We were assaulted by a drunk asshole at a Christmas party last night, so we missed the Did You Hear about the Morgans? premiere. Luckily fictional freelancer Betsey Morgenstern doesn't get invited to anything, so she was around to cover.
Do You Hear about the Morgans What I Hear about the Morgans?
by Betsey Morgenstern
It's Christmas in New York, which means its time for the giant tree in Rockefeller Center, festive windows along Fifth Avenune, and lots of star studded movie premieres at the Zeigfeld Theater. Last night, it was the time for Sarah Jessica Parker and Hugh
Grant to shine. They are the stars of What Ever Happened to Mama Morgan, the new romantic comedy that has something to do with bears and being a member of PETA. I didn't get to watch the movie because I like fur, so I huddled in my second-hand mink on the red carpet and kept myself warm listening to the tape recorded conversations I had with all the celebrities. Let's listen to the playback?
The first celeb I spotted was Paul Newman, who has never looked better and his grey hair still looks very thick and virile. This must have been some kind of fundraiser for his brand of charity salad dressings, because they were lining the walls of the red carpet. I'm too cheap to actually buy the stuff, so I thought I would take the chance to ask Mr. Newman his secret recipe.
"Paul, Paul. Yoo-hoo. What's in your salad dressing?"
He must have heard me so I yelled again. That is when the very fetching lady with him, who must have been his daughter said, "Ted, I think she's talking to you?"
"Paul, What's in your salad dressing?"
"I'm sorry. Do you have the right person?"
"Don't play coy with me, I want to know what you put in them there bottles to make them so delicious."
"I haven't put anything in those bottles. I'm just here for a movie premiere."
"I know it's a movie premiere, but aren't you raising money for the poor kids who make your salad dessing and pop corn and lemonade and stuff?"
"Oh, Haha. I think you have me confused with Paul Newman. He's dead you know."
"Well, then who are you?"
"I'm Ted Danson."
"Oh, of course, I know you! You know, Ted, I have to tell you, your wife, Jane Fonda, she looks amazing."
"Sorry kid, but we're leaving."
"Wait, if that isn't your salad dressing, why are there cans of it on the red carpet."
"Fuck if I know."
As Ted Turner was walking away, I noticed Cynthia Nixon coming toward me. Ugh, that means she's probably about to hit on me. Gosh, lesbians are so nasty. Why do they think that every Vaginaed-American wants to get it on with them. If I wanted to bump donuts, I'd do it at Krispy Kreme, not with some Krispy Critter. Oh god, here she comes, what should I say.
"Miss, I'm sorry, but I had to tell you," she said leaning in like she was going to tell me a secret and, ew, she put her hands on my shoulders. "You have some toilet paper stuck to your shoe," she whispered. God, how dare she tell me that. What a bitch.
"Are you a reporter?" she asked, smiling, like she was just dying to talk about herself.
"Well, you can ask me a few questions, if you'd like. I feel so bad about having to embarrass you about your shoe."
"OK, Cynthia. Why do you think disgusting gay marriage is a good idea?"
"What do you mean disgusting, I think if two people love each..."
"Two women shouldn't be loving each other at all. That is just gross."
"I can't believe you're saying that. I came over here and tried to be nice and help you do your job and now you're insulting me and my..."
"Yeah, move it along, lessie. I don't want to talk to you."
"Fine!" She said turning on her metallic pumps and walking away. Wow, she has really good taste in shoes. Well, for a lesbian.
Then two more women approached me. What the fuck is this, a movie premiere or the Indigo Girls performance at the Birkenstock factory outlet.
"Listen I don't want to be rude, but I do not want to talk to you if you're lesbians."
"Oh, we're not lesbians, we're beauty queens," the blond one said.
"That's totally different," I beamed, starting to get excited. "I love pageants. I was Little Miss Apple Blossom when I was ten. Who are you?"
"I'm Miss USA, Kristen Dalton," said blondie, thumbing her sash and doing a standing pivot that only beauty queens and six-year-olds that need to pee can pull off.
The other one tried to say something, but her English is really bad, and I couldn't make it out.
"She asked you which one of us you think is prettier," Kristen said.
"Oh, well, I could never decide that."
The brunette said something that sounded like English but had lots of rolled Rs in it and I just couldn't make it out.
"Well, then you are definitely the prettiest," I told her, trying anything to get her to shut up.
"Thank you, thank you!" she said jumping up and down and clutching my hands just like my El Salvadoran maid did when I gave her my used stereo.
"God, why does everyone think she's prettier!" the blond said and stalked away.
"You should go follow her," I said to the brunette and she just stood there smiling. "Yo estoy followar senorita, por favor," I screamed slowly. She gave me a mean look and walked away. Someone needs to give that girl some English lessons.
Wilford Brimley was there. He smells just like oatmeal and dried personal lubricant, so kind of like my dildo the day after I hung out with Rebecca Gayheart and Eric Dane. Anyway, I had the biggest crush on Chad Allen when he was on Our House, so I just had to go up and tell his TV father that I loved his work.
"Hey there, pretty lady," he drawled. "Do a turn for me."
I did and showed off my tight, black skirt that I stole when I went to the opening of the Alessandra Stanley for Talbots pop-up store opening.
"You sure got a lot of junk in your trunk. Come here and give Tex a kiss," he said pointing to his rosy cheek.
I did, and as I leaned in, he eased his hand down my ass and gave my ass a firm grab.
"That's what I'm talking about," he said in my ear.
I didn't even ask him to move his hand, because he's old and he's Wilford Brimley, and a man needs a little bit of charity now and then.
Oh my god, Cheyenne Jackson is so dreamy in real life. His eyes are so blue, they're like those yummy umbrella drinks they give you on a Princess cruise, and his teeth are like a row of perfectly white sheets of paper lined up and divided into the nicest little chunks. He is just so handsome, I need to sleep with him.
"Hi, Cheyenne," I purred in my sexiest voice.
"Hey there. What's your name?"
"I love that name, I had a grandma named Betsey."
"Look, I already have a family name, maybe we should get married," I said laughing the laugh that says "this is my fake laugh, but I'm really serious."
"That is funny, because I'm not even allowed to get married right now."
"What do you mean? Your mother has to approve the girl first?"
"No. Of course not, but why would I want to marry a girl."
He had to be joking. Who else was Cheyenne Jackson going to marry? "Oh, please, Cheyenne. You're career is so hot right now. You're on Broadway, you're on 30 Rock, any girl in her right mind would love to have you."
"I don't want to marry a girl. I have a boyfriend at home."
"Well, it's nice to have roommates, that way you never get lonely."
"No, we sleep together—in the same bed."
"That is so smart, it's great to save on heating in the winter. New York can be so expensive even when you're famous. But do you guys have some kind of code so that you know when the other is bringing a little lady home. Like a sock on the door?"
"No, we don't need a code. There are no ladies involved. I haven't slept with a girl ever."
"You mean, you're a virgin?" I didn't think my crush on Cheyenne could get any deeper, but it did right then.
"I don't like to talk about my personal life so I'm going to..."
He started to walk away, I needed to do something drastic. "I'll deflower you!" I shouted, as all the photographers and reporters stopped everything for a second and turned to me.
"Girl, you are seriously nuts," Cheyenne said as he walked away, lost in the crowd yet again.
"I love you!"
"Hey reporter girl, talk to me. I need attention!"
"Who are you?"
"Who are you?"
"I'm Betsey, who are you?"
"Oh, you are so silly, Betsey, of course you know who I am. My jacket is She by Sheree, my shoes are Christian Siriano for Payless, and my wig is by Kim Zolciak for her new wig line. This shit isn't even in stores yet, but it is here on my head."
"No seriously, who are you? I have no fucking clue. Did you crash the White House or sleep with Tiger Woods or something."
"Both, but sweetie, you better learn my name. I am going to be huge. Huge!"
Ugh, Maksim Chmerkovskiy is so disgusting. I did an interview with him for Kiev Monthly, the largest magazine for Ukrainian expatriates in the world, and we hung out in L.A. We ended up going to Playhouse and hanging out with Lo Bosworth, Stephanie Pratt, and some girl who got kicked out third on Survivor. He told me to follow him into the bathroom because he was going to give me some really good quotes for my story. We got into the stall and he said, "I've always wanted a girl to do a line of coke off my dick." He whispered in my ear. I took his baggie and did a bump because, if I'm trapped in a stall with Maksim Chmerkovskiy, that's the least I deserve. I told him that I wasn't going to do the coke down there, but I would blow him. It was the only thing I could think of to get the hell out of there. After we were done, he zipped up his pants and said, "That was all off the record. Ha!" God, what an asshole. Me and my friends call him Minsim, because there ain't nothing Max about him, if you know what I mean.
Needless to say, I did not want to see him on the red carpet whatsoever.
"Look, Betsey, I'm horny. Look. Get it?" he shouted over the din of the crowd.
"Oh, yeah, that's really funny," I said hoping he would go away.
"Hey, why don't you come inside with me and I'll take off that coat and we can go in the bathroom. I got your two favorite treats right here," he said pointing at his crotch.
"Eh, no thanks Maksim. I'm working."
"Yeah, well that was off the record. So there! I'm going to talk to E! News Now and tell them what a skank you are."
"Ok, you go do that, Minsim."
While I was hanging out at the premiere, I ran into my friend Dan, who is one of the PR people working on the movie. I always thought he was gay, but he told me that if I let him stick his finger in my ear, he would get me into the afterparty at The Oak Room. He said something about how lovely my lobes are. Who am I to judge, it's his kink and it's only an ear. After the movie, I went up to the door, and for the first time in a long time, I was actually on the list. Thanks Dan!
And when I walked in, Hugh Grand and Sarah Jessica Parker were right there. I knew I could get some good copy out of them.
"Hey guys, loved the movie," I lied.
"Oh, thanks," Sarah Jessica said, laughing and looking down at her feet. She can be so shy.
"Thanks, doll. That means a lot," Hugh chuckled.
"Hugh, I have a question. Both you and Eddie Murphy were caught with tranny hookers. Why don't you make a movie together? You can play buddy cops, and you're on the prostitution beat. You're totally mismatched and you're the bumbling Brit and he's like Alex Foley, but older and funnier. And get this, the best part is the name. We can call it Tranny Chasers!"
"Oh god," Sarah said, rolling her eyes and looking away. God, if she thinks a movie about four old ladies can make hundreds of millions, what about something with a bunch of tranny hookers. That's a gold mine!
"No, Sarah, I like this girl. That's a good idea. I'm going to steal that pitch and use it."
"Tell her to go away, Hugh, she's scaring me."
"I'll go, I'll go," I said. I finally delivered my pitch, and I was happy, but first I had to give Hugh my card. "If you want to use the pitch, give me a call. Or just call. My downstairs neighbor, Mystique, she's hiding a 'secret' and she would just love you. Give me a call and I will set it up."
He laughed heartily. "Bye now!" he said giving me a little wave and stashing the card in his pocket. Sarah gave him a mean look and he just said, "What?!"
As I walked past the open bar (well, I didn't walk past without stopping, if you know what I mean) I saw Don Draper, looking a little haggard and wearing glasses and Peggy Olson, looking more modern than I think I've ever seen her. She is a personal hero of mine, because she's the only other person I know who carried a baby for nine months and had no idea it was there.
"Oh, Peggy, it's so good to see you. I feel like we're so connected. You know, I slept with a coworker back when I was an intern at Vanity Face, which is like Vanity Fair, but for the plastic surgery market. Anyway, he got me knocked up and I had no idea and then next thing you know, I'm about to take a hit of E in the bathroom at Butter and the contractions start and I had to be rushed to the hospital and I missed DJ Paulie D's hot set. It was horrible. But I gave the baby up too, so I totally know what you're going through."
"That's so sad dear," she said, putting her hand on mine. "I wish I could have been there for you, but I really have no idea what that's like. I only play that character on TV."
"No, Peggy, you're right," I said. "You can never know my pain."
"You need to go away now, girl, cause I'm about to score," Don Draper said.
"Listen, Don. You are such an asshole. And Peggy, you should know better than to date him. You know what a cheating piece of scum he is and he really let his looks go. You may be be great at advertising, but you suck at life, Dick."
"Did this bitch just call me a dick? I'm going to fuck her up," Don said, getting off his bench. It's so like him to hit a woman.
"Fred, don't. Just leave it alone. She is obviously psycho."
Saddened that meeting my idol had gone so poorly, I went and leaned on the bar to get another dirty martini with extra olives, because I had to spend the last of my food money on cab fare to get to the premiere.
"You look about as miserable as I do," a blond broad said slamming her clutch onto the bar. "Scotch, neat!" she yelled, even though the bartender was clear at the other end of the bar. It was Kim Cattrall, the only surviving member of the cast of The Golden Girls.
"Why are you so miserable?" I asked, hiding my tape recorder in my pocket, hoping to get a good quote.
"Because my publicist is forcing me to be at this stupid cunt's premiere. I should have gotten this role. I could have been a much bigger star, you know but I did that stupid Sex and the City movie. I was offered a role in Precious, you know, and I had to turn it down to be with those three bitches again. I could have been getting Oscar buzz. But now Sar-rah has a new movie and I have to go to the premiere so everyone thinks we're friends."
"You mean you're not."
"Oh get a clue, honey. You expect me to hang out with that giggly little girl, that annoying wannabe WASP who was on Melrose Place, and a—sorry if this offends you—dyke." At this point the bartender actually brought here a drink. I guess they pay attention to you when you're famous.
"Oh my god. I hate lesbians too. Aren't the they worst?"
"The worst. Here's to hating lesbians. I like you. What's your name."
"I'm Betsey, I think you would have been great in Precious."
"Maybe you should be my new agent, Betsey, because the one I have now isn't doing the job. I should have been in this movie. Who wants to see some tiny woman look like a horse and run around with bears?"
"Exactly. I didn't even see the movie. I knew it would suck."
"And how. But no, thanks to my fucking publicist, I'm stuck at this fucking premiere talking to—no offense—some reporter about how much I hate my costars. All the dirt I just gave you is really going to chap her ass. Merry Christmas, hon, and it's been great talking to you," she said emptying her glass of the last remaining drop of booze and then slamming it down on the bar. "I'm going to say my goodbyes."
She walked across the room to where Sarah was standing. "Great fucking movie," she said blowing her a fake kiss.
"Yeah, whatever Kim. Bye."