your eloquent display of tact proves to me just how important diplomacy is.

Also, it’s nice to know that you think that New York City has recovered enough after 9/11 for you to suggest digging a big crater in it.  I know that I’m still probably dealing with some PTSD, but it’s good that you’re totally able to move on.  It makes fills me with indescribable emotion to know that when I see this…

Ground Zero 2009

…you see this.

Ground Zero Unicorn, 2009

You must be taking classy lessons from the Phelps klan and I’ve got to say, with citizens like you, America sure doesn’t need to worry about enemies.

Interwebs lift us up where we belong…

Last week was a hard week.
I was totally stressed out at work.
I was audited by the IRS and had the first of my installment payments due and had to figure out what I wouldn’t be paying in order to give the government its due  (fingers crossed this gets me the Public Option I want).
I’ve been a bit worried about something coming up in my offline life that’s been keeping me distracted and I found a line on my face.  The worst part is that the line on my face is probably caused by the frequent and painful multiple day-long headaches that I have (which are probably migraines).
Also, I found out the the Phelps clan would be in my fair borough to picket outside of synagogues on Yom Kippur because they’re classy-McClassersons who are still protected by Free Speech. And though I am not Jewish and I didn’t spend the day fasting (I did spent the day tidying and meditating on things that I might need to atone for [like calling my sister “stupid” a lot when I was younger]) this kind of… just nastiness by the Westboro klan really floored me.

There were some bright spots.

RHS booked an Off-Broadway gig (which pays) and is now finally able to turn Equity.  This makes us a two Equity-card household.
Oprah Winfrey kicked off her 24th Season with interviews with Whitney Houston, and in a double whammy Jay-Z and, the light of my life, Barbra Streisand.

But the brightest spots were found on the interwebs.
I was browsing my favourite blogs and discovered Wordle.net (beautiful world cloud maker) at CKHB’s blog.  Here’s the wordle from last week’s entries.

Every silver lining has a word cloud.

I found out where the limited edition Barbra Streisand Barbie doll can be purchased.  (Wink, wink.  Hint, hint.)  And I found videos of the Vanguard performance (that I, sadly, did not win tickets to).

Hello, dolly.

Some smartasses after my own heart found a way to counter the non-housebroken-ness of the Phelps clan.

Amen, dude.

And finally… Oprah gets surprised.

Thank you interwebs.

Doggone it.

Some people have no home training.

You know the people I’m talking about.

Kanye

Serena

Joe Wilson

And some people act like they’ve never even been house broken.  Rush Limbaugh is just that kind of person.  He’s the kind that you don’t even want in your house but if he has to come in, you want to make sure you’ve put some newspapers down because you know that he’s just going to run around yapping and pissing all over your nice clean hardwood floors.

That’s why my Grandma always had outside dogs.

I’m not dealing with this today…

Remember when a bad day was picking poo out of Whitney's butt?

Everyone is talking all this stuff about you
why can’t you support your kids?

You don’t need permission to make these bad decisions.
It’s your prerogative.

No graduation day for you.

Dear Beauty School Dropout Sarah Palin,

I thought long and hard about the best way, if any, to reply to your fear-mongering about health care reform.

It finally occurred to me that I couldn’t use too many words, since it’s painfully obvious that you can’t read.  After all, if you could read, you wouldn’t have gotten so confused about what Congressman Earl Blumenauer meant.  ‘Course, perhaps it’s more than you not being able to read… perhaps you’re just unable to understand.

To aid your stunted comprehension, I’ve decided to include some pictures to help clarify some things.

Death Panel

That's one mighty deadly panel of steel.

Not Death Panel

The bow tie is dead sexy, but not deadly.

Death Panel

You know it's true.

Not death panel

Not it.

Not it.

Socialist country

Flag of the Socialist Republic of Vietnam ("socialist" is even in the official name)

Not a Socialist Country

One of those 50 stars is for Hawaii. Suck it, birthers.

And lastly, because this seems to be a really hard concept to grasp for many of your ilk.

Hitler

Short, pasty and poorly moustachioed... That spells Hitler!

Not Hitler.

Tall, clean-shaven, cool drink of water. Obama, don't hurt 'em!

In closing…

Sarah, don’t sweat it (Don’t sweat it).
You’re not cut out to hold a job.
Better forget it (Forget it),
No one wants their country run by a slob.

Sincerely,

BPD

P.S.
If the pictures sparked your interest in truth go here to get some more info.

What’s a pirate’s favourite kind of political action? Astrot-arf!

I was born in Panama City and raised in Tampa Bay, Florida (Hillsborough County in the house!) until we moved to Connecticut when I was 11.
I do not have many fond memories that are Tampa-specific; but of the few my favourite is of the Gasparilla Festival.

Every late January or early February Ye Mystic Krewe of the Gasparilla would invade the town and wreak havoc.  There were chocolates shaped like coins in the street and snappers (that used to scare my sister terribly – much to the delight of my brother) and grown men in mascara and tights.  It was a magical time.

+

Real men wear tights.

÷

That's Mister Manscara to you.

=

Pretty, pretty pirate

My father would take us every year and every year between the Krewe’s cannons and pillaging he would say, “I can’t wait until next year.”  Indeed, my brother, sister and I wished that every day was Gasparilla Day.  So I guess that I kind of understand what these residents of Ybor City are going through…

They’re just a riotous mob who simply can’t wait for next February. They want to rape and pillage now and they’ve decided to use decency and (as the cool kids say) small dee democracy as the targets of their doubloon-hoarding zeal.  They are just itching to throw their pocketfuls of incendiaries that Glenn Beck bought them at the feet of the President they don’t like.  And they want their very own Captain Hook to be proud of them.

If they keep this up they’ll end up just like all of the other pirate captains (including Jose Gaspar)… they’ll go down with the ship.  Before they take health-care reform and America down with them, I think that we should mutiny.

Bye bye Miss Moronic Pie.

I didn’t know that there was a better way to end a Sunday evening than a Tina Fey (and Amy Poehler) break.  Apparently there is.

I’m going to exercise my freedom of speech and call it a Governor Sarah Palin permanent vacation break.

Rejoice!

Looks like someone needs a job-y job.

There was a time in my life when the sound of Angel sent shivers up my spine.

 

Picture it, the 90s, thousands of girls all in one place.  Swaying.  Head scarves flowing in the wind and Birkenstocks kicked off.

Ah, those heady days of yore where every young lesbian was given the gift of the Lilith Fair.  The possibility of a summer of blissful, sound-tracked hook-ups, all wrapped up in a neat bow.

 

Fast-forward to now.   

Angel and Ms. McLachlan implore me to save the life of a dog in that ASPCA commercial and succeed in sending more shivers my spine.

But these are shivers of embarrassment.

 

Though she’s tried, she’s fallen…

She’s sunk so low.

She’s messed up

Better she should’ve known.

And now I’ve come round here

To tell her, “I told you so.”