Tom, Get Those Effeminate Little Hands Off My Anti-Psych Meds!
By Rosie O’Donnel,
Tom, Tom, Tom. I am so disappointed in you. After all those seasons I spent suppressing my ratings-killing lesbian tirades, saying how much I wanted you.
And now you do this to me. Wow.
Let me put my fork down for a minute and talk to you out of my heart—if it’ll help, just personify these words using Nicole Kidman’s voice, because I know what mine does to milk—much less your central nervous system.
Since we’re both gay, I think the playing field of understanding is level. And understanding is as important to me as a one-top restaurant visit for tri-tip and Keystone beer.
It’s about my meds, Tom. Those curious little pills right over there in my Heather Has Two Mommies fanny pack. I happen to like those little happy pills, Tom. You see I understand pills, Tom, you don’t. I happen to like seeing the little funny people that jump around my house when I take them. I happen to love being up at all hours of the night, jabbering about the Bush dynasty and right-wing cabals while watching Wonder Woman.
And I especially like talking about the Chubacabra with my daughter while we eat the beans and listen to the Art Bell Show. What are you out there doing? Does your Dianetics help you believe you looked Japanese in The Last Samurai? I didn’t think so, Mr. Former Sex Symbol on my now-defunct television show.
That’s right, I’m not nice.