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.

Naked Brunch: Burroughs Takes On 'Top Chef All-Stars' 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.]

There I was staring. Saw it on the Glow Box, like a rube, eyes like sandpaper. Took it in like a shot of junk in a dark alley. Blais vs. Isabella? Sounds like a spectral French whore with a glow-tipped iron pricking hot olive skin on a gondola ride.

And Padma's the Cat, an electric magenta happenstance. I'd drink her oily Darjeeling on the petals of a nubile rose, pulling on her braids like the ropes of a Ghost Ship. I'd thunder like a cloud: "I'm your IBM Powder Man, up the nose and your ever-living end."

Perched like a sideways U with a shakey-hand drum, long-dripping stale joe, my eyebrows raised. Richard, Blais, "Blaze," made his chip raise: Hungarian foie gras ice cream. Mike's hand better be good. $200,000 good. Huffing-pod-in-a-fruit's-bathroom good.

Then Gail wigged. Mikey Isabella countered as a Bronx Zoo cobra. Pepporoni sauce. Pork shoulder. Like Moussalini's ghost with glinting tall boots, the whim of a giant among day-glow thieves. None lesser than a Buzz Disk in Mexico City. A real dazzler. Colicchio glimmed like an ice-eyed Hannibal, Alps and all.

I took a break. Too tense. Drank a Clamato and ate Popchips from a dirty drawer.

Then back on the Sitter. Corduroy sewage for a ruddy lap. Padma streams on my satellite eyes like a rainbow Hindu WASP. Krishna, take the wheel! And just in time for Judgement Day. High chins and ballpoint pens.

Blais makes a soft-eyed plea like some blind pigeon on the lip of a volcano. Not much for him, raw talent withstanding. He's an overthinker. But Mikey's a Bronx-throated dealer opening his coat, assuaging me to "dive head-first into the Long Time." My kind of creep.

Now the decision. The throbbing music voodoos my ear like a white-eyed shaman. The tribe has spoken: "Blais is Top Chef."

I need some junk.