My Oscar gown
So last night, for endless hours, we sat through the Academy Awards. I'd done this before, with my last master, Frank, and last year I had not been interested in doing it with the Mooks—preferring to sleep in the kitchen. But this year there was going to be food and they were going to have—in their own, sad little way—an Oscar party. It was the food that attracted me, but also the possibility I might learn some more stuff about these two oddballs.
With Frank, the Oscars was one long rant. He hated Hollywood, thinking it was part of George Bush's Axis of Evil but more evil because it was full of socialist propagandists, homos, dykes and twats. When he watched, he didn't comment on anything going on, just watched, fuming and getting drunker and drunker until he passed out, well before the best movie was announced. It's a good thing the old codger is dead because if he had been watching, last night, just seeing Barbra "The Red" Streisand would have given him a stroke.
With the Mooks, though, it was a whole 'nuther kettle of fish. First, Skeeter just got more and more annoying because he has a thing for George Clooney and as they showed the actor (over and over again) the stupid goof couldn't help exclaiming, "My God, he's so gorgeous!" If we had been alone I would have told him to SHUT THE FUCK UP ALREADY—HE'S GORGEOUS, YOU'RE QUEER! WE GET IT! Boo-Boo was being very polite about Skeeter's ejaculations (so to speak) and agreed with him once or twice that, yes, George was cute. Indeed, everyone was cute: Colin Firth, Alec Baldwin, Matt Damon and on and on and on. How gay is that?
Well, maybe as gay as Boo-Boo noting, "Why is it that the young actresses are dressed so badly?" Well, indeed, the youngsters did look like drag queens, but that's neither here nor there: it's not something a man should note. But noted it was as was the sexual orientation of many of the recipients. "Oh he's so gay!" Skeeter would hoot. Jayzus...you'd have to be blind and deaf not to know that some of these guys were gay, so it's not exactly like we were dealing with finely calibrated gaydars, here!
But here's what I gotta say: Meryl Streep looked edible—looked like the kind of older broad who loves dogs. And I'll bet you dollars to donuts that Helen Mirren gets down and dirty with her dogs too—and they're not little purse dogs but energetic, mad things who romp about her estate while she laughs wildly with the wind in her air.
So there you have it: I appear to have a thing for women over 40...waaaaaaay over 40. You learn all sorts of stuff during the Oscars, don't you?
Meanwhile, I ran into Cleo while walking with Skeeter and he gave me all the leash I needed to go and say hello to her. I was cool, she was cool, we were hot! "I'm glad to see you've simmered down," she said. The she looked at Skeeter with no little suspicion and said, "Why is he staring at us?"
"'Cause he knows I like you."
"How the hell does he know that?" she purred.
"I told him."
"Ah...you're talking to him then. Interesting." She licked her paws for a bit, letting me hang on her observation for a minute. "I find the humans fascinating," she said at last. "What's he got to say?"
"Not much."
"Ah." She looked up and said, "He's still staring at us. Is he a pervert or something?"
"Well...he's queer."
"Aren't they all..."
I don't know what that meant so felt it best to say nothing. Skeeter said, "Wrap it up, love bird, time to go home."
"Will I see you again?" I asked.
"I'll be here." As I was being dragged off I was thinking we were like Bogie and Bacall, Newman and Woodward, Taylor and Burton. We were perfect, perfect, perfect together.
Then, from across the street, I heard a high-pitched bark/shriek: "YOU'RE A SICK FUCK!" Oh, Lord! It was Ginger and she was pissed and was jumping up and down in rage. This was going to be bad. Very bad. Dogs and cats...well...many, many don't like the idea. "Looks like you have girl problems," Skeeter said.
"Big ones," I muttered. Skeeter just laughed and laughed and laughed, all the fucking way home! God, what is wrong with me? Old actor broads, cats...what next? Was the level of immorality in which I was living tainting me? Turning me, too, into a degenerate?
Or was it?...could it be?...dare I say it?...liberating me?
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