Before the start of the Independent Film Channel’s Hot Rocker Moms contest to promote, well, something less interesting than skanky moms in the traffic island at the corner of 23rd and 5th (actually a TV show called Z Rock), the rent-a-cops were taking more pictures of celebrity judge Sebastian Bach than they were of the heavy metal madonnas. And for good reason—Bach, as used-up, snaggle-toothed and double-chinned as he was, still made a hotter chick than any of the contestants we were able to glimpse.
They were easy to pick out, scragglier than the PAs or even producers, suspiciously resembling that girl who dropped out junior year after her mustachioed boyfriend from vocational school slipped one past the goalie after the Faith No More show and one too many wine coolers. No, not even that good: they looked like refugees from a Don Hill’s tranny metal night, the worst of ‘em rivaling even Jayne County in hideousness, the best still a far cry from Don Hilda herself, Miss Guy. And surprise, surprise, every one of them single and itching to mingle. Total cream of the crap: surely America, a leading MILF producer globally, has more to offer than this? Thankfully, it got better. And it got much, much worse.
“Axl Rose was the first man to fart in front of me,” proclaimed Debra Diamant proudly, “and The Nuge touched my coochie when I was 18. That’s why I should be America’s Hottest Rocker Mom.” The assembled crowd of tourists, financial scum on their lunch breaks and ogling bike messengers howled—finally, a live one. Her huge fake tits seemed about to leap joyously free from her tiny leather bustier.
The event’s highlight came during the talent portion of the show, during which the contestants were to “show off their best moves” during a mercifully brief clip from “Pour Some Sugar On Me.” By this time, Sebastian Bach, replete in a Sebastian Bach T-shirt (only marginally less tasteless than the “AIDS Kills Fags Dead” number, Baz!) had so exhausted his heavy metal howl that he was sounding less like bad David Lee Roth and more like Gilbert Gottfried. The competitors, who had been offering up unwelcome beaver shots the whole afternoon due to the combination of stage and short skirts, now ground on and humped the judges’ table. When scoring one contestant’s performance after what we pray to God was a wardrobe malfunction, Bach commented slyly “Um, I’m not sure if that was on purpose or not but I’m going to give you a nine—no strings attached.” The crowd winced and groaned.
Bethany Frankel, the Real Housewives star who looks like a living Bratz doll, was less subtle: “Honey, I’m guessing that cord hanging out of your panties was an ‘in case of emergency, pull here?’” Jesus wept.
They were easy to pick out, scragglier than the PAs or even producers, suspiciously resembling that girl who dropped out junior year after her mustachioed boyfriend from vocational school slipped one past the goalie after the Faith No More show and one too many wine coolers. No, not even that good: they looked like refugees from a Don Hill’s tranny metal night, the worst of ‘em rivaling even Jayne County in hideousness, the best still a far cry from Don Hilda herself, Miss Guy. And surprise, surprise, every one of them single and itching to mingle. Total cream of the crap: surely America, a leading MILF producer globally, has more to offer than this? Thankfully, it got better. And it got much, much worse.
“Axl Rose was the first man to fart in front of me,” proclaimed Debra Diamant proudly, “and The Nuge touched my coochie when I was 18. That’s why I should be America’s Hottest Rocker Mom.” The assembled crowd of tourists, financial scum on their lunch breaks and ogling bike messengers howled—finally, a live one. Her huge fake tits seemed about to leap joyously free from her tiny leather bustier.
The event’s highlight came during the talent portion of the show, during which the contestants were to “show off their best moves” during a mercifully brief clip from “Pour Some Sugar On Me.” By this time, Sebastian Bach, replete in a Sebastian Bach T-shirt (only marginally less tasteless than the “AIDS Kills Fags Dead” number, Baz!) had so exhausted his heavy metal howl that he was sounding less like bad David Lee Roth and more like Gilbert Gottfried. The competitors, who had been offering up unwelcome beaver shots the whole afternoon due to the combination of stage and short skirts, now ground on and humped the judges’ table. When scoring one contestant’s performance after what we pray to God was a wardrobe malfunction, Bach commented slyly “Um, I’m not sure if that was on purpose or not but I’m going to give you a nine—no strings attached.” The crowd winced and groaned.
Bethany Frankel, the Real Housewives star who looks like a living Bratz doll, was less subtle: “Honey, I’m guessing that cord hanging out of your panties was an ‘in case of emergency, pull here?’” Jesus wept.
