Drag Race


No, I am not referring to the dangerous, illegal pastime that is seemingly loved by the Hogan family. I am talking (writing?) about RuPaul’s reality television show: Drag Race.


You know RuPaul, right?


I am 100% confident that RuPaul makes a better woman than I do. If RuPaul and I were placed in a line-up and strangers were asked to determine which one of us was born a man, they would choose me. And RuPaul is 6’7″. That says a lot.


Don’t tell anyone this, but RuPaul inspires me (late at night, perhaps after indulging in one or ten alcoholic beverages) to experiment with eyeshadow and false lashes in an attempt to look as womanly as a female impersonator does. In university, one of my roommates partook in this activity with me, and we lovingly referred to it as “Transvestite Dress-up.” Of course, being as worldly as I am now, I recognize that this title was totally inappropriate. Transvestites and Drag Queens are not necessarily the same thing.


It is my life dream to become best friends with RuPaul. Actually, that is not entirely true. My life dream is to own a mechanical bull. I have never ridden a mechanical bull, but I feel like it is something that I would excel at. Regardless, becoming best friends with RuPaul fits somewhere into my life plan. Maybe I will say that my new life dream is to ride a mechanical bull with my best friend RuPaul.



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