THE VOICE OF FABULOUS
by Hera, Queen of the Gods
New York City
Gather around, my dears! I am writing this column for all gods, immortals, and even you pedestrian humans! Auntie Hera, owner of the highest fabulous quotient, has got the scoop on the bold and beautiful, as well as the salacious and freaky-deaky. Let me first say this. I thought Earth would be so droll when compared with home. And it was, my darlings, it was. I had forgotten once we got here, that would change.
Admittedly, some things have stayed exactly the same. Just look at my patricidal ex-husband. It’s been only a few years since we were so cruelly forced to evacuate Mt Olympus, and he already lives in a mansion outside of Hollywierd with a harem of centerfolds. Those broads couldn’t care less that he throws thunderbolts on a whim, or that he actually has a hard time performing, if you know what I mean. It’s all a show, you know… that old man’s reputation is just that. I mean seriously, our beloved goddess love sprang from his head? I have a bridge to sell you if you believe that one.)
Someone needs to call the ASPC- whatever on that blonde celebutard. I mean, seriously, wont that poor little dog get motion sick from being toted all over the world in that Louis Vuitton ‘Speedy Mirage’ of hers? I hope that doggie pukes in that luxe prison. That would teach the skinny blondie a lesson. Then again, she will go out and just buy another. I heard that she’s trying to buy a giraffe now. Anyway- I wonder, does Chanel make a purse that large?
And what’s with one of our very own, the one god who sits on a throne of hotness himself? Mr. Good Wines, Good Times in bucolic Montana? I never could picture that wild boy in Big Sky country, though he would look hot as a ranch hand. Let’s hope he doesn’t try to kill himself because it won’t work. He is a god. Anyhoo, He Who Is So Hot He Sizzles rolled into that certain hick town recently. (I have my best spies out there, following him around from city to city as he picks the contest winner for his Wine and Dine network.)I heard he arrived in style,
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in a hot new whip with his marvelous gal du jour. But boy is he in for a surprise! That down home lady chef is going to throw him for quite a loop. In fact, I predict a haymaker. Stay tuned.
You’ll never guess who was caught actually WEARING underwear. Yes, the pop tart herself. Looks like Daddy has got the reins on her at last, and for her own good! Seriously, though. Why does she always look like she crawled out of a FEMA disaster zone?
You remember my report on the sky twins? How the god and goddess of the sun and moon respectively, are supposedly not talking to each other anymore? Remember that explosion in a trendy night club in Capri fit for Mt Olympus? The one complete with ambrosia hurling and mudslinging insults that would make even Eros blush? Well, who do you think blew into my penthouse the other day like gangbusters? The Bonnie and Clyde of ’08, none other than Apollo and Artemis themselves. They were a tad bit annoyed that I exposed them in my last column, and they even had the gall to accuse moi of having something to do with it! As if I, the pillar of Olympian morality, had somehow orchestrated their huge faux pas in Italy. Of all the preposterous notions. Of course, I defended myself. If I had anything to do with their mortal sweethearts spurning them, it would have been a lot more interesting than the venial scene caused in the nightclub. (Winks to my girl of dissonance, Eris. Even though we are here, that goddess has not lost her touch. When she started the Trojan War, everyone blamed it on Aphrodite and Athena. The other gods forgot about the golden apple that Eris rolled out. And telling that poor boy Paris to award it to whichever goddess was the fairest? A stroke of mastery! On a side bar, that pretty boy should have given it to me, and maybe he wouldn’t have lost Troy. Dumber than a rock, Paris was. And that little twit Helen got what she deserved. Anyway, ancient history.)
Now I must ask. What’s with that transformation of Girl Next Door to haute couture icon? She flips on cruise control, leaves the creek, the next thing you know, she has a baby, a new name, and her hubby is jumping up and down on a couch. (cont’d) |
On national TV. Why? Just, why? They say Mr. Top Gun is the man behind the curtain in all this, but come now, my chicks, have you heard what comes out of his mouth every time he opens it? He makes my ears bleed. Credit to the Glamazon wife of his. Even if she turned Hollywierd Stepford. Also, I can’t help but think, maybe if her friend Snob ate something, she would smile at least once. I mean, what is that Brit so pissed off about? I think she is just plain hungry. But I digress. (Fashionistas with a scowl. Now that’s hot.)
Well my darlings, that’s it
for the sleaze. I’m off to Bergdorf’s for a day of shopping. There’s a hot stone pedicure and a peppermint martini waiting for me in the spa. My feet must be fabulous before I try on those Louboutins, Jimmy’s, and Manolos. (Say bub-bye to your money, Z-man. Goddess, how delicious is alimony?) Today, I concern myself with buying so many jewels, the Queen of England would be jealous, not to mention my ex’s little tarts. While those vermin are copping cheap mink coats off of Sugar Daddy Zeus, I’ll be frosting myself with more ice than the Antarctic. (And to those little Mt Olympus groupies who dare to even steal a glance at me, I say, silly little rabbits, tricks are for kids! None can compare with me, Magnificent Hera, Queen of Mount Olympus and Supreme Puppeteer of Mortals! Ta ta, now.
The Voice of Fabulous drones on at CMP, part of the ongoing interactive story of divine refugees from Mt Olympus.
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