Fabulicious is the only word in our arsenal of demented gay superlatives to describe it.

And no, it’s not that Jodie Foster may or may not have just come out — stunned and shaken as we would be by such an announcement.

Nor is it the national confusion we’re all going through trying to keep the Petersons straight: Is it Stacy or Laci who is the current missing, presumed dead wife? Is it Drew or Scott — both stud-muffin names — who is the despicable, unlovable, unredeemable rascal in the windowless cell on death row that we’d love to fuck anyway?

Even the announcement of the Golden Globe nominations this morning — the most deeply meaningless trophies in show business – are not what’s making us crazy right now — though we are overjoyed to see that Keira Knightly is finally getting her due as the greatest actress of our time — a status once held in a long ago Hollywood by that delightful (but forgotten — why, why, why?) minx, Pia (with a Z) Zadora!

What has made us dig to the bottom of our dementia bag to come up with the rare gem fabulicious is the current collision between East and West that is gushing forth rivers of kitsch in the most nutso campaign video ( what!) ever. Put on your dazzle glasses, boys, because Christmas has come a little early this year: (read the full article)

Conservatives might want to start preparations for a collective book burning and/or DVD steam rolling ASAP:

Harry Potter’s mentor is gay!

Damn those elitist, ivory tower European sorcery academies with their secular liberal agendas!

Damn them all to Hell!

Author J.K. Rowling left fans stunned at a recent appearance at Carnegie Hall to promote the mega-popular book series’ final entry when she nonchalantly announced that beloved master magician and Hogwarts Academy Headmaster Albus Dumbledore is as gay as an East End belfry full of bats. (read the full article)

John Waters is one of the icons of these post-Andy Warhol times.

Once hailed as a “Master of Sleaze”, the man with the creepy pencil mustache and the look of a drained vampire shunning the sun behind big swoopy sunglasses, John Waters has, with his films and books, subtly shaped the atmosphere of hip taste and pop intellectualism. It now drapes around him as comfortably as a well-made suit.

As the picture at left quietly attests, he is the essence of courtliness and chic, reminiscent, oddly, of Zachary Scott, the silky, duplicitous playboy who so brings our Joan to grief in Mildred Pierce. Yes, the bard of Baltimore has become stylish — after all.

Stylish and one of our sharpest gay humorists.

More culture critic, than funny man, his refreshing — at times, startling — takes on recent cultural events such as Britney’s MTV debacle or his own surprising commercial success with the musical Hairspray were on offer in an interview he gave a North Carolina newspaper, The Independent, before his talk there at Duke University. (read the full article)

We always knew Angelina Jolie was a goddess but, Jesus, we had no idea!

Behold Our Lady of the Wal-Mart.

Patroness of the Checkout Counter, Mystic Rose of the Tabloids, Guardian of Children in Every Color of The Rainbow.

Pray for us.

Or adopt us.

Yes, Angelina is simply too impossibly beautiful for even committed and confessional dickhunters like us to resist!

The painting Blessed Art Thou has an asking price of $50,000 and was intended, says artist Kate Kretz, to address “the psychological ramifications of celebrity worship, particularly as they relate to class and consumerism.”

Though she has painted and exhibited for 20 year, none of Ms. Kretz’s previous work has ever garnered the attention she received when the painting appeared at a Miami art show in 2006. Predictably, a small but vocal group picketed the event.

“The title Blessed Art Thou,” she wrote on her blog at the time, “is taken from a line in the Catholic prayer Hail Mary: ‘…Blessed art thou among women.’ Our culture is deifying celebrities, but in the Bible, it is the meek who are blessed. (read the full article)

Many things fall out of closets Рnot least of which are skeletons and homophobic pastors. But in the case of Michael Jackson we are expecting a a pi̱ata full of tightly wrapped craziness soon to hit the auction floor and explode.

The auction, set to be held on May 30 and 31, against the singer’s wishes, in — but how perfect — Las Vegas, will offer to the discerning connoisseur a lifetime’s accumulation of costumes, souvenirs and just plain shit. (read the full article)

Join us in our holy crusade to put the triple-X back into Xmas! Here is what we want — what we’ve only ever wanted — for Christmas.

And kids, it’s not peace on earth. (That’s the second thing on our list.)

It’s this fan-tastic coverboy on the 2007 Dieux Du Stade calendar, at left : Julien Arias.

Jesus — the face, the chest, the arms, the ass (unseen, but you can tell!) — and all he speaks is French!

Oxygen, please! The cabin is rapidly losing pressure!

Natch, he’s a French rugby player or something: the Dieux Du Stade series specializes in rough-and-tumble Euro sportsmen, all of whom have L’Uomo faces of the most florid, full-blown beauty, as well as those high-and-tight footballer arses and lovely half-concealed (but we’re sure, uncut) packages.

Oh, it’s a pricey little import, this calendar. Beautifully executed, of course — more like a high-end photobook, with the months divided in half, so you get double the boy for the buck. At about $37, we think it makes a great gift for that special someone. (Surely it’s too deliciously indulgent to give to yourself!)

Below the jump is a vid of the studly Julien from his maddeningly naked photo shoot featured on the Dieux du Stade: Making of the 2007 Calendar DVD. But we must warn you: Not since Kubrick’s 2001:A Space Odyssey, have we seen Johann Strauss’ magnificent Blue Danube Waltz so lushly, so unforgettably complemented. (read the full article)

We’ll be the first to admit it. Bringing our queer eye to the art museum is somewhat redundant.

The great works so clearly speak for themselves, and often in accents we recognize as native to our own little corner of the universe.

Digital artist Harald Seiwert decided to take this idea over the top and do explicitly homosexual versions of great masterpieces, calling his new series Inspired by …

Using a combination of Photoshop and photo shoot, he enhanced already homoerotic works like Caravaggio‘s nubile boy cupid in Amor Victorious, at left (click here to see the Caravaggio original), by switching in a live model.

But why limit himself to the handful of often marginally attractive men — mostly burghers, popes and patrons — in great art? The vast majority of masterpieces envisioned beauty in an exclusively female form. He needed to throw in a few transgendered curves to widen his scope, often to pranksterish effect. (read the full article)

It’s called Rainbow Country.

That’s the new title from Patrick Fillion’s line of Class Comics, which usually feature the far-out sexcapades of oversize superheros in distant galaxies.

Rainbow Country is set in the real world — as long as the real world is located somewhere off the French Riviera — and features everyday guys like you and me…

… as long as me and thee have mega pecs, industrial-strength abs, expanding orifices and the sort of flexibility that would bring a gold-medal gymnast to tears — if not his knees.

Dicks the size of salamis, of course, cockheads the size of a baby’s fist — all that comes standard in a Class Comic, and we mention them only in passing, for documentary purposes.

Welcome to Sodom by the Sea: Rainbow Country is a dazzlingly buff gay mecca — all male, all the time — where everyone lives in luxury condos that tower over a glittering aquamarine sea. (read the full article)

Supersize me, baby.

Everything in Patrick Fillion’s comic-book wonderland is bigger than life and four times as natural.

In his latest Class Comic, entitled, with charming directness, The Incredibly Hung Naked Justice (that’s our boy at left) — we follow the sexploits of a superhero who is forever bursting out of his clothes to don thigh-high boots and spandex opera gloves.

He wears nothing else — but, then this guy’s nothing is anybody else’s pornucopia of riches: headlight pecs with big, chewy nips and a humdinger of a mantool that rates its own zip code.

It’s no surprise then that when he does battle with super villains, it all turns into an interspecies fuckfest.

Everybody gets it on with everything — and we do mean every thing: No creature is too alien for Fillion’s imagination to deck out in multiple dicks and puckered a-holes. (read the full article)

Not since Liberace have we seen such unabashed queer showmanship!

At 7-feet or thereabouts, Leonid the Magnificent, formerly of Russia, currently of Brooklyn, brought down the house on America Has Talent – a sort of Gong Show crossed with Cirque du Soleil — that presents a summer-long American Idol-style competition, but with jugglers, bird-callers and at least one stocky man who got himself inside a big pink balloon (you had to be there).

Leonid is a sword balancer — sort of. He’s really Cher, with a Russian accent. He comes on stage near nude, with the sort of golden Adonis body reminiscent of pulpy gay-trade paperbacks of the Sixties — and, oh yeah, fucking angel wings!

We loved the way his act began as he walked toward the camera with hard, purposeful steps, crossing one leg over the other in the manner of a showgirl — to the string accompaniment of Feelings.

No, we haven’t been this catapulted out into the queer stratosphere since… well, since Siegfried and Roy raced the snow tiger around the stage in their sequined hot pants.

See the Magnificent Leonid for yourself: (read the full article)

In The Passion of the Crawford, now playing the Empire Plush Room in San Francisco, Lypsinka (actually, John Epperson) recreates an interview Joan Crawford gave right in her last Mommie Darkest days.

It was a one-time only appearance at Town Hall in Manhattan, a few years before her death in 1977, and I, in fact, was in the audience.

I remember how Joan kept pouring dark whiskey-colored liquid from a Pepsi can and rattling the ice cubes in her tall glass as she steadily became bombed out of her mind while the interview, conducted by an old friend and flatterer, John Springer, went on and on. (read the full article)

Ah, to be a pole dancer in a strip club! (like Elizabeth Berkley in the fabled pussy extravaganza Showgirls, at right)

That is the simple wish of so many of us! — including a chubby young lady who comes on stage in Jerry Springer — The Opera and tells Jerry that all she ever wanted to be was a whorey stripper swirling around a pole in a glitter G-string.

“I don’t give a fuck no more,” she tells the onstage Springer audience, who are trying to shout her down with chants of “Loser! Loser!” “I’m tired of laughing and I’m tired of crying. I’m tired of feeling and I’m tired of always trying. I want to do some living because I’ve done enough of dying. I just want to dance, I just want to …fucking dance!”

The longing that Alison Jiear expresses in the song is quite touching and one of the opera’s suite of showstoppers (which also includes “Chick with a Dick” and a wife-stealing tranny shaking her stuff in wifey’s face as she brings down the house with “Talk to the Hand, Bitch.”)

Jerry Springer — The Opera comes from — where else, other than Japan, would they get this loopy over American junk TV? — England, home of Masterpiece Theater! The opus is set to land on our Puritan shores any minute now, but if you can’t wait and don’t want to shell out the big bucks for an import CD, staring David Soul (from Starsky and Hutch, yet!) as a very convincing Jerry, then… (read the full article)

This Cat is in Heat! Our story so far. Camili-Cat is a lean, mean sex machine from Outer Space — and an insatiable bottom.

He is lonely, poor thing, for he searches for others of his Felinoid race, and has almost given up hope. So he does what anyone would do. Drowns himself in sex, lots and lots of it, beautifully rendered cartoon-panel after beautifully rendered cartoon-panel of moaning, shuddering double-entry love.

Race, species — it doesn’t matter. Just oceans and oceans of whizzing, fizzing jizz. We did mention Camili-Cat was an insatiable bottom?

And, as those who have been reading Class Comics know, this is one cat who gets very motivated behind that essential hungry-hole fact of life.

Now the tale of the mysterious early days of Camili-Cat is about to be told in The Camili-Cat 20th Anniversary Special, which the Cat Man’s creator, Patrick Fillion says will be a prequel. (read the full article)