“HEY LEGLESS WHORE!”

That’s how my ex-boyfriend answers the phone whenever I call him now. It all started one day when I dialed his number to bitch and moan about something probably not that important and quite possibly even stupid. Chances are I whined about a flight being delayed or not wanting to get into drag—blah, blah, blah—and he said, “Shut up! Things could be worse. Hell, you could be a legless whore!” Excuse me? “That’s right! Not only could you be a prostitute, but you could be one without any fricking legs. So please shut it!” Hmmm, well, when you put it that way! Of course, it can always be worse. But that doesn’t mean you should run around telling rape victims, “Cheer up, at least he didn’t kill you!” or lung cancer patients, “Just be happy it ain’t brain!” But I must admit that being called a legless whore really does make me get over myself—and fast! Then I started to think, what if there are two friends out there in the world somewhere having this conversation:

FREDDIE FRIEND: Hey, what’s up dude?

PAULIE PAL: Oh not much, just feeling kind of sorry for myself, I guess.

FF: Why?

PP: I have to pull a double at the cat food plant* tonight, and I haven’t gotten much sleep lately on account of the new baby and all ...

FF: Shut up! Things could be worse. Hell, you could be a middle-aged drag queen!

PP: Excuse me?

FF: That’s right! Not only could you be a drag queen, but you could be one that is fricking middle-aged! So please shut it!

PP: Hmmm, well, when you put it that way...

FADE TO BLACK

In other words, it is ultimately disrepectful to whores and/or legless people of any and all professions to use the double-whammy of “legless whore” as the utimate worst-case scenario. Surely there are people out there who think that being me is the most-horrible, ultra-tragic, suicide-inducing thing a person could possibly be! But to me, it’s just my life, you know? It’s similar to me coming home from a show, getting out of drag and climbing into bed with an extra-large, double-cheese pizza and half a gallon of butter pecan ice cream to watch episodes of Intervention, while laughing and thinking, “At least I ain’t a crackhead!”

I’ve heard it said that the biggest mistake one can make is to focus on the specific differences between us all as opposed to realizing that, ultimately, we are all very much alike. I would imagine that if there was a whore and if, for whatever reason, she was indeed legless, this legless whore would have pretty much the same hopes and dreams as anyone else. Legless, as my ex and I now affectionately call each other, would probably just want a nice place to live and maybe someone to love. Simple desires shared by not only legless whores, but also hairless IRS agents, armless frozen yogurt shop employees and headless horsemen. And yes, by fully intact, two-legged, middle-aged drag queens!

In other words, I would be proud to have this proverbial and now somewhat legendary legless whore standing right next to me! OK, maybe not standing next to me, but you get my point, right?

*PLEASE NOTE: For whatever reason, the idea of working at a facility that makes cat food has always been my worst nightmare. I picture myself wearing blue paper coveralls with a stupid matching hat as cans of cat food blur by on a black conveyor belt, while waiting to push a big red button in case of emergency—like having to go to the bathroom. It’s very Silkwood, but with none of the drama or pathos, and instead of Meryl Streep, I’m Susan Lucci. If you’re reading this and you work in a cat food factory, I apologize for judging you. Don’t be depressed, things could be worse. Hell, you could be a legless whore, right!?

illustration by www.glenhanson.com