You’d be bitter too if you looked like Bruce Vilanch

People often wonder why I’m so bitter. Nothing horribly perverse or tragic has ever happened to me. Growing up, my parents never locked me in a Pet Taxi and fed me taquitos through the grate. No, the answer is a bit simpler. To all those nosy optimists that insist on telling me to buck up and be grateful, I say this:

You’d be bitter too if you looked like Bruce Vilanch with smaller tits. Yeah, let that mental image fester for a moment. A female Bruce Vilanch. A bulbous, wattle-centric androgyne with an all-too-vast collection of novelty t-shirts. If you’re not shuddering at the thought, you’re dead inside. Or maybe it’s been too long since you’ve Google image searched Mr. Vilanch.

Regardless, the world is a cruel and lonely place for young women that resemble popular patter-writer Bruce Vilanch. Gentlemen callers are few and far between. Children instinctively know to tremble. Blogs are written with undue gravitas and use of passive voice. In short, it’s a nightmare.

But, perhaps the most agonizing aspect of looking like Bruce Vilanch: Whoopi Goldberg’s never-ending barrage of phone calls asking you to be Center Square.

The horror, the horror.