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What the wuc just happened?

I’m back.

Like a chump who shows up to her bat mitzvah at 32.

So. Um, how’ve you been? [Looks awkward and shuffles feet.] Good? You been good? Sweet Mary. The guilt I’ve felt for letting my wuc grow cobwebs! (Ewww.) We’re talking, Catholic guilt. Teenage pregnancy guilt. Hairy armpits guilt.


But I return to thee (laptop, Bareilles and figurative in hand) – the Lando Calrissian to your Han Solo. It’s good to see you, old friend. We shall live to fight another day! (And I will go on to star in such nuggets of goodness as Dynasty and Dangerous Passion) (good times).

I have much news (to be said like Xena the Warrior Princess) but no Zeusly idea where to begin. Like Atreyu, I battled the Nothing only to lose “Artaaaax!” in the Swamp of Sadness.

Uh huh.

I feel beholden to shoot to the crotch of the matter, like a spider seeking a damp and warm place to reside. But the tale of Gay Prince and Me is not a coherent one.

In short and much surprise – he took it to the next level (read: mezzanine with restricted access). Months of imitating dating. Hours and daze, attached at the hip. Twas bonny (albeit soggy with pseudo), and much like living in the belly of a hiccup.

“And she did dwell beside GP in glorium (aka her new office) for the time it took a ray of sunshine to be eclipsed by a painfully-punctual precipitation.” Beard of Zeus

Or, in the soluble words of Jane Austen … “exactly at the time when it was quite natural that it should be so, and not a week later, Gay Prince did cease employment, and became as absent to Wuc as she herself could not fucking desire”. (I paraphrase.)

Ergo. Tragically. We’ve missed our window to join hands, tuck penises and sing Kumbaya.

Instead, welcome to The Hangover. Where I puzzle together what went wuc (and come to terms with the proverbial Tyson sprawled across my face).

In the kindime (and absence of cognitive thought), allow me to depict my mental state:

Do that voodoo you do so well.

I feel happy today. Like a jelly bean after a lavish spa treatment. It aint a Disney day, understand. But my undies are nevertheless alive with the sound of Cusack.

The factors to my blissful briefs (aka the pantaloon union) are thus:

  • they’re clean
  • Gay Prince is in da hizzie (whoop whoop)
  • I’ve been offered a job

Yes, they’re always clean (I aint no motherlovin’ grundie miscreant) but it bears heralding. Yeah baby, GP is scrum I’d-like-to-diddle-his umptious and yielding a tropic Travolta vibe today (night diva, night diva). And I doompahdee might have a new job! I’m negotiating the salary much like Hugh Hefner negotiates stairs – hopefully yet with some trepidation.

So! Like a pimp, allow me to headline the pros: the new gig is with my current company, but at a different office. Which means a transition smoother than an exfoliated Clooney and (like Shriver upon the morn of meaning) fare-thee-well Schwarzenegger. Most importantly?

No more Cult Boy, no more kooks. No more gunslingers, dirty looks!


I’d still be working with the mental crew but from a distance (à la Better Midler) (with hula hands and a song in my heart). And. Four days a week. Motherfucken, and. In the same bedazzled building as, drrrumroll … that fabled fabio of hetero hotness, Gay Prince.

It’s as if George Michael finally heard my prayers. (Wham wucs.)

In pointiest of fact, I’d be working for his boss’s boss. Wuccadoodies. GP dropped by my desk today, paused for bing grin and inquired after my employment health. Then, upon learning this malodorous morsel, backed away slowly (like James Cagney at having a tommy gun pitched in his gut). Aww-kward (to be sung like my little brother) (macho falsetto, yo).

This could be considered a con. Also: no more Coffee Guy. But then, I suspect his lattes are hotter than he. And he looks weary of late. As if our imaginary courtship is taking its toll.

Damn the man. Save the Empire!

I feel weary. We’re talking, hiking up a pair of concrete undies with spindly Mr Burns arms, weary. Battle commander for the Alliance, stuck on a decimated planet ravaged by a decade of war, fighting for the mining rights to a source that’ll end the world’s energy crisis, weary.

You get the drill bit. Motherfucken weary, yo.

Such is the collected effect of working in an office eternally. Like anthracosis, except I inhale an abundance of bullshit instead of coal dust. Cue high-pitched Zoolander cough.

“I think I’m getting the black lung, Pop.”

This joint’s shrinking my life force like the head of Beetlejuice. And this being the day I resemble Peter Weller (my left cheekbone an ashtray for radioactive cigarettes and my right, a shelf for my alarm clock), who materializes like Jiminy-convivial-Cricket?

Like an old man sensing the coming rain via gift of gammy leg, I’ve become adept at predicting when Gay Prince will appear. The truth lies in the crotch of early morn, when I wrestle myself for ten minutes of extra sleep (the strife between a good and bad hair day). Sleep wins, ev-ery time. And, as sure as the dilapidated coif sitting atop my head (more defeated than any wife of Tom Cruise), the debonair dignitary will saunter through my door.

Right on cue, you mincing bastard.

I’m in no mood. Not when I have Cult Boy sitting next to me, singing under his breath and tapping his left foot like Daniel Dolt Lewis. Not when I have Schwarzenegger calling me to wipe his ass in Dubai, via the magic of go-go-Gadget arm. Not when the gunslingers are hovering over our dying friendship, like a couple of hyenas waiting to feed on its carcass.

Not today. Not on Rex Manning day.

I feel I must prepare you (or is it, me?) for the inevitable failure of the crippled rom-com that is The Gay Prince and Me. Like a father revealing the santa suit he keeps in the closet (alongside Oprah, Honest Republican and other fantastical creatures), I must now reveal that we may not be in a romantic comedy after all, dear friends. I fear he aint the Lange to my Tootsie roll, the Tango to my Cash, nor the Lucas to my Empire.

More like the Bergman to my Bogart (yes, that’s right. I’m Bogie, baby). At least then I can coolly exit: my collar up, Homburg tipped into the wind, my cigar miraculously alight.

“Where I’m going, you can’t follow. What I’ve got to do, you can’t be any part of. Not for any good reason, but because Warner Bros says so. Now get outta here, kid.”

Here comes the smolder.

Gay Prince made his return today, a veritable Vincent Vega in his pencil tie and Pulp suit; as welcome to me as the undies of Robert Downey Jr (on my floor come Sunday morning).

And for once, I was triumphant. Super hero, hands on hips, cape billowing in the breeze, tri-oomph-ant. Because, much like a citizen of Jupiter resolved to assimilate with humankind to find a new life, I rose early today and coiffed my galactic ass to within an inch of its life. Translation: I have blushing lips, mermaid hair and hips that corner like they’re on rails.

There he stood, the Vega to my Wallace, hovering by the gunslingers.

Gal Gun threw her head back and laughed like a maniacal crash-test dummy. Not about to join the meeting of the mines (aka land), I gave him the nod and retreated to my seat (like a Grammy award-winning hip-hop artist upon entering Diddy Puff’s crib, yo). Then I ignored him, striking (I like to think) a beautiful balance between regal and reflux (aka acid).

Finally. After the first handicap African-American lesbian little person was inaugurated into the White House, my Prince came to stand at my desk. He grins his bing-a-ling down at me and (this is a good angle for me) I smile up him, as if he’s come upon me in a meadow of dandelions, my harp lying nearby. “You look lovely today”. Booyar, bet your ass I do.

“I see you put in effort this morning.”

And there it is. Is this where Disney and reality divide, like the chasm that is Tori Spelling’s cleavage? I guess you’re only as good as your last disguise, and clearly mine was akin to Gene Hackman upon Birdcage exit. Gal Gun watches this exchange with barrel eyes.

I promised you back story, so here ’tis: I suspect they may have done the (drum roll)… horizontal mam-bo. If not in front of a live studio audience, then per’aps a little footwork in the lady’s green room (wink wink, nudge nudge). HONK! HONK!

See, Gal Gun has many male friends (no women, whaddayaknow) and, like knights of the round tookus, they circle her in a mirror of programmed reflection. Pseudo boyfriends to admire and make credible the press release. I’ve felt for some time that Gay Prince fit into this Seussian landscape someplace. But where, exactly?

“From there to here, from here to there, funny things are everywhere!”

Until now I had remained invisible to the story book she was weaving but, as she struck down upon thee with baleful eyes and furious envy, it appeared her eyes’d caught up with her ego.

That’s Hansel, he’s so hot right now.

Today I awoke looking like a cave woman, my hair between an afro and a high-five.

Not as victorious as it sounds, folks. Ordinarily, this would be Gay Prince’s cue but he’s been interstate for a month, damn his unicorn ass. I miss him like the first season of Master Chef (primarily when hungry); and, bereft of distraction, I’ve been left at the mercy of the Family Von Trapp (aka gunslingers, Schwarzenegger and passive-aggressive Cult Boy).

Such is how I came to get my vicarious on with Coffee Guy.

Having ditched my usual bistro for lattes more tepid than Woody Allen’s undies, I came upon Coffee Guy like a mirage in the decaffeinated desert. He served coffee like he served me looks – pipin’ hot and ready to go. Now, this guy looks like a French mime corked before its recommended year – tall, dark and tattooed (with a distinct Ozzy Osbourne hum). He’s eccentric at best, maniacal at worst. And has taken a shine. To me.

A miracle the likes of which Susan Boyle has never seen.

‘See, mornings, I look like Judge Judy upon wind tunnel exit (with much the same disposition). If we graded my mood on the curve – at dawn, I’m the epitome of evil. By sunset, I’m the vinegary miser you know today. And between these ineffectual safety flags lies ‘crusty’ – coincidentally around the time I see Coffee Guy.

Ergo. Ipso facto. Mīrāculum.

He breaks into song when I step up to the counter and recently, has enlisted the help of a yenta to make contact. [Yenta, being the lady who greets me each morning and contact, the taking of said order.] It’s true, I may be delusional but let’s just put it this way … if she aint his yenta, then she’s hittin’ on me, yo.

She looks like Betty Grable and treats her customers like faceless suits. Except for me. She’s been on a steady campaign to charm my crusty socks off, cleverly eliciting intimate details (such as my name) which then make into conversations with Coffee Guy.

Meanwhile, he’s got his work cut out for him. I’ve realised I disagree with men who are attracted to me. I’m tempted to say, “Look, you’re wrong. Here are the reasons why …”

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