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"The Two-Headed Calf"
Tomorrow when the farm boys find this
freak of nature, they will wrap his body
in newspaper and carry him to the museum.
But tonight he is alive and in the north
field with his mother. It is a perfect
summer evening: the moon rising over
the orchard, the wind in the grass. And
as he stares into the sky, there are
twice as many stars as usual.
-- Laura Gilpin
“Queer Eye for the Whole World”
Queer Eye for Israel and the Palestinians: “Ladies. Cuddlekins. Can we retract the press-on nails, put down the teasing combs, and leave the lavatory? Think of yourselves as Barbra Streisand versus Katharine Hepburn -- duelling divas, yet they shared an Oscar. Israel, you’re proud, you’re undaunted, you’re kibbutz-chic, but remember: all of those extra pockets on your cargo pants don’t really need to be filled with grenades. And Palestine -- you’re beleaguered, you’re feisty, you’re looking for love, but strapping dynamite around your midsection doesn’t just kill innocent people; it ruins the line of your safari-casual top. Our idea of a suicide bomber is whoever’s been styling Britney Spears -- is that what we want the world to look like?”
Queer Eye for Hillary Rodham Clinton: “Darling. Girlfriend. Sir. Yes, we know that black pants suits always work: they’re slimming, they travel, and you can just toss a pastel sweater over your shoulders for the ‘Today’ show, as if you’re saying, ‘You see, Katie, I’m not just an Orthodox rabbi with highlights.’ But let’s branch out -- why not a black pants suit with a fuchsia superhero cape? Or add jumbo 24k gold Idi Amin-style epaulets. Or a flash of lacy purple bra that tells us, ‘Fine, I’m a future President, but sometimes I enjoy wearing women’s clothing.’”
Queer Eye for George W. Bush: “The Marlboro stiff jeans. The 1978 San Francisco leather bomber jacket. The huge, state-fair-prize-heifer Republican rodeo belt buckles. It’s all too G.I. Joe on furlough, Ken in Alaska, the plaid-flannel-and-canvas-work-gloves-for-Father’s-Day section of the Sears catalogue. It cries, ‘I’m responsible, I’ve stopped drinking, and Laura thinks that my penis is just the right size, thank you.’ So let’s loosen up, let’s tell all those other countries that the leader of the free world is lemon-cashmere confident. When you’re jogging around the Washington Monument, let’s try a Bruce Weber wifebeater-T-and-surfer-Jams combo, with all of those hunky Secret Service guys in plaid boxers and sweat. And why not deliver your next State of the Union address in an open collar, a Gucci-narrow peacoat, and a who-needs-France baseball cap worn backward? You could be the first unstoppable freedom fascist to say ‘I love me in a mink-lined vintage acid-washed Levi’s jacket.’ The planet is looking to you, so work the tan, bleach the teeth, and always and forever, after your ‘May God bless us all’ finale, blow a big fat kiss. Mwah!”
-- Paul Rudnick
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