About TIME!

Darlings, imagine my joy and ecstasy when I sobered up today enough to notice the cover of TIME Magazine in my mail (My gardener's son, a lovely Hispanic lad of but 16 summers, who prunes my foliage at every opportunity with a skill that brings to mind Eduardo Dildohands, subscribes to the periodical. What is it usually about, when it's not about me?), and discovered that I was Time Magazine's Person of the Year! A great honor, long overdue. I am humbled by my own greatness. Conversely, many have said it would be great if I were humble, so the words are clearly synonyms.


I must assume, given the computer-angle in the cover photo, that this honor has been conferred upon me for this flogging I've been giving you right here! This amazes me because I was thinking of having my hit-counter serviced; my hits can not have been so few. However, this little flogging is really all I've done this year, apart from attend a few movies, watch some TV, and keep the male end of the sex industry financially afloat, none of which are likely to win me any immediate honors, besides my treasured naming as Patronette of the Year, which was awarded to me last year by AGOG: The American Guild Of Gigolos. Let me see. Did I do anything else this year? What else? What else? Oh yes. Drink. In fact I shall. Right now. Excuse me just a ...


Thank you darling. The adorable Headless Indian Brave has anticipated my desire, and has prepared an absolutely divine --- ummm -- vodka martini. The way he knows I want a drink before even I do is uncanny! That Headless Indian Brave is positively Supernatural. He is adorable too. I mean it. Ah, my cranially-deprived kemosabe; if only I were a little younger, and you were a little less dead. And a little less headless. Of course, I could give you head. I don't mean to shock anyone, but it would not be the first time. (Have I shocked you, my darlings? Oh? Well, I'll try again later.) But there would still be that pesky Barrier of Death between us, although my Death Barrier grows flimsier each day. Soon my Loinclothed One, soon.

But not right now.


I suppose I could find out exactly what Time Magazine had in mind by conferring this honor on me by opening the magazine and reading the article inside, but reading a magazine sounds tremendously dull; too much like reading. Also, Eduardo picked up his copy of TIME as he re-dressed this afternoon and took it with him. For me to have it read to me now would require my sending Little Douglas to the 7-11, and I don't really need an article about me that much. I already know all about me. I wrote the book on me. (My Lush Life )


I suppose I could call Eduardo and ask him to read the article to me over the phone, but if his father answered, it could prove embarrassing. Hernando can be so emotional. So silly of him. My introducing Young Eduardo to the joys of manhood will in no way lesson my demands for the servicing for which I pay Hernando so generously. My hedge requires a lot of trimming. It's wild in places.


No. Besides, those things the kids use for phones these days look a little too much like Spock calling the Enterprise for me. Every time I try to use one, I'm afraid William Shatner is listening in. God, please don't let that happen again! What a nightmare! If Bill had had a picture phone last time, I'd be in jail now. Even though OZ was The Most Erotic TV Series Ever Broadcast (Chris Meloni, issue all the injunctions you want; you will have my way with me!), I am assured by actual ex-cons (A wonderful, fun group of often discriminated-against young men whom I meet many of when telemarketers call.) that real prison isn't as much fun as it looks on TV and in gay porn, and is often extremely unpleasant for long periods of time. Tim Robbins isn't even there! He's still with that Sarandon bitch! Give him up, Susan, or so help me, I'll send him my DVD of The Hunger. I have a stamp, and I'm not afraid to use it!

Also these days, I try to avoid all the surviving original Star Trek cast members, despite the deep pain this gives both to myself and to Nichelle Nichol. Darling, darling Nichelle, you live in my heart, and I will always gladly open my channel D to you, but right now, I'm just terrified of waking up married to George Takai again.


What are the duties of a Person of the Year? Who was Miss Congeniality? Is my Yardstick of Behavior above or below that of Miss USA? (Please say "Below.") Why can't the English teach their children how to speak? Are you ticklish? What is the meaning of Life? What the hell were they thinking when they made Daybreak? If they just kept Taye Diggs clothes off of him, it wouldn't have mattered that the the script was more complicated than The Lord of the Rings as well as more violent, and that it made absolutely no sense at all, and I speak as an expert on making no sense at all. Look at this paragraph. Does it make the slightest sense whatever? I rest my case.


Wait a minute? If I'm the Person of the Year, I should make my own rules! Who is Someone Else, someone who isn't Person of the Year, to dictate behavior to someone who is Person of the Year? Maybe, if you had 52 Persons of the Week agreeing, we would have a tie, and we could appeal to the 12 Persons of the Month. And if they spilt, we would finally be forced to ask The Four Seasons, and who doesn't love listening to them? Unfortunately, I can't be The Decider. That position is already filled, and he doesn't listen to any voice outside his own head. (Although that is still a large number to consult.)


However, this is a great reward for a flog to receive after only so few floggings. I realize that my comments, hidden away here on the Internet, are nonetheless Shaping American Culture, something somebody needs to do. I'm just the woman for it. I'm 109, but I have the energy, stamina, and juices of a woman twice my age. It's time for me to weigh in and make the tough calls. I have Real American Values, except for homophobia and rampant homicidal tendencies. I am what magazine cover honors are all about: Last Week's News!


Isn't there some sort of law that People Magazine's Sexiest Man Alive (Not to be confused with Former People Magazine's Sexiest Man Dead title, which has been won twice by the Headless Indian Brave! I told you he was adorable, His ghost of a loincloth barely contains a generous amount of Spirit.), which I understand is currently George Clooney - though they failed to poll me, as has George - and the Time Magazine Person of the Year are legally required to consummate an act of primal passion exactly at midnight on New Year's Eve, regardless of the Person's respective gender? You've lucked out George. I am a woman, despite all rumors to the contrary. And, as it happens I am free on New Year's Eve, so I'll hold your place until then. Or, if I have to take my hand out, say to save a child from a burning building, or if someone is offering me a martini when I already have one in the other hand, then I'll insert a vibrating bookmark, so you can still always tell just which exact fold contains the Cradle of Life. I wouldn't do this for just anyone, George darling. No wait. Of course I would. But they have to be living.

For Now.


How darlings.