Miss Roxy Contin v. Elmer’s Glue
Halloween: It’s never to early to plan, and I predict hundreds of Michelle Bachmans praying away the gay this year. Here’s a flashback of epic proportions. A few years ago, Rush Limbaugh, the homophobe and infamous Mr. Law and Order, was arrested for illegally possessing the painkiller Oxycontin. As it turns out, he had a nasty little addiction, and it was soon revealed that he had used his own maid to “pimp” the drug for him.
Thus was created in my hallucinogenic homo head a persona and a costume, “Miss Roxy Contin, Maid to Rush.” Her outfit was envisioned to be full French maid: short flared skirt with crinolines underneath, starched white apron, de rigueur feather duster and silver tray. That proper half-crown that nests in a maid’s hair would be made of little amber prescription bottles, and the entire outfit would be encrusted in pills.
Roxy Contin, Maid to Rush would enter the Halloween contest, expose the hypocrite with one pithy head-to-pedicured-toe play on words, and surely make the cover of Time and Newsweek. When Mr. Limbaugh discovered that a drag queen had stuck it to him so publicly, he’d lose his mind, enter an institution, and peace would break out all over middle America. GLSEN and PFLAG chapters would flower even in the red states, and wedding chapels would welcome everyone. Yes indeed, his comeuppance would be dished out by a fierce diva. It was an unrivaled dream sequence.
Then, the unthinkable happened: the glue failed and my imaginary heaven quickly turned to a very real homo hell as Roxy died on the front porch in a puddle of Elmer’s. Picture the Wicked Witch of the West melting in front of Dorothy and her flying monkeys. But the witch had it easy compared to Roxie, who expired before a passel of prissy queens, gloating at her misfortune. Flying monkeys are kinder.
How did this outfit go from thrill of victory to agony of defeat? Well, at first it was easy. I’ve owned the same fierce 7” black heels for a decade; those old faithful CFM’s keep this homo hoisted to RuPaul heights. Fishnets, of course, are a dime a dozen. And a simple black party frock can easily be hiked up and flared out with crinoline found in the bottom of our drag bag. My friend Maryanne sewed Roxy a white apron in a proper lace, and voilà! Yes, ladies and gays, “it takes a village” to dress me up to bring Rush down (and a Hillary Rodham Clinton reference will only send him closer to the edge). To complete the ensemble: feather duster, $6.59 at Target. And playing the part of Oxycontin, a gallon of vitamins, $12.99 at GNC.
(To this day, the nice Indian gentleman who manages the GNC on K. St in Washington probably tells the story of the lanky homosexual who sauntered into the store asking for “a gallon of any pill that’s on sale.” He repeatedly probed the medicinal use of the purchase, despite my assurances that it was irrelevant, until I broke down and admitted, “I’m going to spray myself with adherent and roll around in the pills to simulate Oxycontin!” Confession may be good for the soul, but there was obviously nothing in the GNC Employee Training Manual to cover this situation. He stared at me, blankly. Then he burst out laughing and we—well I— had a gay old time. No doubt visions of a bad Bollywood movie danced in his head.)
But back to the story. I was so proud to be organized, which is not my strong suit. All the elements of this costume drama were arranged in a shopping bag of tricks on the back seat of my Mazda as I pulled out and headed for Rehoboth. Everything was organized, that is, but the pill bottle-encrusted crown. No problem, I reasoned. I’ll do it when I arrive, glue in my left hand and gin in my right. It’ll dry in plenty of time. Soon I was sitting with the gaggle of geese I call my sisters, gin and tonic half gone, garage-sale rhinestone crown in hand, six empty pill bottles and glue at the ready. Rest assured that none of the pill bottles were for erectile dysfunction, because that’s a headline that will follow you the rest of your days. They were just your average, run-of-the-mill narcotics bottles, ones that Judy Garland or Carrie Fisher would be proud to mount on a crown and nest in her hair.
Then tragedy struck: the glue wouldn’t adhere. As I embarked upon a SUPER GLUE MELTDOWN, the perfect “Rose Kennedy” of our Gay Kennedy Compound calmly said: “Perhaps you should have started this project a little sooner than 3 p.m. on Halloween,” kicking a traumatized, near suicidal maid while she was down.
Rose, dear reader, is the type with a three-ring binder for every project he’s ever tackled. Had Rose been in charge of this outfit, there would be within said three-ring binder a section for pharmaceutical research, the history of French maids, 100 uses for crinoline, and a copy of Rush Limbaugh’s gnarled family tree. A timeline would have been developed for ironing the apron, polishing the silver (and the shoes), and the bottles would have been lovingly hand-glued to the crown seven days out, then tested in several re-enactments of Halloween. The last section of the three ring binder would be the long-range weather forecast, changed daily until the big day.
Me, I just threw it all in the back of my car and hoped for the best. Then, the worst happened. A crownless French maid couldn’t possibly decapitate Rush! The bottles of pills were the punch line. I simply couldn’t go on!
The rest is history: Rush survived the wrath of the no-show Roxy and Time magazine instead covered Sir Elton John for inexplicably singing at Limbaugh’s third wedding. There is no justice. But I know deep in my heart that Judge Judy would have sided with me, and I am certain Elmer’s would have been made to pay the maid. Headline: Pansy Punitive Damages Awarded to Roxy Contin!
Alas, Rush still spouts venom to the millions. I’m just left with buckets of GNC’s Oncovite Multivitamin. Halloween 2012, anyone?
Brent Mundt resides in Washington, DC, but lives in Rehoboth Beach.