Drag Queens Are Always Right

Sigh.

This is why I don’t arrive early to work meetings or want to talk to these assholes in general…

Every conversation turns into a combination of The Hunger Games and the 1980’s soap opera, Dynasty.

They want to kill you.

But in the most dramatic, idiotic way possible.

Yet, here I am.

And some misguided soul picked cars as the topic of conversation. [Really?! Cars. I want to talk about cars like I want to talk about pap smears. Not.]

Fine. I’ll bite.

“Eh, I will drive my car until it falls apart. Is 163,ooo miles a lot?,” I joke.

[I really don’t care about cars. It’s a car. And mine works perfectly, considering I have driven it into every pot hole on the East Coast.]

But the room goes apeshit like a football crowd.

And 50ShadesOfOblivious starts laughing like someone shoved a vibrator up her bum.

Right.

I know where this train is going. Blah blah blah you’re so weird. The Insult and Judgment train is her favorite form of transportation.

And unlike me, it always arrives for work on-time.

She interrupts her hysterical laughter to say slowly, “You’re so naive.” [But it sounds more like naaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiivvvvvvvvv-ah.]

[Insert eye roll here, Judge Judy.]

Wait. What? Naive. Oh, that’s different.

But I shut it down quickly by changing the topic, before it turns into one of these silly cat fights these nutty wankers love so much.

[When is this nonsense over so I can not-care in my office? Someone needs to learn to start these idiotfests on-time. It’s called a clock, people!]

Besides, drag queens have elevated being catty to an art form.

It’s called reading/throwing shade. Hello?

[Everyone needs to learn their drag queen history. Why isn’t the important stuff taught in schools, for crissakes?!]

“Throwing shade/reading” people is the art of insulting people –  popularized by the 1990 documentary about drag culture, Paris is Burning.

Except when drag queens do it – it’s fabulous and campy and performance art.

This chick is just crazy.

Being catty just to be catty, went out of vogue with other 1980’s fashions like Members Only jackets and shoulder pads the size of carry-on luggage.

Here is a throwing-shade/reading tutorial from a proper drag queen, Jujubee.

Throwing shade has to be creative.

Because RuPaul says so. And drag queens are always right and superior to mere mortals.

See? If it’s on the Twitter thing, then it’s true.

50ShadesofOblivious could have nailed it with a little more panache gray matter.

For example…

“The reason you keep your cars for so long is because they are your longest adult relationships.”

Bam! Shade. Thrown.

Of course, I would have to hold her big fat head in a toilet to see what color her face changes to, but I digress…

Creativity rules so sayeth the Queen of Everything, RuPaul. 

My rule goes like this…

You can’t fall into the category you are insulting…

Unless you are smart enough to include yourself in the joke. Otherwise,

• Turtles can’t take a swipe at other turtles.
• Rabbits can’t pick at other rabbits.
• And someone who sleeps with a married man in the office, and then launches into a lengthy breakdown in the office – when he dumps her for someone else in the office…

Cannot – and should not – call other people naive.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t care about who grown consenting folks diddle with their genitalia.

I am saying 50ShadesOfOblivious should park her Insult and Judgement Train someplace far, far away.

Where no one – not even she – can find it…

Right next to her common sense and self-respect.

The reading session over.

#theLibraryIsClosed

I mean isn’t it clear that most people look stupid in shoulder pads?

Okay. Now, I just feel dirty. I’m not used to reading people on a Sunday. Sunday is Shopping’s day.

I feel like I am going to the very, very hot place where the bad people go…

On a long painful trek to a government agency.

No. Really. Don’t ever forget to pay any government agency. They will torture you.

I forgot to pay my $50 water bill  [50?! Not 5,000.] – for the first time in 7 years.

That’s why I am driving down this dinky street in the middle of nowhere.

Looking for the government-version of the Wizard of Oz.

I printed out the directions to the Water Company from Google Maps. But apparently, they haven’t updated it to include – the first ring of Hell yet.

Previously, I offered to send a check.

[Nope. Oz doesn’t accept checks from slackers.]

I also offered to pay using the magic credit card over the magic phone.

[Nope. The government doesn’t believe in any technology that doesn’t kill people.]

I must pay in cash. And only in cash.

Like a drug deal.

So I am driving…

Driving.

Making sure I hit every stinking pothole [because they follow my car like a stalker.]

And I finally find this shithole – by accident.

The guard at the front desk makes me fill out the sign-in sheet like it’s a crossword puzzle. Every box must have my scribble.

Every time I think I am done, he says, “Nope, one more [thing to sign],” and I feel like he is yanking my chain.

Finally, he blesses my scribbles like the Pope or something, and says, “Have a blessed day.”

[Eat me, dude.]

But pinpointing the exact location of the bill teller in this government maze is like looking for my G-spot….

Who the hell knows where she is?

There are a lot of handwritten signs in black marker everywhere…

Go up those stairs. Follow 3 signs that say “Teller this way.”

Get in an elevator, and go up one more floor. Follow 4 more signs that say “Teller that way.”

Could it be any more confusing?

I mean who designed this joint? The Riddler.

Finally, I find my G-spot [who knew it was at the Water Company all this time?] It’s a teeny tiny office – with tons of other slackers (who will never, ever forget to pay their bill again either).

The heat is cranked to 10,00o degrees. I can’t throw shade at them though…

I use the free heat at work like it’s crack and I’m a junkie. But it’s sweltering. I have to start ripping off layers or I’m gonna die [in the worst place ever.]

Much like every other thing in the government, it’s just a bunch people standing around with absolutely no clue what’s going on.

So there’s no line. No beginning. No end. No answers.

I asked the teller a very non-threatening question, “Is there a line?” And TheMasterOfShade threw shade with her eyes – that literally gave me first degree burns.

[Damn, that takes skill!]

I wish I brought bread crumbs because I honestly don’t know how to get out of this joint.

To go home.

My sweet home.

Where the contractors are ripping off the vinyl siding to fix the leak. All of the wood underneath the window is rotted. And there is big white moldy stuff.

As I inspect the rotten wood, the contractor is explaining the repair process in detail.

It’s freezing, but the sun is warming my face. The first days of spring. I love them.

So fresh and new and ripe with possibility.

I am rifling off questions to the contractor and he is handling my interrogation with ease. Like a pro.

The dude is just so damn pleasant.

Who knew that was a thing?

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