March 3, 2009
Pictured: The First Dragqueen, sporting a black plastic abdominal retaining wall, which protects against hernias should her tucking tape come catastrophically undone. She’s not a raisin in the sun — she’s a grape about to burst.
Remember, you read it here first last week, just hours after the event: The British press, who unlike their American counterparts aren’t fawning sycophants of the tacky proles in the White House — the court flatterers at Vogue, to take just one tasteless example — tell it like it is about Miss Hell Obomber’s clownish fashion emergencies.
The First Dragqueen’s really put her size-12 foot in it this time. The magenta mumu at the pretend State of the Union was bad enough – will the coltish, brawny Miss Hell now proceed to gold velour track suits at state dinners?
And please, won’t some elocution and deportment coach tell the First Lady of J.C. Penney to cover those unsightly man-arms? Yes, yes, we get it; you go to a gym all the time (between your hard work of hating on Middle America and then blowing its tax dollars on ghetto-fabulous East Room receptions). Well, so do all the other hideous pretend career women who push and shove in front of us at Trader Joe’s – big, fat, hairy, female-impersonator deal. To echo a fit woman who’s actually attractive (and actually a woman): “Okay, so you’ve a got a personal trainer… That don’t impress me much!”