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

by Bianca Del Rio

  And, Rita, if you’re not afraid of confrontation, you could do what I do—march right up to them and say, “Charity begins at home. So go the fuck home!” (Note: This will not work if they’re asking for money for the homeless.) Figure it out, Rita.

  * * *

  Dearest Bianca,

  I don’t know what to do with my hair. It’s naturally wavy & frizzy, and when I try to straighten it, it becomes super oily. I can’t stand the feel of most hair care products. What would you suggest I do?

  Debbie S

  Tempe, Arizona

  Hi, Deb!

  You don’t say what race you are, but since you have oily, frizzy hair, I’m guessing it ain’t white. Or Asian. ALL Asians have straight, wispy hair. Even their pubes are straight and wispy, like a cat’s whiskers. I should know; I nearly poked my eyes out blowing the lead singer of the Japanese boy band One Dilection.

  Short term, style your hair into one of those short, hip, rock-chick-like things, like Pink or Joan Jett, or Britney Spears, when she went through her “I’m mentally ill, please take my kids away” phase.

  Long term, start chain-smoking. Eventually you’ll get cancer and undergo chemotherapy, which will cause you to lose all your hair. Problem solved!

  You’re welcome.

  P.S. Sometimes the hair grows back post-chemo, but it tends to stay short, so chins up!

  I took a knee when they played the anthem. I wasn’t protesting; I was blowing the coach.

  © Kevin Thomas Garcia

  MORE OF BIANCA’S PET PEEVES

  FAT WOMEN AT COSTCO pushing wagons full of soda, chips, cookies, and pies. I’m dying to say, “Hey, Tubby! Give it a rest; there are skinny diabetics in Korea going to bed with low sugar levels tonight!”

  WOMEN WITH SHOPPING CARTS overflowing with food, who are on the checkout line at the supermarket for forty minutes, and wait until everything has been rung up to either pull out coupons or start writing a check. “Bitch, you were there for two-thirds of an hour. Why didn’t you do this while you were waiting? I’m busy. I have places to go, things to do, people to blow!”

  SIMILARLY, PEOPLE AT THE SUPERMARKET WHO HAVE ONE ITEM, let’s say a pack of gum, and decide to write a check. If you can’t come up with the ninety-nine cents for the gum you shouldn’t be allowed to buy it.

  OVERLY OFFICIOUS WAITERS AND WAITRESSES who come by the table every five minutes to see how I’m doing. I’m doing fine. If I’m not, I’ll let you know, with a subtle gesture or a quick “Hey, apron-boy, get the fuck over here!”

  SERVERS who use the expression How is everything tasting? “Well, the food is tasting fine, but the busboy’s cock not so much.”

  WAITERS AND WAITRESSES WHO INSIST ON BEING CALLED “SERVERS.” What’s wrong with waiter or waitress? I don’t insist on being called “bewigged and costumed comedic genius,” do I? No. I’m perfectly fine with clapped-out old drag queen.

  SALESPEOPLE WHO FOLLOW ME AROUND THE STORE, like the Nazi-hunter Jews who were looking for Adolf Eichmann. If I need your help, I’ll find you. I’m trying out new mattresses; unless you plan on fucking me, I can do this alone. Besides, there are much better-looking salespeople than you. If I need help with this, I’ll call one of them.

  IMMIGRANTS WHO’VE BEEN IN THE COUNTRY FOR TEN YEARS AND STILL CAN’T SPEAK A WORD OF ENGLISH. In the course of a decade they should have accidentally learned a few simple words, like “Do you want me to trim the hedges, too?” or “Hey, mister, love you all night long, ten dollars,” or “My back hurts from being chained in the hull of that boat for so long.”

  OLD PEOPLE WHO DRIVE IN FRONT OF ME, VERY SLOWLY, IN THE LEFT LANE ON THE FREEWAY. The left lane is for faster speeds; it’s known as the passing lane. Keep it up, Grandpa, or it’ll be known as the passing-away lane.

  GUYS WHO DON’T WASH THEIR HANDS AFTER THEY PEE. Disgusting. And frightening—what if they want to put their fingers up my ass later that night? C’mon, that is totally not okay. Hygiene first!

  WOMEN WHO WEAR WAY TOO MUCH PERFUME. I can’t help but think it’s to kill the smell from you know where. And I don’t want to think about that, much less sniff the catch of the day.

  MEN WHO WEAR WAY TOO MUCH COLOGNE. And by that I mean European or Russian men. I can’t help but think it’s to kill the smell from not bathing regularly.

  PEOPLE WHO ARE ALWAYS FIVE MINUTES LATE FOR EVERYTHING. Once or twice, fine, shit happens—traffic was bad, you couldn’t find your keys, the babysitter was late, whatever. But EVERY time? That’s more than bad timing, it’s passive-aggressive and hostile. And I’ve got a passive-aggressive, hostile remedy. I start every event half an hour before I tell these people it’s scheduled. It’s especially effective at weddings, funerals, last-rites ceremonies, and lottery drawings. You snooze, you lose. Sorry about it!

  PEOPLE WHO CHECK THEIR CELL PHONES EVERY TWO MINUTES WHILE WE’RE HAVING DINNER. Unless you’re an expectant father, a world leader, or a first responder, cut it the fuck out. I guarantee I’m way more interesting than whoever you think is going to text you. Unless the text is a sext from Brad Pitt, in which case, share it with me.

  TOURISTS WHO WALK SLOWLY ON SIDEWALKS BECAUSE THEY’RE SIGHTSEEING, TAKING PICTURES OR ASKING FOR DIRECTIONS. Here’s an idea: Get a fucking map and move to the curb if you have to stop.

  WOMEN WITH DUCK LIPS. Yes, I’m talking to you, Meg Ryan. Botox, yes. Filler, fine. Quack, quack, no. I don’t get why these rich, middle-aged housewives need such thick puffy lips; it’s not like they’re going to give blow jobs or anything. (Present company excluded, and by present company I mean me.)

  * * *

  Miss Del Rio,

  My boyfriend and I went to see your show recently and, while you were great (as always), we didn’t have a very good time. The people a few rows in front of us stood for the entire show and we had trouble seeing you. They were asked to sit down, but refused. Any advice?

  David

  Chicago, Illinois

  Dear David,

  Buy better seats next time.

  Muah!

  Xoxo

  * * *

  Dear Bianca,

  I’m 23 and gay. I want to move to a different city, or overseas. What are your favorite cities? And can you give the pros and cons of different cities I should consider?

  Thank you!

  Alan E

  Houston, Texas

  Dear Alan,

  Starting a whole new chapter of your life is almost as exciting as unsnapping a Mormon boy’s magic underpants while his parents are in the other room. There are a lot of great cities for you to consider, and I know them all like the back of my taint. But rather than answer your question in letter form, I’d rather make a list. For starters, you’re the one moving, why should I be doing all the research? And second, in the time I save writing a quick list, I can get my nails done and my dick sucked. At the same time.

  * * *

  Dear Bianca,

  Has Donald Trump ever grabbed your pussy? If he tried, would you let him? What should I do if he tries to grab mine?

  Denny

  Dover, Delaware

  Dear Denny,

  No.

  No.

  Say “no.” Tell him you’re holding out for Harvey Weinstein.

  CITIES ALAN SHOULD CONSIDER MOVING TO

  AMERICA

  ASHEVILLE, NORTH CAROLINA

  It’s a great city, it just happens to be surrounded by North Carolina.

  ATLANTA, GEORGIA

  They used to call it Hotlanta. Then again, they used to call Madonna fuckable. Anyway, Atlanta can be fun as long as you’re not there in the summer and don’t mind the fact that everyone (including old ladies, toddlers, and maniacs) is carrying an assault weapon. It’s also very confusing. Everything is named Peachtree. Even the mayor.

  PORTLAND, OREGON

  A little lezzie-infested, but if you don’t mind hairy women with mannish hands, it’s a very cool city. Progressive, smart, affordable, and lots of cruisy parks!<
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  MIAMI, FLORIDA

  Muy caliente! Great place to meet sexy young Cubans swimming in from Havana. Since they’re illegal, no habla ingles, but they’ll be happy to do whatever you ask. Even in bed. (I like to play inmigración policía and frightened houseboy.)

  DENVER, COLORADO

  Rocky Mountain High is right! Legal weed makes a good city a great city. Snowy in winter, gorgeous in summer, and just diverse enough to make it interesting without making it a melting pot. (FYI, the only melting pot I like is for fondue, which was a seventies thing like pet rocks, disco, and barebacking.) Definitely worth the schlep.

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Our nation’s capital is a great place for a young man to make money—AND you don’t have to be a lobbyist on K Street! There’s a fortune to be had blackmailing Christian, Republican politicians after they’ve blown you in a public toilet. Plus, cherry blossom season is quite lovely.

  AUSTIN, TEXAS

  It’s a great city, it just happens to be surrounded by Texas.

  SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

  Yes, it rains all the time, and yes, there are lots of serial killers.

  BUT, the boys are smart, hip, and cute. And they’re good in the sack because they can never go outside, so they’re in bed all the time, “practicing.”

  BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS

  Fun for faaaaags. One side of the Chaaaaaales River is full of hot college students. The other side offers tough, straight, sexy Irish and Italian boys and Southies. If one of the straight, homophobic Southies beats you up after you blow him, one of the straight, “curious” Harvard Law students can file a lawsuit for you after you blow him. A win-win!

  OCEANSIDE, CALIFORNIA

  Five miles from Camp Pendleton. ’Nuff said.

  NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA

  My hometown, bitches! Any city that can produce moi is pretty fucking fabulous, n’est-ce pas? Cajun cock, delta dick, and bayou balls—and that’s just my uncle. What’s not to like?

  NOT AMERICA

  LONDON, UK

  If you can handle the rain, the fog, the traffic, and the B.O., then London is for you. It’s the gayest place on the planet because every single British man seems gay. The straightest guy in London is still pretty faggy. I don’t know if it’s the accents, the clothes, or the fact that they all love a Queen, but it’s been my experience that the Brits are not only poofy, but horny and hung. Cheers!

  PARIS, FRANCE

  The French are smart, sexy, well dressed, cultured, racist, and anti-Semitic. On the downside, they all smoke. Paris is a toss-up. Oh, wait, Paris isn’t racist and anti-Semitic. I was thinking of Alabama. My bad.

  TEL AVIV, ISRAEL

  A gay JEWbilee! Tel Aviv is a modern city in an ancient world. Lots of history, lots of spirituality, and lots of cut cock.

  AMSTERDAM, THE NETHERLANDS

  If it was good enough for Anne Frank, it’s good enough for you. And because you have better taste and style, you’ll probably have a better time. Have you ever seen her house? Total bore. But it’s physically charming, so if you’re even slightly more outdoorsy than Anne Frank, you’ll be able to manage it just fine.

  SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA

  One part London, one part San Francisco, and one part New York, Sydney is fabulous. The Aussies spend 80 percent of their free time getting shitfaced at pubs and the other 20 percent getting tested at free clinics. Sydney is sexy and fun. You’ll love Going Down. Under. G’day, bitch!

  Disclaimer

  My favorite book. I’d lend it to you when I’m finished, but . . .

  Most authors put a disclaimer right in the front of the book so the people reading it know that it’s a joke, written for laughs, and it’s legally protected satire, so they won’t get sued.

  But I’m not most authors. I’m an author trying to get an endorsement deal with a giant pharmaceutical company. So if you read this book and your blood pressure rises, and you develop headaches or hives or arrhythmia, or an ulcer or Crohn’s disease or gout—not only do I have zero liability for your condition, but I hope to make a lot of money finding a treatment.

  You’re welcome!

  Author’s Note

  © Jovanni Jimenez-Pedraza

  Dr. Phil is a fat, loud blowhard with a Texas twang and male-pattern baldness. I wouldn’t suck his dick for a million bucks. But it turns out he’s worth $400 million, and for that amount of money I’d wear his balls as earrings. I’m hitting my knees as I type.

  Let’s get real: the odds of my hooking up with Dr. Phil are slim and curve to the left. But the odds of my making money giving advice like Dr. Phil are pretty good. Wait; I stand kneel corrected: I give better advice than Dr. Phil. Why? Because his advice is based on education and expertise and know-how, and my advice is based on nothing but years and years of insightful prying and corrosive gossip, that’s why. I don’t know if I can make $400 million, but I AM something of a household name—at least in the houses of gay men, fag hags, and parents who keep wondering why their teenage son, Billy, doesn’t have a girlfriend yet seems to know a lot about contouring—so I should do okay.

  About a year ago, I began asking my audiences, my fans, and even my haters, all over the world, to send me questions they’d like the answers to, or problems they’d like solved. I can’t tell you how many questions I got. I don’t mean that metaphorically, I mean it literally—I’m really, really bad at math, and my loyal serf assistant, Jamie, is equally useless at the “counting thing.” What I do know is that I’ve gotten enough letters to write a book. Or two. Or three. Depending on whether or not you tell your friends, families, and fuckbuddies to buy this book, so it will turn a nifty profit, and my publisher will say, “My God! Fuck Dr. Phil. Blame It on Bianca Del Rio is a literary gold mine. WE MUST, MUST, MUST HAVE A SEQUEL!!!”

  Another Author’s Note

  I know it’s not “proper editorial form” (whatever the fuck that is) to have a second Author’s Note, but I was having cocktails when I wrote the first one and left this out. So . . .

  I received six billion trillion letters, emails, and FB posts from people asking me for advice. (If that sounds like a lot, I assure you it’s true; Donald Trump told me that he heard this from people who told him that they read it somewhere.)

  Needless to say, a lot of the questions I was asked were somewhat alike in nature, tone, and language. So when you’re reading this hilarious book and think to yourself, “OMG, that’s MY letter!”—it’s not. Also, I’ve changed a lot of the names—not to “protect the innocent” but to protect me from the crazy bitches who will call and write and email over and over and over, saying, “Oh, Bianca, thank you so much for using MY letter; I knew you liked me!” Bitch, I didn’t use YOUR letter; you just think I did, because you’re a narcissist in desperate need of counseling or medication . . . in which case, don’t forget to share.

  I also got lots of emails and letters saying, “I read a question just like that in Dear Abby,” which tells me two things: 1. You’re old; Dear Abby’s been dead for years, and 2. You need counseling; no healthy, sane person remembers random advice questions years later. Get some help.

  FYI, there are A LOT of advice columnists all over the world (check out Ask Svetlana; that Siberian husky makes me howl, especially when she gives advice on diet and exercise. Poor thing’s never been inside the Kremlin—because she can’t fit Also Abby, Ann Landers, Amy, the snotty queen in the Sunday

  New York Times, and my uncle Nunzio, who has both an opinion on everything and a cleft palate. He doesn’t so much give advice as test your patience), and most of the questions we receive are similar. They’re usually about romance (“I’m in love with a werewolf”), sex (“My werewolf boyfriend cums too quick”), money (“I think my caregiver is stealing my Medicare benefits”), or family (“My relatives are nice to my brother’s kids but not mine; do you think it’s because they’re part werewolf?”). So don’t be shocked if some of the questions feel familiar; with the possible exceptions of me and Edwar
d James Olmos’s dermatologist, everyone in the world has the same fucking problems. So get over yourselves; you’re not unique—in fact, you’re probably a tad boring. And, like everything else, I say that in a kind, loving way.

  Oh, it’s also entirely possible I just made this shit up. Love you all soooooo much! Muah.

  Anyway, before I get into the meat and potatoes of the book—your needy questions and my bitter, unqualified responses—I want to thank everyone who wrote in with questions. Without you, I’m nothing. (Okay, that’s not true. Without you, I’m still fabulous and my career is still on the way up, up, up! What is true is that without you, it would have been much harder for Jamie ME to write this book.) So thank you for taking the time to share details from your pathetic personal lives with me—and the world.

  About the Author

  Drag queen. Comedian. Designer. Activist. Immigrant. Cunt. BIANCA DEL RIO has been called many things, yet until now, “author” was not one of them. But with Blame It on Bianca Del Rio: The Expert on Nothing with an Opinion on Everything, the ultimate advice manual, she becomes a published author, and her name will be forever linked with such literary lions as Mark Twain, Ernest Hemingway, Maya Angelou, and the homeless guy who wrote “Suck My Dik, Fagit” on the walls of the 28th Street subway station in New York.

  Winning season six of RuPaul’s Drag Race made Bianca the cultural icon she is today. Prior to that she was best known as a voice of reason, a dispensary of wisdom, a shoulder to cry on, and, most important, the go-to gal for sage advice on all matters, big and small.