Every once in a loooong while, I’ll get a weird e-mail from someone asking me if I’m gay. Since I talk about dick any chance I get, the fact that I’m gayer than a WWE match would hit you after you read just one sentence I wrote. I don’t know if they’re trolling me or if they took out the working batteries from their gaydar and put ’em in their chirping smoke detector. But that “Auntie Mame” reference should clear it up for everybody.
Tom + Lorenzo tells me that this neck-to-toe foolery that RiRi worked on Monday night in NYC was made by Gucci, so it probably cost about as much as your kidney if you dipped your kidney in solid liquid gold and rolled it in canary diamonds. I bet that the Gucci executives cackle into the air whenever one of their customers spends thousands of dollars on some shit that looks like a sloppy three-way between a Boca Raton grandaddy’s St. Patrick’s Day tracksuit, Chinese pajamas from Pearl River’s going-out-of-business sale and your auntie’s flea-ridden, musty old fur coat.
That craziness pretty much screams LOOK AT ME and I’m looking at it, so it worked. And never mind that it’s doing weird things to RiR’s chocha area, I will say that those “pimp going to his own baptism” boots were a nice touch.