Jodie Foster Doesn't Give a Shit What You Think

Let me take you to the max.

...No, I'm not going to prove it.

If anyone does happen to have a gay decoder bracelet, I encourage them to use it as they read today's parable of the fish and the bicycle.

I fail to see the significance of "matching bracelets." It's not as though Renée and I saved the cereal box from each luxurious morning after until we had enough proofs of purchase to send away for two decoder bracelets.

Also, it says "come and get it" to those whom you want to be gotten by, not to, say, Scott Baio and every other wang on the street.

Me & Bette (JB lets me call her that if she can call me Clarice, which I allow only because it gives me great satisfaction to interact with Bette Porter, the one character I really identify with--Yale grad, alpha-female, smokin hot, etc.) get on like a house on fire. I only wish Señor Interloper here had been in that house. Way to kill the moment, ya hairy bastard.

I "finally" came out in 2007, they say, as though there was only one way to make your gébut (that's French for gay debut).

Oh, are butt-shaped perms and hand-bra's out of style? Good to know. I'll just type it up on my invisible typewriter.

Nota bene: Later that night at the women's rugby house on 40th & Baltimore, someone did get hit over the head with a 2x4, but she was wearing a helmet so it was all good.

So to answer the question: I DO WHAT I WANT, MIND YA BUSINESS.

Dig my unintentional snicker and gender-neutral reply to the bouffant bird's questions about "fellas" from 2:00 to 2:33. I want to go back in time and give myself a GLAAD award.

There's more where that came from, sportsfans. 

But if one more pair of breeders nuzzle in front of me because they're just so sure that what they're doing is holy and cute and sanctioned, I am going to puke from a combination of rage, boredom and disgust. See my face for confirmation.

I did it so I could portray a real woman onscreen--banana, windbreaker burnoose, solo picnics and all. You can't see it but while we were filming this, I was watching pirated episodes of 7th Heaven and taking a shot of Heaven Hill every time someone got lectured, so I was good and tight like ten minutes in.

I'm just thinking about what a good movie Little Man Tate is.

Here's something you didn't know about me: I'm such a stone butch, the stripes on my shirt and hat rearrange themselves into plaid when I put them on. It's like Elmer Fudd's magic helmet in What's Opera Doc?, except I'm the source of magic, and the hat is just there to bear witness to that magic and keep me lookin fresh.

That would be if you were the last man on Earth. Times being what they are, you'll never get that much Jodie time. This spiteful little yarn was your lifetime allotment. Savor it, my friend.