What Dlisted Means To Me

June 30, 2023 / Posted by:

I’m not a particularly smart woman. I mean, my brain’s a’right, I guess. But it’s not like when I die; anybody’s going to be chasing my corpse around with a mason jar, trying to capture my lobes for science. My shit is 100% USDA-certified Abby Normal. Which is probably why I’m here, honestly, and I suspect, why you’re here too. Michael K rolled out of bed one morning and said to the world, “I am going to create a blog that is so dumb…” and well, the rest, as they say, is Dlistory as of today. Oh shit, I think I’m gonna puke.

When Michael asked if I wanted to contribute a post for the site’s last week, I said, “New phone, who dis?” No, I kid. I said of course, of course! First, I thought to write up a retrospective of some of my favorite posts from the past six years. That’s six prideful years of me walking up to strangers at parties with a smug look on my face all “I write for Dlisted. Dlisted.com? Well, it’s a celebrity gossip site on the internet. It’s actually kind of a big deal. Never mind. Red or white?” I mean, I’ve covered so much! There was the #MeToo movement, PepitoGate, BenAna, Bennifer 2.0, The Lohanaissance, the covid19 pandemic, the Trump administration, the Kanye kandidacy, the fall of the British monarchy, and enough FASHION to choke Beyoncé’s rhinestone horse. And don’t get me started on butt stuff! So much butt stuff. However, sentiment has moved me otherwise.

Having had the opportunity to dunk on fools professionally in #thesetryingtimes has been a joy I can hardly describe. But as ever, none of it matters. Superficially it’s why we’re here, I suppose, but in the immortal words of Jehovah’s Sexiest Witness, “Dearly Beloved, we are gathered here today to get through this thing called life.” And we have one man to thank, Michael K, The Internet’s Sexiest Skinny Fat Blogger, for erecting this glorious cathedral of trash within the sugar walls of which we, his devoted disciples, have found community, sanctuary, and solace; and a sacred place to receive the Sacrament of Our Lady of Cheetos (Cheetos and hot Mountain Dew, duh) for nearly twenty years.

And so in the Holy Spirit of TMI, as Michael K hath preached it, lo these many years; please allow me to re-introduce myself as an Original Sinner in the Church of Dlisted (L. Ron Hubbard ain’t got nothing on MK save tax exemption) and a Michael K acolyte of the highest order (WINK WINK).

The year is 2007. A bitch is having a hard time. Life just in shambles. I’m answering phones at a Chinese-owned biotech company that has only hired me because the owner thinks it’s better for business if the person answering the phone sounds like a competent white woman. However, I am neither of those things. I live alone in a small, dark, SPIDER-RIDDEN bungalow two towns away, and somehow, I’m still fat, even though I ride my rusty yellow Schwinn to work every day because I have no car unless I borrow my mom’s. Who, by the way, is dying. I have undiagnosed ADHD, my cat needs surgery I can’t afford, and I haven’t so much as seen hide nor hair of a dick in years.

Did I mention the spiders? Like, once I saw a BLACK WIDOW just chilling on my windowsill. Which was actually better than when I got held up at gunpoint at my front door (It was OK! The cops were far less professional than the perps by a mile), and I decided not to tell my mom about it because I didn’t want to upset her while she was dying. So yeah, to paraphrase my homeboy, Charles Dickens, it was the worst of times.

I spend my days at work pretending to fiddle with spreadsheets while ripping CDs from home to upload to my iPod and dicking around on the internet. If I’m not on MySpace, I’m on Dlisted, smashing that refresh button like a lab rat looking for a pellet. It’s my poor, addled brain’s sole source of dopamine. Dlisted and MySpace are the scotch tape and dried-up glue sticks holding me together at this point.

The thing about Dlisted is that the guy who writes it is so fucking funny to me. Yes, he’s a complete stranger, but I feel like we are spiritually connected— Him in some office in New York talking shit and telling stories, and me in some other office in California confusing my coworkers with my apparent obsession with spreadsheets and spraying coffee all over my monitor. I feel as though we are twin dumpster fires on opposite coasts burning in the night. It was Rojo Caliente, as I recall, that sent that first shock wave through my medulla oblongata and into my soul. Mind you; it wasn’t the first time I read it. It was probably the 4th or 5th time I read it that I said to myself, “he’s a fool for this!” The connection felt so intimate, the writer so sincere. I am not being hyperbolic when I say this, but I believe that the power of the written word to connect us as a species is as close to divinity as I’ll ever understand. Even if that word is “peen.” Dare I say, especially? I’m gonna go with occasionally.

It’s now 2017. A decade has passed. So has my mom. Everything is different. I’m living in Zurich, Switzerland (!) with my rich husband (!!) and two cats, including the one that needed surgery (the future rich husband paid for it when we had only been dating for a month!!!). As a “trailing spouse,” I’m not allowed to work, not that I’d be able to anyway since I don’t speak German and my primary skills are making inappropriate jokes and, apparently, finding a rich husband (it’s easier than you think, you just have to pick a supernaturally competent and generous one and wait). So I spend my days walking around looking at things and reading the internet, primarily the now iconic Dlisted. It keeps me tethered to reality. A fire burning in the night now a continent away. Life is quantifiably good. But it still, somehow, feels shambolic.

One day, after having looked at one too many fucking cathedrals (seriously, it’s out of control over there. Between the church bells and the birds, it’s no wonder the Swiss have underground tunnels lined with looted Nazi gold; it’s the only place they can get some peace and quiet!), I saw a post on Dlisted that “they” were looking for new writers. I say “they” because I assumed that a big internet celebrity like Michael K would have a “staff” by now doing all the grunt work, freeing the maestro to dazzle us with bon mot while lounging in his penthouse suite, sipping martinis in a fluffy robe like some magical, mystical literary Walter Mercado. Boy, was I wrong, but also pretty much exactly right.

I could think of no higher honor than to be one of the myriad angels I was positive Dlisted™(a subsidiary of Sugarbaker & Associates. Member FDICK) must employ to hold Michael’s royal mantle aloft. So, with absolutely no hope of success, I applied. And to my utter surprise/dread/excitement/dread again, I was admitted into the Messy Kingdom. But guys, it turns out The Wizard is just a dude behind a curtain! However, that dude is full of real magic, and he saved my life. Or, at the very least, he’s made it infinitely better. And I have a feeling that if you’re still reading this, he may have done the same for you.

Never in a million years could I have guessed that one day I’d be crying in my coffee instead of spraying my monitor with it as I write a farewell to the blog that held me together in my darkest days. ON that very blog! My mind is still blown. Michael took a chance on me, a disorganized weirdo whose spelling and punctuation are so bad I’m still convinced that I alone am to blame for his damned eye. Because you see (no shade, boss), there’s not a word that gets posted on Dlisted that Michael hasn’t read. Not one. Under his eye (again, no shade), I’ve grown leaps and bounds as a writer. And the practice of trying to keep up with Michael has been humbling, inspiring, and, most importantly, so much fucking fun you don’t even know. Writing for Dlisted has challenged me in ways both profane (coming up with 21 bespoke alternate titles for Top Gun 2) and profound (finally becoming the thing I always wanted to become ((after spending a year in therapy convincing myself that it’s true)). Thanks to Dlisted, Michael, and all the wonderful people who’ve breathed air into and sprayed coffee and god knows what else into this hallowed ground. Without this place, I would not be embarking on my first novel. Shit, did I just say that out loud!? I’m gonna puke.

Eighteen years is a long ass time. That’s the same age as my geriatric cat (yes, the same one from before! Can you believe?). And although Michael may miss leg day with some frequency, I’ve never known him to miss a workday; not a single Humpday, Freaky-Friday, Caturday, Sundae, slut’s birthday, or a mother fucking trick. To me, Michael is a mentor, a mensch, and The Man with the Mercado Touch. He has the uncanny ability to see right through the bullshit and, with unfailing humor and grace, expose the cultural elites for what they are; A pack of horny, insecure weirdos who have no idea what they’re doing most of the time. Stars— They really are just like us! But not Michael. He’s special. And I, for one, would like to thank him, most sincerely, from the bottom of my fart (typo and it stays). Besos to you all.


Pic: 20th Century Studios via Youtube

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