What’s even worse than smug, raging ego, the Simon Cowell skid-mark on good taste? Got no idea? Than say hi to she-go, beloved by talent-free tarts worldwide! Yep, the females of the species – and deluded drag queens – are indeed deadlier than the male, as vanity inflates faster than MPs’ expense claims to fill the flesh charisma cannot reach!
Yep, from Geordie Shore superbores to airhead-hotel heiresses, the world’s crammed with plastic tits and trash-can brains thinking they’re the blowjob’s gift to Albert Einstein! So, are you heartily sick of these can-don’t snatches who snatch and grab? You should be, which is where Patrick Dennis – infamous author of the simply divine Auntie Mame book, stage show and movie- steps in.
Never heard of the guy? Christ, where have you poor saps been living? At the butt-end of happy, clappy clowns like Armistead Maupin masquerading as worthwhile fag fiction? Oh Jee-zuss, get real- Dennis’s deathly-dry diva dissections are worth their weight in Quentin Crisp’s superciliously sacred, cremation ashes!
But even the mighty Auntie Mame – a killer, Jeffrey Dahmer butcher of mediocrity – can’t compare to Little Me, the finest vivisection of diva delusions since Jayne Mansfield’s involuntary beheading!
An exhaustive–but never exhausting – faux-memoir of fictional diva, Belle Poitrine’s life, Little Me is deadpan disdain for the ages, for as long as the English language is read, understood, and spewed lunatic laughs over. Bulked out with 150, impeccably-staged, fake biography photos, from deep-fried, Baby Jane dipsomania to screen goddess hauteur and stinking, small-town slag supreme, Little Me’s a more sinful, visual pleasure than Marilyn Monroe’s morgue shots and Rock Hudson’s dick combined!
But, like all clueless nobodies who think they’re chosen by God –hi, Mr. Pope- our Belle believes the world is her peanut, her personal plaything, existing only for, and by, her pleasure. Consequently, she’s never in the wrong, whether scamming jewels, working as a two-cent whore ‘men would want to inexplicably pleasure me at all hours of the day…’, or viewing her Z-movie career as a soaring, artistic triumph. Stunningly, hilariously thick-skinned, she’s even oblivious to her seethingly jealous, dyke maid’s plan to get her rat-assed for a fatal, night-time ski-run, after she’s drunkenly bequeathed everything to Miss Maid!
So, hats and toupees off to Patrick Dennis, and his absolute, stunning mastery of that shockingly intimate, camp symbiosis gay men use to brilliantly penetrate the minds of fag-hags. But then, he had two beyond-deluded, major psychosis role models as raw material – Judy Garland and Liza, Judy’s even bat-shit crazier clone!
But, should we pity poor Liza with a zee? For sure – unlike whinging dead-head Christina Crawford, merely abused by her manically sadistic mommy Joan Crawford, Liza had to perform with hers! Talk about nightmares; it’s one thing to channel Judy Garland, but try being possessed by her, 24-7, like Norman Bates and his Psycho alter ego!
Tragically, Liza’s precisely mirrored all Judy’s excesses with an adoring, dog-eyed devotion usually confined to terminal Jesus junkies; the drugs, drink, diva hauteur and duplicitous, gay husbands. So, no wonder Little Me drips with viciously precise, but hilarious, bad taste – on one level, it’s virtually straight reportage!
Me, I’m simply in awe of author Dennis’s ability to portray talentless, screaming need – Belle’s even more desperate than Kim Kardashian sucking Ray J’s spunking cock dry!
So, you want the inside dope on divas? Screw tabloid goss rags, this is one camp-tastic, non-stop stiletto that never stops digging the dirt, a criminally neglected, 1961 masterpiece worth your blood, sweat and sneers!
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