Another really stupid story with no redeeming qualities.
March 10, 2006
Los Angeles, California
With a break in my protest schedule this last week, I decided it would be fun to rub elbows with Tinseltown's movers and shakers at the Oscars. Also, I figured maybe I could raise a few bucks for my upcoming "save-the-whales" protest. The only problem was I didn't have any contacts that could get me in so I had to come up with something. I called Scooter and together we devised a plan to at least crash the "Vanity Fair" post-awards party.
The first thing I needed was a designer dress, but I didn't have much money, so I searched everywhere for an inexpensive gay designer. The best I could come up with was Scooter's cousin "Bobbi" who, while not extremely gay, was inappropriately touched by a camp counselor when he was twelve. Also his mom had a sewing machine. I gave him $50.00 for my dress and told him to make it sizzle.
It goes without saying that anybody with an Oscar in hand is automatically admitted to the party, so I had Scooter apply all of his art degree knowledge to making one for me. He brilliantly took one of his sister's old "Malibu Ken" dolls, painted it gold, and glued it on a can of cat food he had spray-painted black. Perfect!
Next, I sent Scooter out to rent a Toyota Prius or one of those other little hybrid cars that all the Hollywood types now drive. Pulling up to the Vanity Fair party in a limo would be a sure sign that we were posers. Unfortunately, all the little crap-boxes were rented, so Scooter just had vinyl decals made that said "electric car," and stuck them on the sides of his 1994 Ford Taurus. Done.
Finally, the big night arrived. My dress was killer except Bobbi had made the plunging back plunge about two inches below my butt crack. His artistic and trend-setting fix was to place a large silk rose at the exposed area. While it actually looked great, I wish he would have clipped the long plastic stem. Oh well.
The last detail was to have Bobbi make over Scooter as a girl. We didn't want the slightest chance of the security people suspecting we weren't real Hollywood stars, so it was important we go as a gay couple. I have to admit Scooter turned out fairly attractive, except for his goofy glasses, huge Adam's apple, and size 12 pumps. I grabbed "Oscar" and we were off.
We pulled up to the red-carpeted entrance to the party, jumped out of the car, flashed the statue, and were briskly escorted inside past the hordes of paparazzi. How easy was that? We were in!
As we mingled with America's smartest and most beautiful people, it was obvious my date was relishing his role as my "life mate" a little too much. As I chatted with a guest, Scooter-the-horndog had his arm around me so tight I could hardly breathe, and then the next thing I knew, the moron started absent-mindedly twirling the rose in the back of my dress! I guess it was just reflexes or something, but I instinctively whacked Scooter in the head with my statue, sending his wig and Malibu Ken's head flying across the room. Uh oh, busted!
The evening ended with my being escorted out while Scooter became the center of interest (a man in makeup commands attention in this town!). The last I saw of him, he was fielding the advances of several Hollywood bigwigs, including one producer who ended up offering him a supporting role in an upcoming "Brokeback Mountain" knockoff. I'm pretty sure Scooter is gay now, and that's okay, I guess. Yesterday he bought a Honda Civic Hybrid and got his teeth whitened.
