Even though Prime Minister Stephen Harper doesn’t show up to Prism’s Aqua party at Sugar Beach wearing an itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny Speedo like I had hoped, there is much for the eye to behold. Behold the sweaty, glistening bodies of the go-go dancers who perform in delicious Pump underwear and Skmpeez bathing suits. So hungry. Behold Biko Beauttah as she floats by in an easy-breezy beach dress so enchanting you’d think she was spirit. Behold the man so high he lies on the man-made beach in the midst of all this dancing as if he were in a coma. Behold the almost criminally long lineups to get drinks and the even longer ones to dispose of said drinks in the porta-potties. And behold Hotel, a most impressive and mesmerizing spectacle of freestyle choreography later that night. Sofonda appearing onstage in a white Afro puff wig while walking a huge white poodle with matching haircut is the highlight of the event. Woof.
Even though Premier Dalton McGuinty doesn’t show up to The Monstrous Ball at Buddies in a Grade A meat dress like I had hoped, there is still much to see. See participants in the runway show take to the stage to model their outfits. See a girl in a dress made of garbage bags. She reaches the end of the runway and tears them open. Crumpled up pieces of newspaper for everyone. See John Caffery in a surgical mask and a leather-studded jockstrap so full of his manhood it’s overflowing. See a woman rip the head off a teddy bear and pour its faux blood all over her bikini-clad frame. See Cassandra channel Yoko Ono just so. See Nina Arsenault embrace the fact that people simply want to watch her by allowing them to sit in a chair and stare at her for as long as they want. See Regina the Gentlelady dance onstage between her track selections as guest DJ. Where is Margot? Who can say?
Even though Mayor Rob Ford doesn’t show up to Beef Ball with a burger stuck in every orifice like I had hoped, there is still much to taste. Taste the sweat rolling down the two beefy go-go men dressed in unbuttoned jeans and baseball caps who look like they came straight off a construction site. Taste the sounds of DJ Hifi Sean, who, with his big muscles and beats, is an impressive force. Taste the man who fully coordinates his black-and-yellow leather jockstrap and harness to match his socks. Who says bears can’t dress? Taste the one lone skinny man in long pants and a white T-shirt who stands out like a sore sour thumb amidst this sea of hardcore, hardly clothed cocksuckers. See some man get a handjob on the dancefloor. Wetnap?
Even though MP Scott Brison doesn’t show up to Hotnuts Christmas with Christeene riding naked on Rudolph the coke-nosed reindeer, there is way too much to take in to even notice. Take in Mary Messhausen and Produzentin working their tragic magic in their DJ corner. Take in the man dressed as a fucked-up Christmas tree in search of presents to sit on as he roams the crowd knocking people this way and that. See the glamazon bitch prance through the club in platform hoof shoes so perfect Blitzen would gag. See writer Anna Von Frances and designer Jeremy Laing reel with laughter at the shit coming out of Christeene’s mouth. Example: “I did this show in Chicago and took out my butt plug and threw it in the audience, and some man caught it and proceeded to suck on it all night. That was nasty-ass shit right there,” she says in a voice that would frighten demon children. “Besides . . . my butt plug tonight is covered in this thing, which I just tried last night, called poutine.” Pure cheesy goodness. Let’s hope for more next year.