Monday, May 23, 2011

Naked Brunch: Burroughs Mulls Over 'Celebrity Apprentice' Finale

[From the POV of a resurrected Burroughs turned Hollywood gossip writer, Naked Brunch is my periodically updated, bizarro parody column for Patrick DeLaney's Nations-Strange.]

Great, the Mugwump's show. Twitching tiny lips and squinting eyes, orange soft serve running down a thick salmon pate, slow-motion walking, "For the Love of Money"—all the makings for a junk-sick Sunday evening.

And then I watched the Celebrity Apprentice finale.

Seriously, rubes and fruits—I kid like a eunuch Ginsburg on an Aztec ayahuasca binge. Even a wino walking his Afghan knew the Disk last night: Twang Man vs. the Signer, another dirty cement dustup for a few sawskis and a 7 Up can. A bunko job. Nothing less than for the King or Queen Gimp.

Had all the heat of the fuzz on me for heading a boy-toy ring in dark neon. Marlee looked good, too—sequined and high. A real albino Candace, hands like a madame. She flecks on the Night like an Occidental Geisha. I'd eat Chop Suey off a bathroom floor just to inhale her pink-yen cloud for one mum night.

Then there's the Twang Man: rich John Rich, all business—Rockefeller with a J. Paul lariat, a Texas T in the word "tycoon." ("Trump," even.) Went so far as to put a Stetson on the Pink Protoplasm himself—a wink and a nod for pale kids in teal gowns, St. Jude Children's Hospital, the "keeyuds." God's work with salt-of-the-Earth melisma and a calculated guitar chord. Something too solid about him, maybe. Like there's more in the sausage gravy than he's letting on.

And talk about askew: This finale's about as padded as a grasser with a wire and a mission—stuffed and ill-at-ease, beefing on his dealer for kicks and a new thing to do. I could smoke mescaline in a Lincoln Park rest stop, blear through the haunt of a Transylvanian fever dream, and still wake up to Star and NeNe fussing over Week 8's Bitter Suites.

Too much. Caught some Zs in a deprivation chamber. (I dreamt of Busey's smile, a kite, and Omaha Steaks—the usual. )

Then it's back to the Waking World. The MugTrump huffed with no break in his words aloft some amethyst throne like a sci-fi Genghis Khan:

"...Soon, I'll pick the winner. After these messages, the winner. I'll pick the winner. The winner will soon be chosen. Next, the winner. I'll choose the winner..."

And he did. Finally. Rich is the new Celebrity Apprentice. Now back to the chamber. The outcome's always better there.

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