My mother called. She said this column’s starting to resemble “a newsletter for filthy-mouthed nobodies who need to go to sex rehab.” Mind you, Mariah thinks Lindsay Lohan is a nobody, but then, arguably, she has a point.
So, for Ms. C (the elder one), let’s give the inebriated diddling-behind-stalls and same-sex ferreting a break—just for today. But no go on the nasty-tongued biz, sorry! Like when did I ever really do what mama told me...
Bravado Boom-Cocks is quite famous but not always exactly beloved. Even though he’s a mucho gifted, award-showered, multitalented performer, he’s not really known for his private cool. Indeed, BBC was out here on the coast, having flown in for a project he’s doing, as well as a charity gig he was asked to participate in—reason being, the charity’s contributing beaucoup bucks to B’s latest pro undertaking. He was sorta forced into it, actually.
The organizer of said project had been in direct contact (no rep go-between) with Bravado, a line of communication Mr. Boom-Cocks sometimes chooses, as he detests pretense intensely. But Boomy-baby now regrets that decision, big-time.
See, Bravado isn’t exactly known for dressing, how shall we say, chicly? BBC rarely wears anything even approaching couture. For this reason, the organizer gave the charity event’s handler Boom-Cock’s private cell number, which the handler blithely called pronto.
“Even though things are more casual out here,” the charitable worker bee blathered on, once Bravado answered, “you really shouldn’t be dressing like you’re going to somebody’s barbecue or anything.”
Bravado’s polite response? “F--k you, lady!” he bellowed, and promptly hung up.
Then B dialed, brow slightly sweating with anger. Called up the guy who had given out his number in the first place. “How dare you? If you ever give out my number again,” BBC fumed, “I will see to it that you get me a new phone and call every one of my contacts and give them the new number, you f--king bastard!”
BBC wasn’t done, either: “And for punishment, tonight, when I show up, I will be taking no pictures whatsoever, not with anybody, no matter how much money they’ve donated, so you can learn your lesson and never do this to me again, you f--king jerk!”
The poor man, no doubt holding his own phone far away from his eardrums, begged BBC to reconsider. He did not. And you thought Ireland Baldwin was the only put-upon cellie caller in town?
Think again.