I will admit it, I have become something of a dashboard junkie, as they say on WordPress.com, home to close to 700,000 blogs, most of which are more popular than mine. Well, maybe I’m not a complete junkie. Making that claim would diminish the pain and suffering of those who are true addicts struggling one day at a time through Dashboards Anonymous.
The dashboard is a customizable page, elegantly laid out, easy to use, which controls the blog, its format, etcetera, but also shows all sorts of esoteric stats. What is astounding is that somehow someone pulled up my page twice yesterday searching for “triple cunted hooker.” What the hell is that? I note that my friend Lara Harris surfaced twice as well, which might be a reason she’s not replying to emails or texts, and she’s always responsive. She’s probably furious she ended up in a blog entitled Gay Old Loony Douchebags on Steroids, I suppose. I’m unmaking friends with this already, sigh. Well, we’ve known each other for 30 years, I’m sure we’ll survive a goosing online.
I am also pleased about the “older men fucking twinks,” which must refer to the insert in the Gay Old Loony post of the image of the girly twink from Glee, Chris Colfer, even though I myself don’t have a taste for twinks.
I will admit that I am almost completely caught up with episodes of Glee. At one point, it embarrassed me as a gay barely closeted homophobe just how gay that show is. Gay and lesbian. At first I fast-forwarded over the musical numbers, but everyone kept saying, “But that’s the whole point!” just like that, with the exclamation point. And their voices would go up when they said it. So now I watch the fakakta musical numbers. Well, some of them: not the show tunes, not the duets, and not most of the ballads. I’ve found the musical numbers are the best opportunity to go and do something else in the kitchen or bathroom while something anodyne splashes around in the background. I really just want to see Jane Lynch and that blond bimbo, Heather Morris, who has all the best lines. Dumb people are almost as fun to write as schizophrenics.
A few of the cast members from Glee work out at Gold’s Gym Hollywood, where if you don’t already know from the aforementioned Gay Old Loony post, I also practice the strenuous art of gravitational-pull-on-the-flesh defiance. I have seen Matthew Morrison there, and I have to say, dude is fucking fit, in seriously great shape. I believe that the pneumatically lipped Chord Overstreet also works out there, and might be trained by nutritionist-slash-trainer-to-the-stars Bernardo Coppola, who once told me that he is a second cousin to the illustrious filmmakers-slash-vintners; however, I am told by a reliable source whose last name rhymes with “subtle” that this may be a misrepresentation of the truth. I’m saying I think Overstreet works out there because Bernardo was training a blond kid with Angelina lips yesterday who I swear was Overstreet, but the kid was wearing a red baseball cap pulled so far down over his head that he looked more like a teenaged duck from the Cartoon Network.
I’m not very good with celebrity sightings, see. They usually have to come up and introduce themselves before I recognize them. For instance, apparently I almost collided with Sarah Silverman on the street in Weho the other day, and almost colliding with anyone on the street in LA is as rare as a solar eclipse, but I didn’t notice. My friend had to point it out. And I love Sarah Silverman, I would like to do shots of tequila with her and smoke cigarettes out on the patio of a Mexican restaurant under a heat lamp with her.
So it looks like this is turning into some warped celebrity blog in order to drive up readership, which is fine because I’m a star-fucker like anyone else; I drop names more than my abominable landlady Susan Blais sheds tenants, all in the effort to make the person I’m speaking to be awestruck, regardless of the fact I don’t recognize most celebs when I see them. Vogue editor Anna Wintour has understood that celebrities on the cover get more women to buy her insipid door jam of a magazine. I shall do the same to trap innocent, depraved keyword searchers in the Web of Killough.
So, big apologies to Mila Kunis, who I’m sure isn’t addicted to crack — the original title of this post was going to be, “Mila Kunis on Crack.” Had it been “Mila Kunis’s Crack,” I would get even more hits from my lovable coterie of pervs. Mila, you have the misfortune of being in fourth position on the IMDb Starmeter this week, and now that I have written the last few sentences, I will pick up a few readers interested in your vagina.
What can I say? The internet is god.
Post Scriptum: I usually don’t follow anything Charlie Sheen, even though you think I would because his sort of behavior makes me wince-chuckle in a sort of there-but-for-the-grace-of-god-go-I way, but this latest rant of his was priceless. What a douche, what a brat, what a scramble-brains. I’ll bet he gets into serious fantasy roleplay when he’s high and smothered in hookers. He just doesn’t know when the fantasy begins and when it ends any more. Bless his black heart.
Wait, before I go, one more picture. This one of me with Amanda Seyfried’s breasts, which always get me more hits (thanks, boys):