It wouldn’t take a Dr. Phil or Laura to determine the root of my contempt for slurry women. After a childhood of hearing that slushy voice yelling at me, I’ve reserved a special parking spot of revulsion for that particular cadence. Throughout college, binge-drinking girls would make me run away in horror, the familiarity in the voice lashing me with the lick of a whip, and it was enough to turn me homo. I'm exaggerating that last point, of course. Preferring penis over pussy is what made me gay. Seriously.
A mother-type came back into my life, our lives really, when Billy and I lived in New York while I worked at what I now fondly call “my career mistake,” a major talent agency, who had a nasty, mean drunken broad named Katy Rothacker heading the department. Katy would be slurry by 3pm and angry by 5pm when she would stumble out of the office for the day to go home to her three cats and get serious about her drinking.
Living in New York with Billy was one of my lifetime highlights but Katy, who seemed bent on having Billy, undercut it. She would call at all hours of the night, and we’d look at each other with stifled giggles about whether to answer the phone or not. I’d give Billy the responsibility because I didn’t need to be engaged in her garbled discussions of business. It sickened me, and it was just like talking to mom. He knew Katy well, one time saving her from the complete pickle of falling on top of Carole King, a client of mine at the time, after Carole’s concert at the Beacon. She liked Billy and she wanted him.
Billy was a patient man, though, he would talk to her, calm her, and eventually he would say, “No, Katy, I can’t come over now I have to be up for work tomorrow.” One night, when he refused to bring over a six-pack and drink it with her, she became enraged and lashed out at him and me for being “fags.” Billy hung up on her and said, “From now on, you take it.” I went in the next day, strode into her office, and told her that if she ever called our home again, I would bring it to the president of the company, a man named Roger Vorce, who was well over 400 pounds past beardom - Roger was a degenerate man in search of a circus tent. She sneered back at my threat then spent the next six months plotting my dismissal. She won, all right, but in the end, she was fired after having created a scene on a pre-9/11 flight. It wasn’t quite as bad as the guy who took a dump on the beverage cart but there was a police escort for her when the flight landed, nonetheless.
My good friends, The Boones, are coming out with Brawlin’ Broads 2, and what better companion piece than “Drunk Chicks Puking”? America already loves seeing beautiful girls crying. Ratings spike with every tear. drood wrote an incisive piece on this phenomenon yesterday. I just want to kick it up a notch. It’s not pornography, really. It’s just a feeble stab at getting retribution from my mother.