Mission Accomplished! #56

What's in a Naima?

Last night, Naima was selected as the fourth winner of "Tyra Bank's Show About Tyra Banks and Also How Much Tyra Banks Loves Barbecue Ribs, Tyra Banks", a.k.a. "America's Next Top Model". Congratulations Naima, I'm certain your soft spoken demeanor and non-threatening, ambiguous, pan-ethnic facade will sell plenty of Covergirl lip gloss to a generation of hungry 'tween mall brats. I do siimply adore your faux-hawk, darling.

So let's get to the meat of it. "Did somebody say meat?" Aw shit, here comes Tyra! America's Next Top Model sucks now. There. I've said it. Yikes. I'm peeking out my window lest Giganta herself reach into my fourth floor walk-up and pluck me out with her buttery fingers, tossing me into the street like a discarded buffalo chicken bone. Ya'll, ever since her no more wire hangers moment, Tyra-of-the-Tangerine-Ramen-Noodle-Weave scares me silly. As an ardent viewer of the show's entire run, I feel it's my duty to finally express what has been on my mind. This damn show either needs a face lift (any suggestions Ms. Janice?) or it needs to give itself the boot, preferably leather, stiletto heeled, Italian boots. Here's my list. Tyra, please feel free to read this over a light snack of chicken and waffles.

Hay-Hay-Ho-Ho, Jay-Manuel-Has-Got-To-Go. Jay's art direction consists of splattering the girls with too much eye makeup, dressing them in kudzu and/or daisy dukes and directing them with demands of 'make it fierce gurl…fiercer!' What's fierce is his nasty, orange spray tan.
Solution: Tyra you need to infuse this show with a new artistic vision. What am I saying? Forget new, think any artistic vision! Please. Think aloof. Oh never mind, none of the girls this season knew what "aloof" meant. Which takes me to. . .

Short Bus to the Photo Shoot. Lordy, these were the stupidest young ladies ever in the history of Reality TV! (That's a bold statement, yes.) Where did you find these dumb gals? I mean seriously. They were illiterate. They couldn't read aloud, none of them.
Solution: I'm not saying cast the show entirely with models on their way to medical school, but at least cast some girls who have an ounce of book learning. Or better yet take a page from Bravo's fabulous "Project Runway". Their show is cast with up-and-coming fashion designers and the result is a fiercely competitive, fantastic show that from the get go had me guessing who'd win. If you cast ANTM season five with actual models who have been in the business, not only will the photo shoots shine but the competition will step up as well. Maybe you need some Reality TV schooling yourself girlfriend?

Product Displacement: I do not want to see these ditzy models forced to hold a jar of Jiffy Peanut Butter while posing like a Greek statue while hang gliding over a pit of snakes. Everything but the peanut butter is fine. The product placement on this damn show has gotten out of delicately positioned hand.
Solution: If you're selling a product, it better be a fancy scarf or a handbag or a pair of shoes. Otherwise, leave it for the commercial breaks. Speaking of commericials, bring back the awkward Cover Girl Tip of the Week! Naima can quietly mumble how to put on eye shadow while Orange Julius dresses her like Rum Tum Tiger. AND NO MORE EVA PIGFORD! I simply cannot handle her truth.

Finally, Deadwood Homage: Listen to Heather Havrilesky's advice. She's a cocksucking know-it-all whose better off fucking johns in the whore house not writing opinions at the Daily Standard, but she's got fucking damn good sense and I hear a juicy can to rival Tyra herself.
Solution: Read her article about last night's show here.

Two Steps Back

Controversy has taken centerstage on Fox's hit reality TV show American Idol. Wednesday, ABC's Primetime Live showcased a critical report stating that former Idol contestant Corey Clark had a secret romance with Idol judge Paula Abdul. Abdul has straight up denied any state of attraction and swears that she gave no favors to the young crooner including a new wardrobe, prescription cough medicine and sex, lots and lots of sex. In the wake of the controversy, however, a former colleague has emerged with some personal insight and fresh allegations against the bubbly pop diva, and according to MC Skat Kat there's darkness hiding behind Ms. Abdul's cheery exterior. DoaCD caught up with MC Skat Kat while he was choreographing a Fresh Step commercial in SoHo, New York.

Gayest Neil: Tell me Mr. Kat--
MC Skat Kat: Call me Skat.
GN: Ew. Ok. Skat, when did you first meet Paula Abdul.
MC: It was down in Compton. I was there doing my thang, some street dancing, some hustling, playing the numbers. I was barely a kitten. Well, I hears about dis gal named Paula Abdul, all exotic and shit. She was in town doin' the little club circuit at the time. So I'm all like I'll check her shit out.
GN: And your first impressions?
MC: She was a'ight. Kind of whiney in her singing, ya know? But there was something there. I knew dis gal was gonna be big. Good dancer.
GN: You admired her dancing?
MC: Damn straight. She had some moves! I met her outside the club and says 'Ms. Abdul, my name's MC Skat Kat and I'm a dancing, cartoon cat. We're going to be famous.' And she's all smoking a bong and says--
GN: Skat, you're alleging Ms. Abdul was smoking marijuana?
MC: Damn straight. She's all high and her eyes are lazy and she's like 'Hey kitty, get in my fucking limo!' So I do.
GN: Incredible. What happened next?
MC: Well a few months later her career took off and before I knows it I'm in Paris, Milan, Dallas, all the far away places with her on tour.
GN: Tell me about your relationship with Ms. Abdul.
MC: It was good to begin with. . . i guess. She was my homegirl, but we was more than all that.
GN: Were you in love?
MC: Shit sissy. I ain't the type who falls in love. But with her, yeah, it was different, you know?
GN: Do you think Paula Abdul see's something in bad boys? Like you and Mr. Clark?
MC: (choking up) I told myself I wasn't going to cry. . .
GN: Let's talk the video for Opposites Attract.
MC: That video be my proudest moments. I remembers me and Paula was practicing some steps and making a dance and she puts down her bong and goes 'Kitty, I'll take two steps forward...' and I says 'I'll take two steps back...' and it just clicked. And she asked me to be in the video.
GN: You must have been proud.
MC: Dis be a natural fact. I was proud a'ight. But I had no idea what a cold hearted, jealous bitch Paula was. In 1990 "Opposites Attract" went on MTV. I became a household name! I'd go out and all the finest pussy be like 'Ooh Skat Kat, let me spray my scents on you!' and 'Ooh Skat Kat, come fuck me with your barbed, feline penis.'
GN: Tell me about the 1991 Grammy awards.
MC: "Opposites Attract" won the best video award. I wasn't invited. I wasn't there. I didn't get shit.

GN: But you have credit in the video!

MC: Paula's lawyers made sure I disappeared. She says to me, 'Kitty, I'm sorry, but you're getting too big.' The next morning she was gone. I never heard from her again.

GN: What happened next?

MC: Me and my old crew, the Stray Mob, we made us a record "The Adventures of MC Skat Kat and the Stray Mob".

GN: It didn't sell very well?
MC: Hell no! Paula's posse made sure of that. She was leaving messages telling me not to fuck with her and to stop using her dance moves. That move is half mine you bitch. I'm gonna kill her! I mean it this time!

GN: So you did hear from her again after she left you?

MC: Bitch, who the fuck are you? Barbara Walters?
GN: Finally, where do you see MC Skat Kat ten years from now.

MC: If I'm not dead, I'll probably be living in a trash can eating rotting pigeons and McDonald's french fries. My life ain't too good right now. Hey, maybe that Corey Clark kid can call me up and we can do a video or something?

Will always love you...

Oh Whitney. Oh Whitney, Whitney, Whitney. Oh Whitney. Lord Girl. Oh Whitney. Girlfriend you're back in rehab? Did you ever leave? Oh Whitney...

You are ever so beautiful and fabulous because you smoke weed in line at the airport, snort cocaine on ABC and pistol whip security guards and you LOVE it. I know you do because we do too. That is to say, we love to love you doing those ghetto-ass triflings. (I do so love pistol whipping security guards though.)

Hell girl, we even thought you was DEAD! Ya'll remember when Whitney was supposed to be dead? Even her publicist had to verify she wasn't dead.

Darling, you need some help, not to mention a new publicist. I'm so happy you are back in rehab. You're simply making this too easy for me. OK. Here's what's happening now in the raucous, joyous life of Whitney Houston.

Well our onetime greatest love of all is, did I mention, back in rehab. Missus Bobby Brown has admitted to pill popping , reefer madness and powdering her nose. She's even smoked her coke IN her weed! Come on Whitney, the night is young. That's like dropping acid while shooting up between your toes. If you're gonna get high, take your time. Sample the buffet. No need for your rare roast beef to bleed into your strawberry shortcake.

Could you imagine? "Aw shit. Whitney is coming over. Ya'll hide the coke, the 'shrooms, and the speed til we're done smoking out. And remember, one at a time or she'll use it all at once." Although I must admit, having Ms. Houston in my living room would certainly make for a wild evening. I wonder who she'd most likely play in Clue? My guess would be Colonel Mustard.

Now in her defense, she still sticks by her assertion from the infamous "Primetime" interview with Diane Sawyer that she didn't smoke crack rock:

"I make too much money to smoke crack. Let's get that straight. Crack is whack."

Whatever Whitney. Your lips were so ashey and your eyes so wild, I panicked for poor Diane. I was certain you were two flicks of a Bic away from stabbing her for a crisp Benjamin. (I love it when I use my street slang. I sound soooo very urban.)

So now you're off to rehab. You were just in rehab a year ago sister, and there's no shame in that. Maybe in rehab you'll have a nice steady diet so you won't aggrivate that gastroenteritis that made you so sick back in February. Gastroenteritis? Yeah, right. Is that something you can catch through a crackpipe? Nope. Don't see gastroenteritis on the crackpipe website. Don't you love the internet?

Yes and I can't help but love Whitney Houston too. Please Whitney get better. Then please fall back off the wagon, again and again. We got to look up to someone.

Election Misdirection

Today our proud nation elects our 44th President. Or the fat people in the middle states will re-elect Bush and yours truly will be writing this column from a gay internment camp within, oh I’d say, two years, (‘cause four more years equals no more queers).

I’m truly unnerved regarding today’s election. I’ve swallowed three nerve pills and I fear I’m not much more for consciousness. In my fleeting moments of lucidity I will attempt to prove there’s so much more teetering on the results of the election not only for gays, like me, but for all of America, like you.

The French (and by way of the world): Cheese, fashion, little dogs, the guillotine and Jean-Pierre Jeunet. The French have given us so much.

It’s time we repaid our debt. And you think they’re snooty now? Just wait until Bush is re-elected. But it’s not only them. The entire world hates Bush! Everyone from Austria to Zimbabwe hates him. We have to think global and act local here people.

Gayest Neil’s College Fund: Every year I send dozens of aspiring queer, youth web columnists to junior colleges across America as part of my college fund: W.R.I.T.E.F.A.G.G.O.T.W.R.I.T.E. (Whatever, Reach Inside, Type Everything Frightening And Gay, Get Over-Traumatized When Remembering Incidents, Terrorize Exes). With Bush in power I won’t have the resources to continue this program which to date has resulted in six dorm room overdoses and three suicides. Hey, writing is the stuff of darkness, mister! It’s not for the weak-willed.

No more Reality TV: Yes Middle America. If you vote for Bush you’ll lose your reality television. You’ll never know what happens when you put assholes together in a condo and watch them sit and yell at each other. You’ll never know which girl married which guy after making out with him in the hot tub that night they all got drunk for the camera. You’ll never know which aspiring model/actress ate the goat’s brains for money. You’ll never know what happened when the sassy black mom was forced to live with the preppy white family and for God’s sake you’ll never see Paris Hilton interacting with rednecks ever, ever again. (There that should up Kerry’s numbers by at least 2%).

Dirty Orange Jumpsuits with No Heads: We don’t need anymore of them. But more and more will pop up, err slump over, if you vote for Bush. Go ahead and give into terrorism. It’s ok. Kerry will get us out of Iraq and we can build a giant wall around our country and be safe from the men with swords and planes.

Bill Clinton: The future Secretary General of the United Nations, William Jefferson Clinton, needs Kerry in office to become Mr. Secretary General. To be president of the world you gotta have the president of the world’s strongest nation in your corner. Unfortunately Bush doesn’t like ole Bubba too much. So vote for Kerry so we can see more of Bill Clinton.

Unicorns: These mythic beasts, who only eat from the hands of a young virgin girl, don’t support George Bush. Bush’s radical, anti-environment agenda has put America’s Unicorn population again on the endangered species list. The Republican’s would argue that Bush’s teenage abstinence programs have created more virgins to protect and cherish these kind creatures, but in truth these unwitting girls are simple pawns in Cheney’s black market Unicorn horn trade. If you love Unicorns, vote for Kerry.

Barbituates: Ambien and Nyquil is an interesting cocktail. Perhaps when this is all over I’ll sleep better without the aid of my pharmacist. Goodnight and happy Election 2004…

Women of Mass Destruction

An unnamed television insider reported an exclusive tidbit that Hollywood producers are fast on track launching a new all-female, action vehicle called WMD, Women of Mass Destruction, to be released as a Fox midseason replacement.

The espionage series stars tinsel town newcomers, Rihab Rashid Taha as herself, the Iraqi biochemist known as “Dr. Germ” and Huda Salih Mahdi Ammash, an Iraqi biotech researcher also playing herself as “Mrs. Anthrax”.

When asked how Fox secured such high profile stars, our insider replied, “Let’s just say the Hollywood machine is a little more sophisticated than those kooks doing all that beheading.”

Well here’s a heads-up: word is these gals are going to set Hollywood on fire, possibly literally!

Said our insider, “They have timing and they have spunk. We’re going to see these two on the big screen someday.” That is if they don’t get arrested again. While on location, production halted when Dr. Germ unleashed a gangrene gas bomb at the craft services table, melting three extras and blinding twelve.

Said an intern, “You know, stars have their tempers, but Germie was a trooper. She got right back into the scene and made sure production wrapped, not only early that day, but she brought brownies too. No one ate the brownies though.”

Located in the fictitious country of Irakistan, WMD centers around three Islamic spies who take global missions of terror from a mysterious voice who they only refer to as “Mr. O”. Dr. Germ is the brains of the operation. Mrs. Anthrax is the muscle and Trixie provides the much needed comic relief. Trixie is played by television’s Kathy Griffin. I caught up with Griffin on the set during a routine dog sweep.

“Oh my God! I mean, oh my Allah! Rihab and Huda are a hoot to work with. These ladies keep you on your toes. That’s for sure.

“For instance, I came out of my trailer last week and there was Huba all staring at me. I’m like, ‘Hey Huba, you want to practice our scene?’ And she’s like, ‘I’m going to cut out your tongue you Israeli whore!’

“And she jumps me with this knife and I’m like ‘Huba, relax! I’m not Jewish. I’m Catholic!’ Well, she beat the shit out of me and we had a good laugh about it later that day.

Laughs are plenty in the show as Griffin’s comic knack and Dr. Germ’s deadpan create a Three’s Company meets the Faces of Death. “Matched with action scenes involving actual Americans killed on screen, WMD straddles the line between serial and reality television,” said executive producer Dick Cheney.

“Reality is here to stay and yes we’ve gotten some flack about real Americans dying by these wacko broads’ hands, but America has to realize this could happen to them any day at any moment. Seeing it on television only reinforces that. Vote Bush.”

I don’t know about the voting for Bush, but we do know this show is going to be DA BOMB!

Reality Dwarfs Fiction!

It's 6:04 am on Sunday. I'm dining in a posh, 24 hour, Chelsea diner and the Mexican waiter refuses to serve me a martini. I threatened to have his job. He threatened to kill me, and that was that. The brute.

Apologies for my crankiness, I had a rough night.

I don't remember where I went or who I met last night. My subconscious activates a protective memory function once the clock ticks past 3 am. I awoke on the sidewalk with no wallet and no shoes. It must have been an absolutely wonderful evening. Come Tuesday, I'll be in a fetal position weeping as the events flood back to me, but for now, ignorance is definitely bliss.

The kind waiter has made me what I coined a fake-tini: tonic water and an olive. It's dreadful to sip, but it keeps up appearances.

Keeping up appearances? Remember when media presented the gay community as skinny, AIDS ridden, leather men sporting Freddy Mercury moustaches, their ACT-UP fists perpetually pumping the air? In the eighties, you'd see club kids on Geraldo, decked out in stilettos and dressed as animals or robots or vampires, high on cocaine and shocking suburban housewives with their crazy antics. And no comedy night was complete without a prerequisite suit jacketed, stand-up lesbian comedienne?

Where have our cliches gone? Have we kept up appearances for so long that we've forgotten we're called queer because we are queer? Have we forgotten what queer means?

ASSIMILATE OR DIE!

Like zombies to a mall, thousands of gay and lesbian couples run to 'activist' courthouses to get a paper tangling them in the dreadful miasma that is heterosexual marriage. I support gay marriage, but I refuse to traipse down the aisle locked in a heterosexist mold.

I'd rather meet a man in a sex club. I'd propose and we'd marry the very next day. I'd wear a goat costume and have my fiancee dress as a farmer if only to stir the flames of the Bible Belt. I'd kiss the news reporter on the mouth and tell Straight America, "My husband is taking me home to sodomize me! We're married!!!"

You never see the photos of two men in bridal dresses reciting their nuptials. No, the politically incorrect crazies have been hidden in the basement now that the gays are moving in across the street.

"Honey, look. Gays are moving in across the street. Oh wow, there are three of them. They must be in a consensual polyamorous relationship. That's quite progressive."

"It certainly is. Why look at the boxes of dildos! That one is as a big as a fire plug."

"I can't wait til they have all night, drug fueled, sex orgies. I love the sound of booming music at 4 am on a Tuesday."

"Me too sweetie. Oh and look at that. Turns out they're nudists. Things have certainly gotten spicier in our neighborhood!"

Even fucking reality television will only portray gays who are chiseled and good looking and seeking love and commitment. In a field of shows like, 'Marry a Retarded Person' or 'Eat Shit for Money' or 'Who'll Win a Midget' we still aren't allowed to see the real crazies in our midst.

I want to be in a show simply called 'Gay People are Crazy.' You fill a SoHo loft with twelve gay men and they eliminate each other week after week. At the end, the last bitch standing wins the loft. Then you'd see the ugly face of gay culture. But we aren't allowed to wear that mask in public, only among ourselves.

Why? Because doing so would give the Right the ammo it needs to convince America that we aren't normal. Well you know what? America's a pretty fucked up place regardless!

Gays just know how to keep up appearances better.

Waiter, another fake-tini please!