Poor Tom Cruise. I never imagined I'd utter those words, but Scientology's poster boy can add a new costume to his Hollywood wardrobe. Replace those trademark sunglasses and white briefs with a gingham skirt and ruby slippers. Repeat after me. There's no place like homo.
Tom is cheerfully cross-dressed as Dorothy Gale in a recently published photo run in that paragon of journalistic integrity the Sun. I may be mistaken, but is he posing with childhood friends Boy George and Bruce Vilanch? Perhaps they were on their way to Stonewall for a smart non-alcoholic mocktail? I do so very hope Tom Cruise will perform this weekend at the annual drag-extravaganza Wigstock in Tompkins Square Park! I must have my cherished valet, Ronaldo, call Lady Bunny to suggest as much.
Also included in the photo spread is Tom Cruise decked out as a 1920's flapper. Flapper? I think he looks more like Rhoda from the hilarious 70's sitcom of the same name. Why would any parent dress their child as a flapper anyways? Do you think he smoked rolled cigarettes in his room while practicing the Cakewalk or the Lindy Hop, bejeweled in strings of pearls with peacock feathers in his hair, crying with mascara streaked eyes, praying to someday have his face in the big pictures, dressed as a Depression era junkie/prostitute? "Momma, I'm gonna see my name in lights someday!"
That was certainly my childhood! But enough about me. Etienne and Michaud are aboslutely besides themselves because I worry much too much about my own affairs. Oh Tom. Thank you. Thank you for giving me the fodder to take my mind away from my own concerns of scandalous childhood photos surfacing. Thank you for giving us your bizarre emotional outbursts and cultish spiritual ramblings and please, please keep it coming. Give us everything you got Tom.
And your little dog too.