Chapter 1: What was the experience of attending the Wmag Grammy's after party?
And welcome back to another week. I missed you. I don't have a soda to crack, so let's click and commence this hour of worship. Um, you know what? There's not much to say except that Robbie might come in at any second. You know she likes to interrupt the pod and so do I. To be honest, she took my car for an oil change because I take care of a lot of the household chores.
I said, baby, I don't mind taking care of you. I don't mind making you oats and a smoothie and a coffee in the morning because I love you. But what shall we do to offset the responsibility of squeezing the honey out of that godforsaken jar? It's too much. It brings me too much worry and strength in the morning for your coffee, but nonetheless, I go on. I strive to make it perfect.
So she's taking my car for an oil change, and she's taking a little long, so I imagine she got it detailed too, and she took Nardo to the groomer. And if that is not a husband, I don't know what is. Shall we just get right into it? I think I have a lot to say, but I think I know. Rip Catherine O'Hara invented and created one of the best characters to ever be seen on TV and by
One of the best, I mean the best. She is an enigma. She's taught us words like mere picadillo and how to fold in the cheese, although she never found out. We must do that for her in her honor. She is one alike as she is also bedeviled in the meetings. and could lead the subreddit of regretful parents. She is incredibly self-unaware but aware at the same time. She doesn't care to be aware.
She is truth in her being of unapologeticness. She bought the first piece of clothing to Schitt's Creek out of mainland China. This is a woman of importance, a sustainable woman with scruples of her own. She's not immoral. Sure, she has proclivities for bad wigs and weird hair pieces, but we should all strive to have a wig wall no matter where we lie, the Rosebud Motel or the Hollywood Hills.
A woman who understands her worth lies in the hair of God knows who's past, but I imagine she was similar, a woman of strength and knowledge. But whoever's hair those strands once belonged to are done justice by Moira Rose. Whoever's hair those strands were donated from are treated like a museum hung up on a prestigious wall of the Rosebud Motel.
Whoever's hair those strands hail will live on forever, unlike the wearer of the wig rip. But Moira Rose is immortal. She shall not sacrifice her identity simply because her whole life has been seized and she is transported to a double bed with a styrofoam-like coverlet and outlets that probably don't work. You do the test and retest and test and retest and test and retest.
Excuse me, these outlets are out again. And I cannot blow dry the wig of Betsy. Never sell your avant-garde couture, very interesting wardrobe because it makes you you. And I, I have the honor of knowing the stylist for Moira Rose. She works on the body of Netflix. And I feel honored and lucky to be in her presence.
And even though it seems your family could desperately use the offerings, who cares?
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Chapter 2: How did the host prepare for the Hollywood party?
We must live even in a dilapidated state as Moira Rose shows us. She does not succumb to the matronly middle of America fashion for she knows herself. There is no sense of self-conscientiousness when she is clad in an armor suit seemingly made of a trash bag and a feather while starring in a local commercial. She is I, and I am her.
She's a role model to all women, a mother with only a whisper of maternal instinct, a singer who cannot sing. a lover of taking nudes only in good lighting and exploitation of such nudes to make sure they will live forever on the ether, in the cloud, in the internet, for all to choose to see and revisit time and time again me. And you know what?
I've never seen Best in Show, but I will immediately be watching it in her honor, and I heard it was all improv, the talent, the wit, the beauty that comes from a funny woman. It's time for us to recognize and appreciate For it is rare for a man to revel in a woman's humor, let alone acknowledge it. Oh, we're not funny because there are more jokes to be made than about your tiny schlong.
We're not funny because we don't have a ding-a-ling. Oh, that's not what your mom said last night, he says. Well, my mother is dead. To me, at least. It's like getting my dick stuck in a vacuum cleaner. They cackle alone. Well, I will not guffaw. There's no a guffaw sound for me. That sounds like an appropriate punishment if you put your dick near the vacuum hose. It shall suck it right up.
There goes your mushroom and extra skin. And this... This genital near a Dyson is only something a man would attempt due to his one brain cell occupied by the mysterious pendulum with swinging from the raptors of his Tweety Bird boxers riddled in skid marks because his mother got them for him in the eighth grade and he cannot wash them nor let them go because they are an omen of luck.
But Eugene Levy, he encouraged Catherine O'Hara and put her on and laughed at her heartily, which this woman of statue deserves. They have incredible chemistry. They do. It's palpable. It's palpable. It's visceral. And we can tell the fondness for each other that is ever present as they turn out the lamp in the Rosebud Motel. Moira in a vest. She rests forever. Rip Catherine O'Hara.
Is it O'Hare? O'Hara. I think it's O'Hara. You will never be forgotten. Let's say a prayer.
May we all be more like Moira. May we all find our inner's like Moira. May we channel Moira in our darkest nights.
On to something more scandalous, more dangerous, more risky. A Hollywood party. I went to my first, the WMAG Grammys after party. So I prepare all day. A cooling face mask all day sits on my face in just a mist of a spray tan, but not on my face because I need my foundation to sit just right. There cannot be an extra glisten. It must be matte for the camera flash.
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Chapter 3: What memorable moments occurred during the party?
Gabby Windy frequently leaves aforementioned bar of the bar chateau in the bathroom with a skip in her step. Gabby Windy is the best dressed of them all. We say blindly, but we know it's me. Gabby Windy stays sat for three hours, putting her legs at risk of a blood clot and smoking 1.5 cigarettes. Somebody ultrasound those arteries. I know they're sticky. What was it like? What did it smell like?
They'll say. What did it look like? Hard to say unless you have x-ray vision and that I wished not upon you. Because God only knows what's on that spattered floor. Sins, lewdness, libations of cheap liquor. What will it take to fit into this kind of scenery? And do I want to? I'm a mere mortal, hailing from small Midwestern military bases.
All I know is how many stripes are on the flag and where the nearest chili is and Red Lobster for celebrations. I dig deep and cannot find the confidence. My shoulders roll forward and my neck rolls... Vince, my plebeian childhood, everyone knows I'm an outsider. I don't know any of these people. And over my dead body will I be a hanger on her.
I will not sink my claws into the popular girl so one day I might make it onto her stories. Even though I am desperate for fame. But my pride is bigger. Not me, I'll live in a lonely solitude before I sacrifice this pride. So I'll stick to the back and observe by one tiny sip by tiny sip of a skinny margarita. And after three full glasses of tiny sips, maybe I'll get up and dance.
My favorite activity, I'll hypnotize the crowd, every person in the room by my thrusting hips and disconnecting arms. to seduce every esteemed producer who might be lingering, director and wannabe in the room. I'll take any attention I can get. I don't care if you're a poser. Okay, I have a plan. And then a team of suitcases with sci-fi products to shapeshift me walk into the room
and I only slightly recognize my home and myself, for my identifiable clip atop my head disappears. Who is she? But don't I want to look like myself? Can't I just throw it up in a pony, a fun bun? Or shall I opt for a cat-eyed dark eye, which no one seems to recognize? No, I want to look like myself, but prettier. Please put it on just right for the camera flash.
will make me look effortless and ethereal like Kate Moss in the 90s after railing a line. A tragic no-makeup makeup look. Please, I beg. I entreaty. For a no-makeup makeup look, there's an awful lot of concealer under my eyes. What kind of a note should I be wondering from this peculiar placement? It goes on heavier and heavier. What are we trying to hide? Not so thick on my crow's feet.
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Chapter 4: How did the host feel about mingling with celebrities?
I only just ordered a real silk mask. To help them disappear forever around my almond-shaped eyes. But it's too early to have this kind of cake in my face. A crinkle of a smile. And some may wonder if I've ever made that face before. And I must not let them know I've ever smiled in my life.
I ask for a messy, curly, oopsie, I have perfect hair like the French do, like this, but it comes out a little too curled and too pretty, but only at the bottom for I look like a mushroom, a funky girly, a spore, a single type of mold found in the dark forest of a Hollywood lair. I don't know. I don't know. But it does come together after half a pot of wax. LFG!
I say to myself, except no, because those letters would never come out of my mind or my mouth. I trade a Coolpix camera for the night for a bowl of steel cut oats. I need the perfect digicam for a night I will immediately forget. Maybe I can post on Instagram so the plebeians will know I'm invited to a chic Hollywood party. I have to let you know because you only see me in my robe at home.
Ah yes, she can step out like every other favorite influencer who party goes with the famous of them all. But obviously I don't take one picture and only worry about the camera slipping through my greasy fingers after trying the burger and the french fries and the grilled cheese. But it's a precious camera for my good friend Liz who found it in her childhood home.
I shall double stick it to my hands. A camera with a past that could easily easily disconnect from my perspired palms from deep anxiety. But as I delicately watch for the camera, I also watch my American spirits. But luck doesn't follow me then. As I leave them behind and on retrieval, every last one has been pilfered. My eyes are on you, philanderers. Because I know you.
You're sick of smoking on those skinny cigarettes lying around and you make a go for the best cigarette around with a good puff. At the expense of me, you want to rip a dart? Well, I see you, perpetrator. An hour later, with a light on its way to my American spirit, I can see that logo a mile away. For I have Ecovision 2010 and I know exactly what the logo looks like.
I move with haste and steal it out of his mouth, take him to the ground and a leg hold. This is mine, you fucker. You think I have points at 7-11 for no reason? I just signed up. You, you, ruffian. You wouldn't know taste if it head-butted you on that six head. It's awfully large and now even larger. with an almost puff of the best nicotine there is out there. It's growing.
It's growing because of me. You're welcome and that's what you deserve. He taps out of the leg hole to forfeit and I take that cigarette and light it myself. This is mine. Take back what's yours. I don't care how small.
Anyways, so we get there and I step out of the uber black with double stick tape wandering from its designated spot placed on my dainty little shoulders to the precarious strap of the dress I chose because I prefer hardship and pain. And the only time I opt for an Uber Black is when people are going to see. Otherwise, it's Uber Pool. Hey, stranger. I say to the actual stranger in the back.
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Chapter 5: What humorous incidents happened at the party?
Baby, will you hold my fur coat? And the cobblestone is slick. With warning, I start to walk like a baby deer while millions of cameras flash. No, not my legs. Turn in. I make a mental note to ask Google to technologically remove these photos from every site, every computer, every vision. Robbie takes me by the hand like a good husband.
And I walk bloated, fresh off an Advil, wishing it was the Adderall from Mexico I got years ago that barks at me in a storage bin in the kitchen. Take me. It'll save you, but I cannot deal with the anxiety. My supposed to be French curls have fallen all over my face due to the softness of my lengthy locks.
It's losing its Parisian roots and transitioning right before my eyes into that monster of cousin it. It's all over my face. It's in my face. You can't tell my face and thank God. I can only hope that my gams still go all the way up in order to steal the spotlight for I spent the day overheating in a homemade scuba suit due to my fascia-blasting malality. You guys remember this.
But the only thing that can help is compression to assist in these fraudulent lumps in my legs. So I wear tights that go all the way up underneath a short of compression with suspenders. I don't know how they got in my possession, but I put them on. So I sweat all day, but no relief comes from the coral wreath to cool me down.
And I start to wonder how long I can hold my breath for as this scuba suit is pulling at my method acting strings.
I say to myself, now rise to the top, slower.
I say to my scuba partner, too fast.
We don't want the bends. Slower. Over there is a school of fish, but who cares? We might get the pens.
After my free dive, we enter the chateau main entrance, looking for the party of a lifetime, and we learn we're at the wrong door. No! No! No! We have to walk 500 meters uphill both ways in my slippery St. Laurent shoes? Isn't there a golf cart? Please, please help me. Do you know how many men with a camera they can't afford who are dying to take my picture? I cannot go back there.
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Chapter 6: What reflections were made about Catherine O'Hara?
Robbie's brother, Shamoli, shout out to Shamoli, I know you're listening, says that no one gets accustomed to fame faster than I do. I want a back entrance already. Is there a back door we can go? No, not the bathroom. I need a secret entrance. I can't do the pap walk of shame one more again. A lady in the pictures, are they worth more than words? It's worth money.
But my uterus is shedding as we make eye contact. Do they want a picture of my big bloody pussy? How about a row cramp that brings me to my knees? How much can they sell a picture of true womanhood? You see that running down my leg? It's bright blood. It's bright red this season of the moon cycle and I don't know why and you wouldn't know why either.
because you don't have a uterus, you don't know what it's like to walk around with a non-organic stuffed cotton reaching your cervix. Anyways, we take heed and run past the sea of people trying to ruin my life with candid photos plastered all over the internet with my face covered by a rented Prada mohair purse. Who do I think I am, Lindsay Lohan? I wish.
And some of these tainted pictures, they manifest. They manifest on none other than the ubiquitous website known as justjared.com. And I know everyone's on this website. I know everyone has this saved. I see a picture of myself from Jared and wonder about my mother's proclivities while I was in the womb. Is it fetal alcohol staring back at me through the phone screen? I zoom.
Maybe it's something undiscovered. Maybe it's a toxic mineral that we've never heard of and she took it while I was in the baby womb and it transitioned to me through my belly button and that long hose and it sucks the life out of my disconjugate gaze. Another assault on my facial features comes as the inter-party photographer, the worst kind. Here he comes with the camera and his suit.
Pose, and you better do it fast with the camera gunned to my head. My limbs are lifeless. I'm two tequilas deep, and my mouth hangs open as if to wait for another grilled cheese sealed on that silver platter. Please, please just put them right in my mouth. About five to ten, they're tiny. The camera flashes. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha. This burden, this burden of a life, this burden of a party.
I cannot get any respite. Especially, especially not through my old factories. There's a stench of sorts here in the party. A dirty hallway filled with the incense of perverts and nefarious wants of maybe making a new friend. And the odor, the smell of small men. May that scent never know a bottle. No. And when I say small men, I mean small.
You don't know when you get a peep at one, what quite you're looking at. And after getting rejected by the coat check, I see something as my eyes rise to the bottom that I cannot quite recognize. An underground species maybe. Species. Species. I get closer. Maybe a music producer of a sorts that came from the cave of a sorts. I get even closer. That's what Benny Blanco looks like.
He's that small. And while I try and pass the newly discovered species, he doesn't move a centimeter. This species is stuck like stone of rudeness and insolence. Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me, I say aloud, someone mocking me in the front. Sorry, I'm polite. I say this to anyone that will set their ass free from their head. It seems like no one.
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Chapter 7: What challenges did the host face during the night?
I'm sitting on her lap, a kissy kissy here, a touchy touchy there. We're in bliss, no matter what is around us. And in walks a Bieber of a sort. A Justin Bieber, he gonna show you off. What a classic, I'll never get sick of that song. His head held surprisingly high. after his Grammy performance. All in there.
Robbie says, you know, me and Bieber, we go way back because they're both from Canada, but completely different parts of Canada, but she owns the Canadian anyway. She loves him, the number one original Belieber. She sheds a tear. Maybe this was all worth it. It ended as fast as it began. by means of an altercation, a hate grime, a destruction of our will.
For Robbie, like a good husband, goes to look for my forlorn, missing American spirits. And on the way, there was a mere piccadillo. If I may quote the late Moira Rose, well, Catherine O'Hare, where some glasses on her way were broken. They were spilled on the floor. Of course, we're in a bar and living in an imperfect world.
Robbie is just in the middle by happenstance, for she is as innocent as a cloudless sky. Sure, she could have accidentally spilled the glass because she is clumsy, but either way, it's not like it's on purpose. If it was in her to be aware of her surroundings, she would. She doesn't choose this, but it's not the way she was designed, and we love her for it.
Sure, I'm missing a couple of my favorite dainty crystal wine glasses, but I love her, and she attempts to super glue them. Anyways, immediately, whoever's fault it was, Robbie apologized with her big heart to those around her, including a big, big, big, tall, mind I add, skinny, like a blow away from the wind man, dressed like he wishes he was at a Paris fashion week. But no, this won't fly.
And ha ha, wee wee. She continues to apologize and goes on her way. You heard me, he says. Heard what?
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Chapter 8: What is the significance of being seen at Hollywood events?
She said sorry. He starts to get upset with her for no good reason. And I know her. I know her in this situation. I can see her in her outfit and Martine Rose shirt putting a hand on the shoulder. I'm so sorry, man.
She finally gets back, but then the tall glass of spoiled milk passes up and Robbie sticks up for herself and says to him in a cordial tone, hey man, I didn't like the way you talked to me back there. That is my baby, a woman who knows how to stick up for herself. This is what we need. Why be coy and mute and amiable just because they say so and because we are mere women? No.
We must be like, I don't like how you talk to me back there, man. He's obviously never had a woman speak to him in this manner or challenge him, and he starts raising his voice at Robbie. You didn't even apologize. I have a problem with the way you were speaking to me, ma'am. You didn't even look at me. You weren't sorry at all. She starts to defend herself. She gets up. Of course.
Of course I did. What are you talking about? This goes on, I can't take it anymore. It's my turn to insert myself and defend my baby. Don't you talk to a woman like that. You are so embarrassing. She said she was sorry. And what is your mother's name and number? She needs to know about this awful behavior that I know she did not instill in you since birth.
But you did one Nordstrom rat campaign and now you think you're a model. What are you so afraid of? What are you so upset about? An accident. Getting a drink on your white suit? Well, that's a risk you take when leaving the house. Oh, you can't afford the rental? Been there, done that. Lesson learned. Oh, it's your dad's? And you're scared of Poppy giving you a spanking? Well, grow up.
And your hat's ugly and it's too big and it makes your small head look even smaller. Your whole outfit is ugly. Your spirit is ugly. The way you treat my wife is ugly. And why don't you pick on someone your own size? He was two times Robbie's size. If he bent over to touch his nose, his tiny little prostate would match right up with Robbie's sweet nose.
And do you feel so powerful bending over and yelling at a tiny woman, my tiny woman, you sick, misogynistic freak? He finally starts to walk away in a corroborator, a friend with us who is also piping up. We have a gaggle of geese screaming at him. Don't you come for one, girl, because now it's three to one and we'll get you. But she hears him say, lesbian.
I cannot corroborate, but Robbie said to throw it in anyway, so here we are. 18 more cigarettes later, we're calling the Uber. Hallelujah. Hallelujah. This time has come. We're free. And now I'm basically good for a year. For it is the ever-present question of to be seen or not to be seen. Will it make me money? Will it make the days pass slower and sweeter? Will I love thyself more?
Is it worth selling my soul or will it suck it for free? Chasing and chasing and chasing and chasing and chasing those layers of blush and a bare ass with a thong. There's nothing to prove. I keep trying. I keep trying these parties. I keep trying to have a good attitude to no avail. So I'll be skipping the next ones and maybe I'll try again in 2027.
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