Tag Archives: Vulture

Apropos Of Nothing: I Like My Bon Mots Shaken, Not Stirred

It should all be about whose nuke button is bigger these days.
And whose hands are thankfully smaller.
Thus, I should be writing to you from the (highly probable) end of the world, like Pablo Neruda. Instead, I’ll write you long time about petty and juvenile things that got my striped tail ruffled. I’ll write to you about kerfuffles–one of my favorite toppings, so spare me the nuts with the sprinkles on top.

It’s been forever and a day and a half.
But it’s 10:00 p.m. and do you know where my bon mots are?
Without giving any of it away, let me just say that imitation is the greatest form of pilfering. As if as if, in the great scheme of new things?! Hmmm.

To one of my fave recappers–who shall remain Dameless–my words are meant to be shaken, not stirred.

If the other one of you two see any of these running amok anywhere else in the vast and shallowest end of the internets, please return them to yours truly:

1. As two of you may know
2. Apropos of nothing
3. Continue-to-continue
4. Sucks a hard boiled egg through a straw (TM/LOL)
5. Back in the day when we had more days (TM/LOL)
6. Easy breezing (Cover Girling)
7. HoWos (housewives)
8. Loathe/hate others more than ourselves for loving them (usually referring to Housewives–Real or imagined)
9. Instituents (Hapless addicts who choose to mainline deadly Bravo TV shows on the steps of a fictitious Institute dedicated to this type of sociopathic anthropological loitering–and loathe others more than themselves for loving it. Note: Yours truly not only fits that coveted red soled shoe, but is teetering on the edge of perdition in it, while chewing gum. Here’s looking at you, Mike Pence! Wish you were here with Chump and the ghost of Gerald Ford).
10. If as if
10.5 As if as if
11. Tenebrous (although I didn’t coin it, all Instituents know that I own it as Lisar only could wish and fucking dream of truly owning any goddamned thing in this bankrupt world made for people with teeny tiny hands and simple girls with butt-implant-dreams in this more cruel and punishing Joan Riverless world,sigh ).
12. Uncle Pa (a litmus test meant to identify those whose hands are teeniest, generationally speaking).
13. Yikes squared
14. Mainlining (can be substituted for “It’s raining men” or “Fetch is never going to happen”, in hapless situations. Other than that, it should be strictly used to describe an uncontrollable urge to watch depraved Bravo TV while distractedly fiddling or going to the fridge as Rome burns, so to speak).
15. Real Housewives Of All Perdition (the pettiest of Pettyfleurs that bring us all here and for whom we loathe others more than our Soggy Flicking selves for loving, mmk?!).
15.5. You can find my trademark slogans and original emoticon writing out there in the shallowest depths of the tundras or in the booniest backwater outbacks where only the tumbleweeds and the best of the HoWos blow.
15.75. Imitation is the greatest form of pilfering.

“And that is a fact. And that is that.”

I did learn from the best: Mr. Bowie, for whom I and all the Stars remain ever different each and every mournful day…
Here are my faves–still untoppable:

1. Leper Messiah (taught me Everything about Every Thing literally, literarily, figuratively, unilaterally, perpendicularly, elliptically, isosceles or merely imagined).
2. The shrieking of nothing was killing me (made me runaway to join a circus that still claims me–music–and never lets go. Fuck you Trump and your little hands, too! Have not written anything since this fascist Uncle Pa has taken our world hostage. So fuck you and the white supremacist horse of the apocalypse you ride on, you misogynist pig, you!).

3. Just pictures of Jap girls in synthesis

4. Paris or maybe hell (I’m waiting)….

5. I bless you madly, sadly as I tie my shoes

6. The entire lyrics to the song Aladdin Sane (as I just discovered yesterday to be the source of all literary aspirational pilfering and envy–or just merely wanting to ponder if any writer can challenge one’s humble self to graze such grace and effortless brilliance, where that bar is raised as high as the firmament. Pondering that, while I ask myself am I a two-bit writer worthy of pilfering? And why does it piss me off, instead of flatter me as I strive to graze this high? Without drugs, ’cause I was always persnicketily averse to them!? And where did it get me? Hahahaha.

I’d also like to thank the inimitable Mr. Salinger for teaching me the unrepentant joy of Italicizing half a word–a lowest-down honor reserved for the most pompously vapid, shallowest characters (the kind that may otherwise find reason to whine between syllables if not sternly made to sit in a corner without their cell phone, instead). And least but never last, I’d like to thank Mr. Richard Lawson for the most sublime yet triumphantly literary, inspiring, wistful and legendary Real Housewives Of All Perdition Recap endings of ye olde Gawker dayes of yore. And I’d like to thank the up and coming somebody who thankfully saw fit to follow that lead in print and not let them die with Gawker’s demise.

Aladdin Sane
By David Bowie:

Watching him dash away, swinging an old bouquet (dead roses)
Sake and strange divine Uh-h-h-uh-h-uh you’ll make it
Passionate bright young things, takes him away to war (don’t fake it)
Sadden glissando strings
Uh-h-h-uh-h-uh, you’ll make it

Who’ll love Aladdin Sane
Battle cries and champagne just in time for sunrise
Who’ll love Aladdin Sane

Motor sensational, Paris or maybe hell (I’m waiting)
Clutches of sad remains
Waits for Aladdin Sane you’ll make it

Who’ll love Aladdin Sane
Millions weep a fountain, just in case of sunrise
Who’ll love Aladdin Sane

We’ll love Aladdin Sane
Love Aladdin Sane

Who’ll love Aladdin Sane
Millions weep a fountain, just in case of sunrise
Who’ll love Aladdin Sane

We’ll love Aladdin Sane
We’ll love Aladdin Sane

Songwriters: David Bowie
Aladdin Sane lyrics © BMG Rights Management US, LLC, Tintoretto Music

The artist formerly known as Yours Truly takes her no longer ruffled, striped tail in her paw and bows deeply, madly, as she ties her imaginary red-soled shoes. I’ve been nowhere, she tells you. And you know. And it’s all merely words now. If as if themz was not fightin’ words, Uncle Pa.

Postcards from the Champagne O’Clock: Real Housewives Foibles from my Vulture Vault

Here are some of my random meanderings on the Real Housewives of All Perdition of seasons past, brought to you by my mainlining on Vulture magazine boards and a word from one of our sponsors: “Depends”.

These ramblings took place in a world where Bowie and Prince were still among us. Needless to say, it was the best of times on an entirely magical, other planet where we thought we could stay forever-ever-ever-ever-ever…

What was I thinking in those days of wine and roses–and two supernovas burning to extinction under the Milky Way those nights–about Kim Richards, whose unhinged drug problem was stupidly being masked as the worst kept secret in Real Housewives history? And what of those other Housewives from the fabled Hills of Beverly and their real or much imagined betrayals, cloying ploys and kerfuffles? What of they, of silly tempests in petal pink tea cups the very lofty Lisa Vanderpump might have had Rocio serve to us on a diamante studded, silver platter–with tea roses–in her opulent, shrill-pinks-to-purple, ultra sheeny closet that would still be haunted by the ghosts of Liberace or Prince–had it not burned down? Let’s have a gander.

This is beyond awful and unforgivable–but it is, after all, why I’m here, so, has anybody wondered why Kim figures so significantly with people that are faced with serious ailments in their lives? Don’t they have strong pills? There was mention of the fact that Kim took care of her dying mother in the desert. (OK, I’m going to leave that sentence as it sounds ‘coz it makes me laugh and I’m beyond help today). That might not have been the genesis, but could it be the revolving pinnacle of her addiction, no?

Also, along with the great Dame Brian Moylen’s magical and literary heart-wrenching tail-end spins on the Vulture recaps and a fresh faced, dewy take from Bravo editing, Kim does emanate the most relatable humanity of them all this season. That, in and of itself, should be cause for great alarm for not only the other cast members, but the collective state of the world population at large.

As for another tenebrous and twisted aside, metaphorically speaking, it seems that Kim has been riding Disney ponies all her life–with Yolanda’s flatulent white horse in front of her, through one too many meandering Malibu canyons only to late-crash yet another rodeo, or mistime Wassailing on Halloween while bobbing for clowns.

As for the ever reigning Queen Bee, Lisa Vanderpump, what can I say? Go for it LVP! Scorch that earth and throw salt on it, for good measure. Who doesn’t remember the coup on Isla Perdida, aka Portovarta? Thanks for that one, Mumbles (Kim Richards). It will perpetually stick in my geographically altered mindscape where Puerto Rico can no longer be, thanks to this here great shared experience at the Real Housewives’ Institute of Wee Willie Wankery and Waffle House.

So, who can fault LVP for keeping it real, reigning it in and continuing-to-continue to be be the Uber-Reticent queen bee with that quick Brit wit and IQ that easily blows dust in the rest of the cast’s surgically deformed cat faces? Not I, beautiful people! And although our beloved Dame Moylen has helped us all don rose-tinted shades where Kim is concerned, she’s still a sputtering mess and a tad of an imbecile. As Judge Judy so philosophically waxed poetically–and with whom I so heartlessly and gleefully concur–stupid is forever. And wouldn’t LVP be stupid to forget all the insults-to-injury that this nest of vipers sharing-one-reptilian-brain tried to obliterate her with?

YoFo (Yolanda-Hadid-Foster-Once-Removed-And-Perpetually-Insufferable) was one of the unpardonable offenders. And Kyle–Et tu, Kyle? Always! Brandi: what can I say about her without resorting to a NeNe-ism: “Trashbox! Plop!”

Sorry this is not just off topic, but self revealingly juvenile: I just can’t help inserting an image of Lisar’s (Lisa Rinna) ostrich looking face–albeit a strangely gleeful and endearing ostrich face, that is–at the mere mention of the word “Depends”. Let that be that word from our sponsor brought to you, once again, by Bravo TV right here and now–unless you all prefer “Troutsnatch” which is better slated for a Real Housewives of New York days-of- future-past episode where Sonja’s weirdo gyno is looking for her withered sexy “J” with a mini-scud-missile-probe up her twat.

If as if one has to take a slow nacht–a non yacht–to Mallorca to find bootleg Chanel!? Oofff, already, Kyle. Poor, squat, little wannabe-rich-bitch, Kyle! Et Tu, Always, Kyle, with that obsessive knack–on and off that nacth–screaming to channel the sublime Elizabeth Taylor, Puerto Vallarta, circa 1973, with your diaphenously gaudy caftans, only to hit the mark with the daffy Mrs. Roper, circa 1981, instead.

And if as if we’d wanna sail at all with Kyle, all the live long days in that azure lull of the Mediterranean sea on The Champagne O’Clock!? I’d forgotten the cringeworthy name of the nacht. How could I? Isn’t that what stereotypical, chain smoking Eurotrash would think that Americans–particularly from land locked states–would find refined–or precious? I’m offending myself from both sides of the pond now–and it’s a good thing that Martha Stewart can’t hold against me.

As no guffaw is sacred, let’s mention in passing, or mere jest, Gigi (Hadid) who looks exclusively like a Guess jeans model that is storing a whole bunch more assorted nuts than the controversial two-almonds-once-daily quota–in her cheeks for the winter and away from YoFo’s scrutiny. These Guess girls don’t easily cross over (sans YoFo’s Kardashian-world-domination-plot, sans MoMo (Mohammed Hadid)’s self-rising, crusty dough, and least of all, sans Bravo TVEye-ya-yay!) into the ethereally and other worldly realm that can walk an Armani or Karl Largerfeld runway. Especally Karl’s! He’s got a laser eye for strange and utterly demanding perfection, made all the worse by his maintained weight loss and the fact that he no longer looks like he’s hiding the sweet and iconic Andre Leon Tally under his coat.

It’s no secret I’ve been known to throw away all dignity in exchange for a cheap joke, and I’m chasing myself into a figure eight from a dichotomy to an oxymoron all across this forum. As for MoMo (Mohammed Hadid), I do think he can build rather massive, and massively missive, ornate Turkish bath houses. And as for models and their intellectual properties–well, it’s back to that figure eight, all over again.

Meanwhile, in a galaxy far, far away, in the state of New Jersey and denial, sequined orange leopard is the new black for Teresa Giudice.

Yolanda’s fridge is Carmen Miranda’s final resting place and Mumbles may be an imbecile, but she’s not a recovering one! Just saying.