Ministry of Silly Talks: Amuse-Biatch Exclusive Interview with Ted Allen

As you might expect, possums, when it comes to the whole “journalism” thing, our style is more Hedda Hopper than Brenda Starr, and so, when Uncle Ted granted us an interview on the occasion of the premiere of Chopped, his new show on the Food Network, what could we do but take up our pad and our mother-of-pearl Mont Blanc, and channel Louella Parsons for all we were worth? We hope you enjoy it, possums; we will always remember the experience, since Ted Allen took our cherries…jubilee.

Amuse-Biatch: Bette, Joan or Madonna?

Ted Allen: Joan Jett.

AB: And speaking of Madonna, you once famously discussed how you would prepare and eat her pal Rupert Everett if ever you were stranded on a desert island with the Brit. If you found yourself on that proverbial island with the increasingly immaterial girl—she’s all gristle now—what cooking technique would you use to render her palatable?

TA: I’m thinking Ciccone au Vin.

AB: Do people get the munchies when they’re within 5 feet of Padma?

TA: Most people I know have the munchies for Padma. Did I ever tell you that I’ve seen her naked? True story: She was changing once during season 4 in Chicago, and, as a gentleman, I respectfully started to leave the room. And she said, “What, are you repulsed by my naked body?” So I gave her the once-over. I’ve been heterosexual ever since.

AB: You recently averred to an incredulous world that Padma Lakshmi’s job as host of Top Chef is harder than it looks. Have you gotten any tips or learned any lessons from Padma for your new gigs?

TA: Yes. If you already hear voices, it’s a bad idea to wear an earpiece. And don’t swap your flip-flops for Louboutins until the cameras are rolling.

AB: Did you know Gail Simmons was Jewish? We were thrilled to learn she was a member of the tribe.

TA: Jewish? I thought she was Canadian.

AB: As you know by now, your spot on the Top Chef judges’ panel was taken by Toby Young. Was it flattering that they couldn’t find anyone fresh, local and sustainable to replace you and had to import someone?

TA: Absolutely.

AB: What does it say when they have to get a Brit to replace a Gay?

TA: What’s the difference?

AB: Toby Young—you could take him, right? (In a fight, we mean.)

TA: We’re both far too polite to hit a guy with glasses.

AB: Has Carson Kressley ever made clothes for your Emmy statue?

TA: No, but Thom [Filicia] uses his as a toilet-paper holder at his lake house. The roll fits perfectly on her wings.

Chopped, Food Network, Tuesdays at 10 p.m. (Clip below courtesy of Food Network)

Amuse-Biatch Photoessay: The Tragedy of Christopher Ciccone: Avenged!

You may remember, possums, that when Christopher Ciccone accountably appeared as a designer during the Restaurant Wars episode of Top Chef: Miami, we channeled Rupert Everett to give you a taste of the tragedy of the pudgy, washed-up, gay bro. Chrissy has now struck back with a tell-all book in which he doesn’t tell all that much—but the first rule of Madonna Club is that you don’t talk about Madonna Club, or Madonna clubs you. Interestingly enough, Madonna’s friend Sandra Bernhard, says that “Madge has a lot of money and that she should’ve put some aside for him and then this wouldn’t have happened.” Write all the Chrissy-Hissy you want, Chris, but for what it’s worth, we think that, as the photo above shows, time most definitely does not heal all wounds, and that makes it the best avenger of all.

Amuse-Biatch Presents the Tragedy of Christopher Ciccone

Possums, we know full well that everyone is tired of forked-tongued decorator Christopher Ciccone, and we had determined to do no more posts about him, but over the weekend we were having a bitch through Rupert Everett's autobiography, Red Carpets and Other Banana Skins, and we came across an irresistible passage that may help to explain the fact and tragedy of Christopher Ciccone, or how he went from this:

("Oh my God," said Miss XaXa, "he looks like Debbie Gibson threw up all over him." "Well," we reminded her, "as Madonna's back-up dancer he necessarily had to be an electric youth.") to this:

As our story begins, Rupert Everett is attending Donatella Versace's New Year's Eve party in Miami:

"Dessert was being served. A cluster of divas, some of them stars, others not, sat around Donatella at a corner table in the courtyard. The party moved fast around us, the table was a rock, and waves of fruits de mer crashed against it, swelling our numbers from eight to twelve, and then to sixteen. Chairs peeled off in all directions in a swastika for intimate asides over cigarettes and crossed legs, but the undertow on this particular stretch of bitch was strong and soon, they had been swept back out to sea by the acid tongue of Madonna's brother Christopher Ciccone, the glum monosyllabic reply of Guy Ritchie, or the polite but firm dismissal of Gwyneth Paltrow. Madonna smiled graciously to all and sundry, secure in the knowledge that someone else would do the dirty work, and give any unwanted jellyfish 'the old heave-ho.'....

Gwyneth had been flirting with Guy Oseary, the child prodigy who ran Madonna's record company, but that liaison was another thin strand that Gwyneth cut with the brisk cheer of a dignitary opening a new wing of a hospital. 'I name this ship...Over.' It had snapped before the party even began. Actually, she was as thick as thieves with Christopher, and after midnight the two of them danced like whirling dervishes until they wound up slumped and feverish on Donatella's garden couch.

And this was the night that marked the beginning of the end for Christopher and Madonna. They had been inseparable through a trippy childhood in a huge family with a wicked stepmother, and she had taken him with her to the material world, where Christopher had provided a solid raft in the shark-infested waters. And for anyone who came into contact with Madonna, to know her at all you had to know him. The one was incomprehensible without the other. He was her dark side and she was his. People reeled in horror at the mention of his name, because he had a blunt aggressive manner, and he often looked as though he was laughing at you, particularly when he was drunk...But Guy [Ritchie] and Chris were from different planets, and in a way the one's success relied on the other not being there. Also Guy was not particularly comfortable with queens, and so, as the relationship between him and Madonna quickly deepened, it was a last call for a lot of the disco bunnies and club-mix queens that made up the fabric of Madonna's mantle. It was a surprise, because Madonna came out of the womb blowing a disco whistle, but a whole aspect of her life was about to be hit by the delete button."

There you have it: Christopher Ciccone too bitchy and gay for Madonna's husband.

As a bonus, here's Rupert's account of a master class in snubbery from that same party:

"...[S]hortly before midnight, Jennifer Lopez swept into the courtyard on the arm of Benny Medina, her new manager. Donatella got up and walked over to greet her while Gwyneth and Madonna gave two snorts of derision and noisily left the room. The men and Ingrid [Casares] were momentarily flummoxed but followed suit, leaving me and my hairdresser Jamie alone at the table. It could have been a moment from The Women....

Jennifer had given a rather startling interview a few weeks earlier, one of her best, as a matter of fact, where she had regally dished all and sundry, saying, among other things, that Madonna couldn't sing and that Gwyneth couldn't act. This broke an unwritten Hollywood law. Think it but never say it....

[E]veryone there at the party that night adored the drama. They were visibly shaking with the thrill of it, and so were the girls in question. They were like ducks during a rainstorm, preening, stretching their wings, shaking themselves and quacking. Jennifer sat with Benny, holding a beatific smile in place for longer than a porno star keeps an erection. Gwyneth and Madonna huddled around Donatella's garden couch like bullies from the upper sixth....Jamie and I locked ourselves into a bathroom with Donatella, a bodyguard at the door, and informed the rest of the world what was going on outside. We popped out briefly for midnight and then went back to the bunker like war journalists to phone in the latest explosion."

Is Casey “Beaver Boots” Thompson the “Top Chef” Typhoid Mary?

That was the question on our mind, possums, as we watched this week's episode.

In part it was prompted by our sighting of Casey's greatest and worst legacy, Lia Bardeen (the woman Colette might have named and imagined). As soon as Casey taught her how to straighten out (her hair) and made her into a "friend for life," boom! Lia was pykagged.

And this week Casey announced that she and Tre had become like "brother" and sister, and boom! Tre was pykagged.

If twice is a coincidence and three times a trend, we'll just have to wait until next week for confirmation. Just be careful, Dale; don't change hags in midstream, or it may cost you dearly.

However, there was one more reason we were focused on Casey during this week's episode. On her MySpace page, ole Beaver Boots says the people she would like to meet are "Bill Clinton and Madonna. Hopefully one day, Jesus."

We have to say, she's not doing too badly when it comes to her goals. This week she met Madonna's brother, and isn't that almost as good? And judging by the photos on her MySpace page and by the city she lives in, it looks like she might already know somebody named Jesús. That only leaves Clinton, and with her looks and television exposure, that shouldn't be too hard.

Confidential to Raggaydy Andy

Andy, possum, we can’t exactly tell you this over a martini at The Palm, so this will have to do. Possum, your plan was brilliant—dastardly, diabolical, and divine.

We all know you’re Madonna’s number-one fan; she may well get more mentions on your blog than your BlackBerry does.

And we all know that her brother, Christopher Ciccone, was excommunicated and banished by Her Madgesty, the Like-a-Virgin Queen, reportedly because, though he followed her into the kingdom of disco balls and Hurrell appropriation, he refused to follow her into the kingdom of tithing, ropy arms and Kabbala water.

Knowing that the pudgy royal sibling was in disfavor, you must have at once seen the tactical advantage of further disgracing the Scary Queen of Scoffs on national television.

And so El Chico Ciccone was asked to appear on Top Chef and run his mouth, revealing himself, as Dale Levitski put it, as an “asshole” and “one of the most annoying people [he’s] ever met.” And then getting him to “help” the cheftestants with the restaurant design after trashing their food and making their lives hell was another brilliant move. And introducing him as a “renowned restaurant and interior designer”? That was plain mean, but we don’t begrudge you a moment of MeanGay; in fact, we love it.

The subtext of “Here, Dale and Hung, let a real Gay show you how it’s done,” was breathtaking in its can’t-fail efficiency. We’ve never seen a better demonstration of waving a pink rag in front of a bull. Frankly, with Dale around, we feared for Ciccone’s safety; his life was hanging by a very thin red thread.

And who could blame Dale for seeing red? Red was all we saw, too, once Ciccone was done decorating the space. As Dale put it, it looked like Valentine’s Day threw up all over it. And, we might add, as if Valentine’s Day had thrown up after spending the evening alone eating candy hearts and having too many Cosmopolitans.

That design should definitely add to Ciccone’s “renown” as a designer, as no doubt will the scrawl on Restaurant April’s wall and those godawful wicker chairs (“Hey, Wicker Man!” Miss XaXa shouted at the television, “didn’t your sister sing a song about you? ‘Pudgy Don’t Preach’?”).

And the results? Well, for starters, you have Anthony Bourdain saying things like this:

Another good performance from Dale, who continues to impress with his professionalism. When confronted with Madonna's asshat brother, he managed to avoid telling him where he could go with his interior design suggestions and what, exactly, to do with that candelabra. A remarkable display of self-control. I am atwitter with anticipation, wondering what other food world luminaries might share their wisdom with us next week! Joe Piscopo's brother, the landscaper? Mickey Rourke's dog-groomer? This could get really, really good!

Meow!

Like we said, Andy, possum, brilliant. We bet you’re getting front-row seats the next time Madonna performs at the Garden.

Every Little Thing That He Says or Does: Bravo "Hung Up" on Christopher Ciccone?

Well, possums it seems we have another Papal "bull" on our hands.

When Madonna's apparently excommunicated brother, Christopher Ciccone (nicknamed "The Pope" by Her Madgesty) appeared as an uncredited diner in high camp and high dudgeon (though, really, it was more low dudgeon than anything; Addison DeWitt and Waldo Lydecker might have sniffed, "Here today, Ciccone tomorrow," in justifiable “Après nous, le déluge” recognition), Page Six was atwitter.

We didn't mention the Page Six twitterings because, suitably enough, they were the twitterings of twits, stating, as they did, that Top Chef was filmed at "Miami eatery The Garage." As if it were a real restaurant, rather than a dusty, empty space that a megalomaniacal bisexual and an olfactorily challenged homo had tried to turn into the vanilla-scented anteroom of a gay bath house. How could we trust anyone who didn't even know that much?

For guidance, Page Six turned to Madonna's biggest fan in the entire gay world, Raggaydy Andy Cohen, who said unto them, "All will be revealed soon," an appropriately kabbalistic, quasi-apocalyptic pronouncement that seems to presage both nudity and knowledge, the breaking of the seventh seal with the dropping of the seventh veil.

And today Raggaydy Andy comes to drop another veil:

Christopher Ciccone's quick, uncredited cameo on last week's "Top Chef" generated a lot of buzz, including mentions on Page 6 last week and this morning. As the Post reports today, Christopher is back tonight. I can tell you that he's not a guest judge - and not a random diner. Watch What Happens on an episode that I would consider a shocker.

Well, well. Still, we hope that, contrary to the twitterings, Ciccone's not getting a show on Bravo. Jeff Lewis on Flipping Out is all the KrazyGay, StereotypicalGay, and MeanGay Bravo needs (good luck getting a GLAAD Award on that one!).

Madge of Dishonor: Gay Cheftestant and Bisexual Villain Bitchslapped by Undercover Brother

Oh the homo-anity, possums!

As Andy Towle is reporting, on this week's episode the cheftestants had to deal with both an undercover blogger and an undercover brother.

Yes, possums, the pudgy queen who complained that Sara Mair's lamb tasted like metal and who euthanized a vanilla candle with a napkin on the floor is none other than Madonna's brother, Christopher Ciccone. Evidently, the awful doesn't fall far from the tree.

Not that we're complaining, mind you. If nothing else, this was a priceless exchange:

Man Living Perennially in Bitch-Goddess Sister's Shadow: If that's a vegetable medley, I'm a monkey.
Dale Levitski: I will let Miss Sara know.

It's like dialogue from a lost Samuel Beckett play, Waiting for Risotto, as rewritten by All About Eve-era Joseph L. Mankiewicz.

Our only disappointment? That the Ciccone monkey got nowhere near Hung Huynh's oft-invoked ape.

Arrivederci, Moaner, and Ridi, Pickle-accio: Joey Pickles Gets Canned in Vlasic Operatic Combo of Passion and Low IQF

Possums, we're not sure that Puccini, Leoncavallo, or Scorsese could have done any better.

Yes, possums, last night Joey "Pickles" Paulino was pykagged and sent home, thus bringing to a tragic end the verismo opera that has been the ursine, culinary Brokeback Mountain of our jaded media age.

(On the plus side, maybe now he can get that huge mole on his neck checked out; indeed, if he doesn't wince at the irony, perhaps he could just get it frozen off. We could swear it's been growing, and since the first episode we have been concerned that it might start eating his face or talking to him, like the pimple in that disturbing episode of Family Guy that we've never been able to forget.)

But back to the tragedy.

So much of opera is about Fate and its vagaries, and in our day and age there is perhaps no better symbol of the fickleness of Fate than the Top Chef knife block. It can spell success--the equivalent of drawing the Sword in the Stone--or lead to racking, manly sobs.

Which is exactly what it did this time around, as the cheftestants (term used courtesy of Television Without Pity) drew knives to determine who their team mates would be in the Elimination Challenge: to create a Mediterranean-style, easily reheatable frozen meal.

In an operetta, or in a novel by Gordon Merrick (Barbara Cartland for the Gays), the knives would have decreed that Bear life partners Joey and Howie (the debate as to whether it should be Kleinberg-Paulino or Paulino-Kleinberg has yet to be resolved) be on the same team.

Indeed, no one appeared to recognize this more clearly than guest chef Rocco DiSpirito, who wisely observed that Joey needed "to be pounded" (!!!). And, as Howie amply demonstrated, he's definitely the man for that. Imagine, then, Howie's distress at being paired with a woman, and Joey's disorienting grief at losing Howie to a woman and being stuck with a shifty bisexual for a team mate. As anyone who has ever lived through this will tell you, it always ends in tears.

Gone was the possibility of Joey singing to Howie, “Sì, mi chiamano Joey,” and of Howie taking Joey’s hand after an hour of packing frozen pasta and singing, “Che gelida manina! Se la lasci riscaldar.”

Instead of Baz Luhrmann, we got Cavalleria Topcheftiana, a tragic tale of deplorable misogynist fury, smoking, family (plane tickets to Italy promised to la mamma and la sorella), hubris, cosmetic procedures, polo shirts, and meatballs (the latter four also being prominent themes in the Jeffrey Chodorow-underwitten production of Roccopera!).

We did love the Judges' Table duet, as beautiful as the one in Bizet's Les pêcheurs de perles, about who's more-Italian-than-thou. Here are some of the lyrics:

Tom: Truffles aren't Mediterranean!
Rocco: Oh yes they are! I'm not your bitch, bitch.
Tom: Oh yes you are! And truffles are not Mediterranean because I say they're not. And what I say goes, because I have many successful restaurants and you're just a blow-dried, tinted, Botoxed, gay-skinny has-been.
Rocco: Well, if you were expecting me to be Padma and parrot everything you say, you've got another thing coming. And I may be blow-dried, but at least I have hair. And truffles are, too, Mediterranean. Anyway, Mr. Mediterranean, aren't you from New Jersey, and isn't your name Tom? I at least kept my ethnic name.
Tom: That's about all you kept, and now you sell tv dinners, and pose on tv with a blank cardboard cut-out that might as well stand for your soul and your reputation. And seriously, an online cooking show? And showing your face on an NBC affiliate after what happened with The Restaurant? Wow. No dignity, man. Oh, and I repeat, truffles are not Mediterranean, even though the most famous ones come from Italy and Italy is a Mediterranean country, because I said so, and I'm Tom Colicchio, and no one contradicts me on my own show.

Trust us--in Italian, with all those vowels and all that music, and the voices blending, it's lovely, swooning stuff.

Yet all the loveliness was for naught. Hung was unable to give Joey the pounding he so desperately needed, as a result of which nothing was Individually Quick Frozen, and Joey was out and separated from his bear. Attired by the genius costume designer in the suddenly poignant "Italia" shirt, Joey sobbed and promised (threatened?) that this wasn't the last we'd hear of him, the kind of verbal rose bouquet that usually comes wrapped in a restraining order.

Not surprisingly, Joey tells New York Magazine, with that heartbreaking admixture of candor and circumlocution, "I became emotional because I was going to miss a lot of people."

Just reading that, we hear the plangent chords of Gustavo Santaolalla's Oscar-winning guitar score in our heads, and we envision an "Italia" shirt snugly encased inside a sweat-stained (and we mean sweat-stained) chef's coat smelling of pork and hung on the door of the walk-in at the Café des Artistes.

Sorry, possums, we made ourselves all verklempt there for a second.

At any rate, just be careful, Joey, possum. To paraphrase the great Italian philosopher M. Ciccone, you're frozen out when your heart's too open.

Elementary, My Dear Thompson: Geography Lessons with Dallas' Own Miss Casey As She Makes a Run for the Border

"I live in Texas, I'm close to the border. I actually have quite a bit of knowledge working with Latin food."

Well, possums, what with the skunk strip and the waterworks, we guess there's a reason she keeps on sending us over the borderline.

Gay, Straight or Unwanted?: Amuse-Biatch Refuses to Take One for the Team

Is Sam Talbot gay? Is Sam Talbot gay?

We have from time immemorial adhered to the dictum of Anna Roosevelt Longworth--cousin to that old battleaxe of a dyke, the first (but certainly not the last) lesbian First Lady, Eleanor Roosevelt--when she reportedly said, "If you haven't anything nice to say, come sit by me."

So we are always curious to see how it is that people come to sit by Amuse-Biatch in order to hear the not-nice things we customarily say. Imagine our surprise when Google informed us that disturbingly large numbers of people are coming to the oracular grove of Withering Depths to ask their one pressing question: Is Sam Talbot gay? Is Sam Talbot gay?

We had long ago grown accustomed to the Is Marcel Vigneron gay? question leading people into our debauched, sybilline embrace, but this was something new altogether.

So, is Sam Talbot gay?

A thorny question indeed. Or so we thought. As usual, Miss XaXa cut the Gordian knot with her Southern tongue. "Please. Sam isn't gay. For God's sake, he recognized the lead guitarist for Extreme."

When we looked blank, she sighed and rolled her eyes. "Exactly. They're an obscure rock group that hasn't had a hit since 1991's 'More Than Words.'"

We nodded in awe. "Besides," she added, "even though Sam wears a teeshirt that reads 'Mi Vida Loca'"--which can be loosely translated as "My Life in Faggotry"--"he can't even tell the difference between yellow and green."

Well, that takes care of that. So, great Google searchers, the oracle has spoken: Sam Talbot is not gay, Sam Talbot is not gay.

This got us thinking. And being ever so public-spirited, we decided to do something for the hordes of Google searchers and cherished, head-scratching readers. So once and for all, let us guide you through the list of remaining male cheftestants, just to set your minds at ease.

Cliff Crooks was inordinately and squealingly thrilled to be cooking for former Madonna BFF-cum-fag hag (sorry for the redundancy) Debi Mazar, which didn't look so good for him. But then he described her as "cute." The pendulum swung. And he admitted he's colorblind. That sealed the deal. We have only ever known one gay man who was colorblind, and he turned out to be bisexual, which just goes to show you. The final nail in the coffin? In contrast to Ted Allen, Cliff never once uttered the word "aubergine." Verdict: Straight.

There's Ilan Hall, who sports an earring (wrong ear, though), has a fauxhawk and a rat's-tail (more smug-Williamsburg-hipster-scum than Chelsea boy; both Hedi Slimane and Maddox Jolie-Pitt have long ago given up their fauxhawks, so no self-respecting gay boy would be caught sporting one, much less on Bravo), wears Pepto Bismol-pink pants and shirts (but so do Episcopalian clerics on occasion), walks pigeon-toed (we're not touching that one), likes going to the theatre (hmmmmm), and is positively obsessed with comparing symbolic phalluses and with another guy's cherry (sounds like the military). Verdict: Straight but anxious.

As for Michael "Beer Bong" Midgley, we have two words for you: Puh-leeze. Not even the chubby chasers want him. No need for this one to go to the jury. Summary judgment: Straight as a room-temperature Bud Light.

And then there's Marcel. Oy, where to start? We have very publicly wrestled with this question, as you can read for yourselves in all our posts. (The bit about there being "friendly ladies" in his life, from today's Raggaydy Andy Interview, was an especially nice touch. In some cultures, "friendly ladies" are called beards; in other cultures they're known as "sex workers," and in our country, they go by the name "Katie Holmes.")

For the record, after much deliberation, we have come to the conclusion that Marcel isn't gay, just clueless. But it doesn't much matter, because you know what? We don't want him.

(And while we're at it, we don't want Sam Talbot either. Like Gaytopia needs another greasy-haired, passive-aggressive, smarmy mumbler with grossly inflated self-regard and a penchant for leather wrist bands.)

It's all true, what the fundies say. Incapable as we are of parthenogenesis, we can increase our numbers only by resorting to conversion of innocent straight guys, as well as through the implementation of our diabolical plan to introduce soy products into the American diet. But unlike the U.S. Army in its desperation to meet recruitment quotas, we have some standards. We won't take just anyone.

Just when did "gay" become the fallback position for the socially awkward and the terminally annoying? Gaytopia is not--we repeat, not--the Island of Misfit Boys. Our borders are closed. There's no giant statue of Judy Garland at the entrance holding a microphone-cum-disco ball in her right hand with a plaque reading "Give us your weird, your fucked-up, your huddled misfits yearning to be fab."

So you can keep your Marcels and Sams and Ilans. We refuse to take another one for the team.

'Ray of Light' Pierces Amuse-Biatch's Dark Disco Night of the Soul

And no, for once we're not talking about Madonna's techno-flavored album.

As you may know, we've been most troubled since witnessing Marcel Vigneron's Immunity Dance. We spent a sleepless night, wringing our hands in their Borghese Moisture Restoring Gloves and shredding peacock feathers. How could we have been so wrong about Marcel? How could our gaydar lead us so far astray?

And then the voices of reason began to prevail. Reader (and self-avowed Gay) Laz cautioned caution--"let's not be hasty here." Both our pal Eric3000 and his Eric3001 reminded us that guest chef "Raphael [Lunetta] and Marcel are totally staring at each other like they are in love." Laz also pointed out that Marcel "was practically undressing guest chef Rafael with his eyes when he was declared the winner." Ms. Place, too, chimed in with practical Dutch wisdom.

Thus fortified, we reviewed the episode once more, and things began to pop out at us. The sisterly interpretative dance by the seashore, and Miss Elia Aboumrad's protectiveness of him on previous shows? We recognized it at once from high school. Why, of course, it was the "kooky, artsy girl protects fey fledgling homo from the bashing jocks until he realizes for himself that the pigskin bus should be pulling not into Tunatown but into Funkytown" scenario all over again. Elia is really acting in the best traditions of the Drosophila Sorority (darlings, we like our fruitflies to have their Latin tags).

And then there were Marcel's exchanges with the surfers, trying out his idea of "surfer" lingo, "brah" and "bro" and all the rest. Why, what was that, if not the classic "trying to butch it up by using the same words straight guys use"? And Marcel sounded just as convincing as all the other gay boys who try that. (Seriously, the next time a gay man greets us with, "'Sup, bro?", we are going to beat him senseless with his own Abercrombie & Fitch flipflop.)

And when we happened upon the above picture of Marcel's attempts to butch it up, the clouds parted and Madonna's "Ray of Light" began playing. Of the many sentiments to be read on his face, one was clear. We could tell he was a little sorry to be talking to the scrawny chap, and not to the other one, you know the one we mean, the one with the meaty pecs, the beau-laid proboscis, and perfect (if undersized) nipples. Yes, him, that's the one.

When we showed Miss XaXa the photograph, she said, "See? You had nothing to worry about." As she put it, "I don't know if what Marcel is doing with his hand is supposed to mean hang ten or hung 10", but it definitely involves digits. And with his pinkie up, it looks like he's drinking tea. And we all know what it means when you drink tea with your pinkie up.... "

"We do?" we asked rhetorically, hurriedly placing our Sèvres teacup on its saucer.

"You can ring my be-ee-ee-ee-ll, ring my bell," sang Miss XaXa in her sauciest Anita Ward imitation, wagging her pinkie at us.

And just like that, amidst much blushing, Amuse-Biatch's dark disco night of the soul came to an end.