Millionaire Matchmaker – wrong.

Throughout my childhood and preteen years, I watched my friends pathetically obsess over silly toolbag celebrities.  With each new issue of Tiger Beat, Teen Bop, and Behind the Scenes of New Kids on the Block, Volume 43, eight year old girls all across the lands known as Central New Jersey and the Bronx, New York were learning to rub one (or fifty two) out.  I’d go over to these douchebag girls’ houses and find the walls of their rooms plastered with photos of Mark Paul Gosselar, Devon Sawa (LOL who the fuck, right?), Candace “Jesus Saves” Cameron, and other cardboard cut-out looking pop culture idiots. The combined star power of these boring sacks of vanilla celebrity jizz was -273 degrees Celsius. That’s right, 0 Kelvins.  Absolute zero. At the time, I was eating like 15 pudding pops a day, all of which were hotter than these losers.

This is not to say I didn’t have my own celebrity preoccupations. Oh I had them. It’s just that by my third birthday, while most toddlers were still learning to wipe their asses and operate Velcro, I was pissing in toilets from here to Disneyworld, tying my silver high-top Converse shoelaces at record breaking rates, and launching my first independent study into the value of the badass. Sorry Soleil Moon Frye, your dog is cute but you’re as exciting as dentistry school. Sorry Uncle Jesse but your mullet-y rat tail and leather vest aren’t hiding the fact that you hug children and play a lame air guitar. I was looking for some real glamor, some real talent, some real drug abuse, some staying power. So for me, the 1980s were all about The Pointer Sisters.  Crimped weaves 10 feet in the air, sequins, catchy pop tunes with covertly perverted sexual lyrics, crack cocaine. Those were some bitches I could plaster on my walls and admire. Even in 1985, a mere three years after my birth, I knew who to worship.  I was picking celebs for the long term, and I still love those legends today. 400 year old Ruth Pointer could beat the shoulder-padded shit out of Lady Gaga with one high note and a pinky finger to the eye.

Well the 80s turned into the 90s and so came the summer of 1993. I was in a great mood.

1. I was the boxball champion at camp, thanks to my indefatigable move wherein I would quickly advance to the service square, spin around, and pelt the playground ball at my opponents’ knees, knocking them out of the game and onto the ground.

2. I was going into 5th grade and I was going to rule the school.

3. My friends and I had recently made our heinous camp counselor cry over some notes we wrote about her and hid in the bunk, like “Melanie is a bitch.” Come on, 10 year olds making 19 year olds weep? Talent.

Anyway, I got home from camp one day, watched my usual Designing Women/Amen television lineup, flipped to the evening news and saw this photo:

Heidi Fleiss, Hollywood Madam, arrested for hooker distribution and looking glam as shit. Cute and glam! The first bitch I ever saw rocking a Porsche. My new idol. I followed her case for the whole rest of the 1990s. I watched all the trial coverage. I asked my counselor what prostitution was, then I asked the 6th and 7th grade boys on the camp bus what sex was. I wanted a full understanding of the case. I thought about how if I wasn’t 10 years old and I could drive and wear adult size clothing, I’d get myself some power suits that were one size too big to make me look even skinnier, black pumps, and big black sunglasses. Damn I loved Heidi Fleiss. Still do. Parrots and Pahrump, Nevada laundromat, meth habit, and scrambled egg face. I never thought it was fair that she went to prison for so long! Why would anyone lock up glam like her in a federal prison? She should have been running life for god’s sake, or at least hosting a daytime talk show. When she finally went off to prison I was sad. Like physically sad, I’m 99.999999999% sure I cried. At this point, however, the trial had been going on for several years and I learned that my admiration for Madam Fleiss was not going to be accepted by society (i.e. my mom and my bland-as-whole-wheat-pasta, Jennie Garth-loving friends.) So I shut my face and tried to move on.

Anyway, I continue to hold onto this resentment. I am angry that this whole arrest/prison debacle has turned the most glamorous, powerful women ever into basically batshit crazy roadkill with seven cheeks and a 15-foot upper lip.  Then one day in like 2008, I turned my TV to Bravo and caught a show called “The Millionaire Matchmaker.” Basically here’s what happens, a gigantic Jewish woman who is 7% human, 93% Abominable Snowman recruits a bunch of lame, ugly, usually Persian millionaires in Los Angeles into her “Millionaire’s Club” and sets them up with some poor women looking to fuck their way to the bank. Only she calls it a “relationship” and a “dating service” and a “matchmaking tradition”. I call it, “If Heidi Fleiss only had Bravo’s Andy Cohen on her side.”

Patti Stanger, Millionaire Matchmaker... What the fuck is this??

“Millionaire Matchmaker” is some bootleg Heidi Fleiss copycat shit, only no one’s going to federal prison because Andy Cohen probably fucked all of the closeted male FBI agents by now and Patti Stanger threatened to eat them for lunch if they messed with her.  This show is basically a bunch of pseudo-rich people choosing a hooker from a pool of pre-screened hookers through an organization run by a Jewish broad. Sounds familiar! Why doesn’t someone arrest this Stangmatic Robot Transformer bitch and cancel her terrible program already! Is it because Patti Stanger tells the grown men and women in her club “No sex before monogamy!!” on television and the tard-watching viewers of America believe they’ll listen? Is it because she forces the men to rush their chosen hooker women through some bullshit 30-minute happy hour so they can go back to some vodka warehouse and take vodka showers and fuck in a pool of vodka? (Real episode.) He paid for her drinks first, it’s not prostitution!

Screw this show. I don’t get it. All Fleiss had to do was call her service a “Matchmaking” service and she would have been free and clear and not subject to lesbian prison rape? I’m probably going to write a letter to Bravo because I want to see who the hell Stanger had to threaten to blow over with her breath in order to get her business approved. This is bullshit.  Heidi Fleiss is my American hero.