(moment of silence)

Isn't it funny that just one night ago amidst a sea of carpet scraps and skin-flaked glue all us fifteen fatties, our fifteen boy pets, and the fifteen cats snuggled down on the duchesse brisée to watch Leigh Bowery in all of his glory past and then yesterday morning as we rose around six with proper sun salutations on the melted snow stoop we learned of the gr8 loss the art world has faced with the death of the very fabulous Alexander McQueen. We hope he's looking up at us from that f8ful fiery inferno rolling his tongue around all of his teeth sipping champagne from a gold bottle, nibbling bonbon's from MJ's buttoned belly, and getting the hj of his dreams from Miss Monroe. Surrounded by candles and homemade capes, the BSG vigil was nothing less than holy and nothing short of devout. We also recorded him a short ditty and as soon as the producer gives us the okay, we'll be releasing a pretty sin slurping mix tape for you so get those Sony recorders ready. May he rest in peace and may we someday be blessed with the gr8 privilege of wearing a McQueen cape made of clouds and some lederhosen made of fire with him, MJ, and Miss Monroe.