Blame It on Bianca Del Rio_The Expert on Nothing With an Opinion on Everything

by Bianca Del Rio

  Chapter 5

  Fuck Foster Care!

  Family is the most important thing in the world.

  PRINCESS DIANA

  Seat belts, a clear tunnel, and a driver who’s not drunk are more important than family.

  BIANCA DEL RIO (WE MISS HIM . . . OH, AND HER TOO)

  You’ve probably noticed that all of the previous chapters (as well as the following ones) have photos at the beginning, but this chapter—on family—doesn’t. Assuming you’re not passed out on the floor and covered in either cheap liquor or jizz, you’re probably wondering why. I can answer that for you, but why should I? Isn’t it enough that I wrote this whole fucking book? I’ll let you figure out why there are no photos of me in this chapter. Here are your choices:

  No person on earth wants to claim me as family.

  I was hatched.

  All of my family members are currently serving time.

  I’m a NASA experiment gone wrong.

  I was raised by wolves.

  The cave drawings didn’t survive the Stone Age.

  Court records are sealed.

  I don’t want my family finding me and begging for royalties.

  The Manson family might claim me as their own.

  Ever see Deliverance?

  It has nothing . . . I repeat, NOTHING . . . to do with that incident in the church bathroom with my cousin.

  Photos are expensive. I had to draw the line somewhere.

  The only family photos I have are dick pics.

  Family Feud. Family Affair. Family Time. Family Values. Family Van. Family Room. Family Hour. Family, family, family . . . Fuck families! I am sick of them! Yet, many of you are not. In fact, you sent me thousands of letters seeking family advice. So I put on my big-girl pants, knocked back a couple of 40s, and answered all the family questions that didn’t completely bore the shit out of me.

  Dear Bianca:

  My new neighbors, let’s call them Kevin and Maureen, have a teenage son—let’s call him John—who is obviously gay; obvious to everyone but them. John is beyond flamboyant; he’s nellier than all of Liza Minnelli’s husbands put together (may three-quarters of them rest in peace). Yet Kevin and Maureen are clueless. They keep pushing John to get involved in sports and hiking and other outdoorsy shit, and try to set him up on dates with girls. They have no idea that John doesn’t want to have a girlfriend, he wants to be a girlfriend. Needless to say, John’s quite upset by all of this; he’s taken out his rage on his Barbie collection, and ripped all the hair out of the dolls. He has 22 bald Barbies. He tried to pass it off with a joke, saying, “It’s Chemo Barbie, and she’s given up her Dream House for a semi-private room at Sloan-Kettering!” I want to help the boy but don’t know what to do. What do you think?

  Bridget

  Orange County, California

  Bridget:

  First of all, the son—let’s call him John . . . Travolta (also bald)—is in a situation many gay teens deal with. He has (I hope) well-intentioned but oblivious parents, coupled with an incredible desire to suck black dick. (I’m projecting here, but what are the odds I’m completely wrong? Name one gay boy who hasn’t thought about going to Browntown for a slurp session? I have; it was prison related, but I digress.)

  Before I go on, it’s important to note that John’s coming-out process is none of your business. That said, let’s butt the fuck in, shall we? As a self-righteous faggot who knows a thing or two about wigs (speaking of cancer, and hair choices), it’s my MORAL OBLIGATION to help.

  Does John know you know he’s a homo? If so, great. If not, you should let him know you know he likes playing the skin flute. Maybe next time you see him on the street, you can compliment him by saying something like, “John, I love your dimples! Or are those ball marks?” Or invite him to dinner and say, “We’re having sausage tonight. They may not taste great but they’ll look good going into your mouth.” Once he knows you know, you can be his safe harbor: you can offer him an ear to listen, a shoulder to cry on, a muumuu to slip into. (Google “Mrs. Roper.”)

  As for the parents, let’s call them Tweedledum and Tweedledenial—that’s a whole ’nother story. If Johnny’s as faggy as you say he is (and I say that in a good, loving, “Wow, you came fast; can you go again?” kind of way), chances are they already know. (Surely, the Barbie collection tipped them off.) The parents ALWAYS know. I remember when I “came out.” Mom and Pop came downstairs to my room, kicked open the door, and my mother said, “Your father and I know you’re gay!” I was so stunned I didn’t know what to do. So I got up from the sling chair, took off the nipple clamps, unzipped my mouth, and said, “Do you still love me?” My father started gently weeping and said, “Of course we do, faggot! Just don’t spill your lube on the carpet.” I daresay, I was the happiest nine-year-old on the block. (This story is totally untrue; I’ve never met my father.)

  Sometimes, parents don’t want to know. A lot of times they think their son/daughter is just “experimenting.” I believe that the rule is if you do it once, you’re drunk; twice, you’re curious; three times, you’re a Republican congressman with a wife and four happy Christian children.

  I also hear that a lot of parents think their child’s gay behavior is a “phase.” News flash: a phase doesn’t last four decades. Unless you’re Cher.

  Families sometimes use euphemisms to help them with their discomfort. When I was five years old, I asked my grandmother why my uncle Robert wore a mink coat and carried a pocketbook. She said, “Because he’s musical.” I said, “Nana—Uncle Robert is sixty-three, wealthy, lives with six cats and a Cuban pool boy, and he doesn’t have a pool. I don’t think he carries a pocketbook because of music.” She said, “No, he carries it because you never leave your purse around a Cuban. Whatever, faggot. I love you.”

  Bridget, if you want to help John, why not chat up Kevin and Maureen, and tell them how quirky and funny and wonderful their son is? And then, since I’m assuming they’re Catholic (Kevin and Maureen? Jews? I think not), maybe welcome them to the neighborhood by bringing them to the local church for a Sunday mass. They can make new friends and reconnect with God, and John can have a gang bang with Father Joe and his slow-witted boyfriend, I mean altar boy, Dennis. Sounds like a win-win to me! By the end of the day, Johnny will be flaming more than the “purse.”

  * * *

  Dear Bianca,

  After I moved to a small apartment a few years ago, I agreed to loan my sister an antique cabinet that wouldn’t fit in the apartment. Well, fast-forward to now—I bought a house and asked for the cabinet back. When my sister returned it, it was beat to shit and one of the legs was broken. I’m not sure if I’m more upset that it came back damaged, or that my sister hasn’t said anything, let alone offered to pay for the repair.

  Andrea B

  Rhinebeck, New York

  Dear Andrea,

  First off, isn’t Rhinebeck a granola-backpack-Birkenstock kind of town? I haven’t been there in years, but if I remember correctly, it’s a quaint little grotto on the Hudson River, chock-full of pottery shops and lesbians. If you want your cabinet repaired I’m sure there are plenty of handy gals about town who can fix it up in a jiffy! But why bother? I say, save your money and make up a fabulous story about how it got damaged. Maybe something along the lines of, “I lent it to Pamela Anderson and she got drunk and mistook one of the legs for Tommy Lee’s dick . . .”

  FYI, I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve been returned to the shelter beat to shit with a broken leg. Please, bitch, at this point my legs have been broken so many times I can barely summon the emotional strength to laugh at telethons.

  * * *

  Dear Bianca,

  I have two children (ages 9 and 10); my brother also has two children. We live on opposite sides of the country and at Christmas time we always meet at our parents’ home, which is about halfway between, to celebrate the holidays. For some odd reason my parents are nice to my brother’s children, but not very nice to mine. My kids
have noticed and don’t want to go to Grandma’s house this Christmas. What do you think?

  Marilyn

  Flint, Michigan

  Marilyn,

  Christmas is the least of your worries. You live in Flint; your children are drinking poisoned water. I’m pretty sure this problem will resolve itself in no time. Besides, you can have other kids. Maybe your parents will like them better than your current litter.

  * * *

  Dear Bianca:

  Ok this is going to be a question asked by so many people.

  How do I come out to my dad as being gay when he is very homophobic? Let me just quote, “I’d like to kill all the homos.”

  Thank you and I hope for your reply.

  Love you x

  Joey A

  Dear Joey A,

  You are soooo right. I was asked this question by soooo many people. Totally unoriginal and tedious on your part. But, since I have to answer at least one of them, why not yours, right? (Your name sounds very southern, and the fact that your dad seems to be a gun aficionado makes you the one whose generic letter I’ve decided to answer.)

  First of all, your letter is kinda vague. You don’t say how old you are. If you’re forty-eight and still afraid to have this talk with your daddy, then coming out is the least of your issues.

  Secondly, your father isn’t homophobic; he’s an asshole. A phobia is an unnatural fear of something. Your father isn’t afraid of homos, he doesn’t like them. Not the same thing. HomoPHOBIA would be if he was afraid that a gay burglar would break into the house and rearrange the throw pillows. Your father actually wants to shoot homos. A person who has a fear of heights, acrophobia, is afraid of flying in planes. He doesn’t necessarily want to kill all pilots and flight attendants.

  I don’t think a casual “Hey, Dad, I need to talk to you” chat is going to do you any good. I suggest you come home with a huge, hairy biker bear, who has tattoos, body piercings, and an ugly scar running down his entire face. You walk in the door and say, “Hi, Dad, this is my new girlfriend, Buck.” Pops will either be too afraid to spew his hatred, or so stunned he’ll have a heart attack and drop dead. Think of it as a win-win.

  Note: I don’t want you to think my reply is original; I must confess it was on an episode of Forensic Files, which I consider the feel-good show of 2017.

  * * *

  Dear Bianca,

  My sister recently had lap band surgery and has lost almost 200 lbs. She’s looking much better (she originally weighed 360) and seems a lot happier. I’m thrilled because I love her a lot. My issue is that when she’s asked about the weight loss she says she did it with diet and exercise, which is a lie. And when she says it to people in front of me, or people we both know, it makes me complicit in the lie. That makes me very uncomfortable. Any advice?

  Eleanor

  San Antonio, Texas

  Dear Eleanor,

  You act like you’ve never lied. Cut it the fuck out. EVERYONE lies. When our first president, George Washington, said, “I cannot tell a lie,” he was lying. The Big G lied plenty. For example, he didn’t actually chop down the cherry tree, he had his gardener, José, do it. He confessed because he didn’t want Martha to know he was banging José’s sister, Juanita. (Who, by the way, had a baby with George. How Martha never noticed that her son Paco’s first words were mamacita and inmigració is beyond me.) Our current president, Donald Trump, lies every 3.7 seconds. It doesn’t bother him in the least, and it doesn’t bother his family either. (His sister isn’t writing to me complaining about the lying, is she?) So let go of the integrity bullshit; if your sister wants people to think she lived on salads and treadmills, let her. Besides, six months from now, when the lap band breaks and she burps up a turd, they’ll know the truth anyway.

  * * *

  Dear Ms. Bianca,

  I’m a thirty-four-year-old single gay man. My first cousin, Sharon, lives in Texas. She’s great and I love her and her kids. But her husband, Charlie, is homophobic. He won’t let me see the children because he thinks all homosexuals are child molesters, which is, of course, ridiculous. I’ve spoken to Sharon and she’s in a tough spot. She knows her husband’s being an idiot, but he’s the father of her children and they’re happily married.

  I don’t know what to do. Any advice?

  Andrew

  Florida

  Dear Andrew,

  Wow. This situation is harder than Chris Christie’s arteries. For starters, understand that they live in Texas, a state that elected Rick Dancing with the Stars Perry governor, twice. Not exactly a state-full-o-thinkers.

  Everyone knows that proportionally, heterosexuals are WAAAAAAY more likely to be child molesters than gays. Everyone except Charlie, that is. I fear nothing that you, Sharon, friends, family, scientists, doctors, or experts say is going to change his delusional mind. But a lawyer might! I say, sue the motherfucker for every penny he has, for defamation of character, character assassination, and anything else the lawyer can think of. The goal is not to win money but the opportunity to see your nieces and nephews. Let Sharon know what you’re doing and why you’re doing it.

  You’re not allowed to see the kids now, so what have you got to lose? And who knows, if you win, maybe Charlie will see how fabulous you are and change his mind! (I’m assuming you’re fabulous; don’t prove me wrong by showing up in court wearing pleats, or a cotton-poly blend.)

  * * *

  Dear Bianca,

  My brother got married last year, for the second time. (His wife, and mother of his two kids, ran off a few years ago.) His new wife is a sloppy alcoholic (slurred language, bad driving, spilling things, falling down) but both she and my brother are in denial about it. Everyone else in the family—and neighborhood—is aware of it. My problem is that his kids (ages 8 and 10) are starting to ask me questions about her behavior. What should I tell them?

  Andrea

  Levittown, Pennsylvania

  Dear Andrea,

  This sounds verrrry familiar. Jamie, is this you? Wait a minute, am I being punk’d? Never mind, back to your question.

  Sounds like an episode of Will & Grace, except without the jokes and the homos. Right up front, let me say that I’m pretty sure your brother knows he married an alkie; a “normal drinker” doesn’t consider vomit an accessory.

  You should tell the children the truth, that their new mommy’s real name is Jackie Daniels, she’s a cheap drunk, and after a couple of shots and a six-pack, she’ll hop up on the pool table and give everyone in the bar a turn. But use nicer language (they are children, after all). For example, change “cheap” to “broken down,” and “six-pack” to “a keg of brewskis.”

  Your brother may get mad at you, but in the long run you’ll be doing him a favor. And the kids will learn (a) about problem drinking, and (b) how to mix a martini without bruising the gin!

  * * *

  Dear Bianca,

  My stepdaughter is eleven, going on twelve, and she still sleeps in bed with me and her father. This began long before I came on the scene, and while I understand that she’s close to her dad, she’s getting to the age where it’s becoming uncomfortable. Any advice?

  Bonnie

  Des Plaines, Illinois

  Dear Bonnie,

  Move to West Virginia, where it’s legal to do that shit.

  Xoxo

  P.S. I hate the expression eleven, going on twelve. Of course she is, twelve follows eleven. She can’t be eleven going on thirty-eight, can she? If she’s not “eleven going on twelve,” then her only option is to be “eleven going on dead,” and we’d hate that, wouldn’t we? But it would get the needy skank out of the bed. Win-win. ☺

  * * *

  Bianca,

  We were looking through our seventeen-year-old son’s phone the other day, and we came across this app called Grindr. Apparently, it’s a dating site for gay men. We were shocked! Does this mean he’s gay? Could he be going through a phase? Is this something all the kids today do? We want to say s
omething to Robert, but don’t know what, or how to approach the subject. Any suggestions?

  Mary & Joe

  Cincinnati, Ohio

  Dear M&J,

  Yes! Mind your own fucking business!!! Why were you looking through his phone? He’s seventeen, for fuck’s sake, not seven. How about a little privacy? In the modern world (and by modern I mean post-1985; catch up, you snoopy pricks) phones are like diaries: people keep their most private thoughts on them. Would you read Robert’s diary if he had one? (If he’s gay, he might have one. Gay boys love to journal, when they’re not dancing, cruising, or snorting meth in their BFF’s garage. You know, if Anne Frank were alive today her diary would be an app, and she’d be swimming in money; certainly enough to pay off the Nazis.)

  Yes, Grindr is a dating app for gay men. Does this mean Robert is gay? How would I know, he’s never sucked my dick. If you want to know if he’s gay, but don’t want him to know that you’re nosy pigs, with no boundaries or respect for privacy, wait until the next time he says he’s going “hunting for bears.” Pay attention to see if he’s carrying a rifle or a black handkerchief and a bottle of K–Y. Then learn to MYOB!

  * * *

  Dear Bianca,