I was looking through some mail I stole when I saw an invitation to the NYC Prince’s Ball, and realized it was tonight! I knew I was going to need a miracle if I was going to get ready in time—but I don’t got miracle money, so I went on Craigslist and found an ad for the ‘Turnpike Fairy Godmother’ who instructed me to meet her by the glowing dumpster behind the Rite Aide.
She checked my bag to make sure it contained the pseudoephedrine, handgun bullets, and seagull skeleton she needed for ‘the ritual,’ and told me to close my eyes. She opened the dumpster lid and I was immediately swarmed by rats who began tending to my hair and makeup. I felt like I was floating as a flurry of rodent paws got to work, cleaning my cuticles and applying a coat of nail polish.
I was introduced to my rat hairdresser for the evening, Gustavo, who delicately matted my hair into exquisite plaited dreadlocks. He was brilliant, weaving in chicken bones to give my hairdo some ‘oomph,’ and the grease gave my hair extra luster for the evening. I’d let him ratatouille me any day—in fact, I think I can still feel him rummaging around up there. That’s my Gustavo, always a tireless worker.
Now the rat that did my makeup, Quentin, I don’t know where he went to beauty school because he couldn’t blend for shit with his little rat feet. He scratched one of my corneas trying to do my eyeliner, and if it looks like there are rat tracks all over my foundation, that’s because there is. Three million rats in New York City, and I get the one rat that can’t contour? I still love you Quentin, say hello to your 700 children for me.
But my troubles all melted away when the rest of the rats returned, dragging my spectacular evening gown out of a sewer grate. “No,” I thought, “could it be?” It was! Lady Gaga’s meat dress from the 2010 MTV Music Video Awards! Now my hater-ass step sisters will tell you it’s gray and rancid, but they simply lack the taste to appreciate culinary-fashion fusion. You’d normally pay a fortune for a vintage, dry-aged statement piece like this.
Well, I must be off—my raccoon-drawn chariot is here, and I’ve got to pick up my glass slippers from a fishmonger who stole them off a corpse they dredged up in the harbor.