Hey, queen and queen-ettes! Welcome back for another dose of WeHo gossiping rants and dishy raves. Pride is upon us and everyone's getting a little tragic-tastic up in La-La Land. But here our some of our favorite missteps this week!
Hop on Pop...pers
Question: What’s more delicious than an invite to an exclusive gay mafia dinner party in the Hollywood Hills? Answer: When the aforementioned exclusive gay mafia dinner party turns into an episode of The Real House-bottoms of WeHo.
Allow us to explain: Gossip Gay got an invite (+1) to a super A-list industry dinner party in the Hills, all of the men being total power queens and douchebags—but hey, the booze was free and there were complimentary Xanax chasers, so we ain’t complaining. Our tag-along was a hot little muscle queen trainer from Crunch, who ended up drinking daiquiris by the gallon-full and then vomiting on his imitation Gucci (aka: Target Mossimo) blazer. Totally tragic, yes, but that’s a whole other Queersay rant. Back to the dinner at hand.
It was a mansion-warming of sorts, a power gay couple showing off their 3,200-square-foot mod deco home in the hopes of turning us all emerald with envy. (However, considering they both have backfat to boot, none of us can/could/will ever envy their expanded-waistline lives.)
Anywho, the plan was simple. A fun dinner (catered by Cheesecake Factory—sounds LGBTQ-appalling, but an inside joke!) followed by a not-so-skinny dip in the pool. Cajun chicken littles were had, and then we turned outside to strip down to our birthday suits.
Well, in the rustling off of our True Religion jeans, something fell out of one of the owner’s pockets—more accurately, it fell to the marble sun deck and shattered into a proverbial million little pieces. What was the offending object gone the way of gravity? A discreet bottle of video head cleaner. (Now, if you are not sure what this video head cleaner is, the reaction of the other owner/boyfriend may not make sense. Let’s just say that the cleaner is a male aphrodisiac of sordid sorts.)
Now upon discovering the (ironically entitled) ‘head’ cleaner, the Un-Poppered Owner wildly began rifling through his Poppered Partner’s jean pockets. What did he discover? A receipt for a bag of chips at the Hollywood Spa. (Doritos for sale at a bathhouse? Homo-offensive for sure, but we digress.)
The ensuing fight involved the throwing of an iPhone into the pool, the shrill screams of a bottom betrayed and the heaving of one mod deco plastic lawn chair over the balcony and into the vast abyss that is Mulholland Canyon. Now, we’d like to report that a “bitch got cut” and the crew of Cops showed up, but things didn’t get that hands-on. Instead, there was just a lot of crying and “why-did-I-sign-a-$2-million-mortage-with-you-you-f*cking assh*le” weeping. And considering our heart is cold and dead and therefore lacking any ability to emotionally care about a fellow bottom in pain (and the fact that our barely conscious date was covered in regurgitated daiquiri), we made for the French doors and left.
What did I take away from all this? A simple lesson, really—don’t eat carbs when (literally) popping your top.
Dear Abbey (the overpriced WeHo bar, not the old lady),
Gossip Gay here with an ever-queer concern. What is up with the situation in your men's bathroom? To quote Weekend Update's Seth Meyers: "Really?! Now...really!?" While we spent last Sunday drinking away and paying full price for (not one but five!) Bacardi-and-diet-Cokes, we felt the inkling to take a tinkling in your not-so-rested restroom. But when we walked in the stall (yes, we're pee-shy!), our senses where immediately slammed back to 1997 when we had a bad run-in with Taco Bell. Without getting too graphic, the sight, the smells, the broken bottles, the quite obviously used condom on the toilet seat. I mean, "Really?! Now...really!?" Supposedly Logo called you the "Best Gay Bar in the World" but the judges must not have had to relieve their wee-wee. We are getting pretty disgusted with the disgusting manner that you "clean" your disgusting restrooms. I don't care if your bar is overpacked with angry drunk lesbians and trashed baby twinks! Make the time to pick up a mop! Hire someone to scrub those stalls nonstop on Sundays or us discerning drinkers are going elsewhere!
Yes, while beauty is in the eye of the beholder, poopy on the floor is loved by no one (sans maybe a Silver Lake scat cat or two)!
Retching on Robertson
If you hang out at the gay Starbucks on Santa Monica Boulevard, chances are that we are watching you. Yes, we spend our day whiling away the hours with an overpriced venti iced passion tea (no sweetener, no water, light ice) and working on that great American screenplay that we'll never finish. And the reason we'll never finish is not because we're not alpha-talented (because we are!), but because we are often distracted by all the muscle queen hotties in too-tight tank tops sashaying on by.
Regardless, we watch, we listen, we eye stalk y'all. And often, we overhear delightfully evil commentary that we just love to share. Here's a fabulous fav from this week. It played out something like this:
Woman walks up to counter. Woman orders some sort of fattie blended drink with extra whipped cream and chocolate sauce. Barista asks for her name. Woman replies: "Nicole Richy. But with a 'y.' Seriously." Bitchy gay queen behind Ms. Richy says: "Nicole Richy, maybe after a motorcycle accident." Even bitchier gay queen behind the bitchy gay queen behind Ms. Richy says: "Or after a train wreck in the face."
Now Gossip Gay is not exactly sure what a "train wreck in the face" is. But it sounds evil and we love it and we're using it! In fact, we're having bumper stickers made: "Shut up, Rick Santorum! You're a train wreck in the face!"
Only $9.99! How many are you buying?!
We're obsessed with Mike Munich. Here's a picture of him. We want to marry him. That's all.
Oh, how we love reader emails from y'all (at Queersay@hotmail.com). Seventy-two and counting this week! And the following, from a Marci D*******, especially titillated our LOL queer bone this week:
"Dear Gossip Gay, I find your column to not be written for my demoographic and I do not fully understandd all of the jokes youu are making but I doo appreciate your human. However, I must tell you that I think you are proomoting a homosexaul lifestyle tooo much."
Honey, Gossip Gay thinks that you are promoting the oooooverusage of the letter "o" tooooo much. Stop writing to us from your husband's sticky keyboard!