Prior to Frankie J Grande appearing on Big Brother 16 this summer, I had only heard of him on one other occasion. It was not good first impression. He was doing a shaky amateur YouTube of himself while visiting Lea Black, of Real Housewives of Miami, in her Los Angeles home. For those of you who don’t know much about Lea, she has an eclectic group of friends, and by eclectic, I mean Lea counts some of the most vile people on the planet among her inner circle. I’ll spare you the laundry list, but I assure you her friendship with Frankie J Grande is a prime example of the type of person with whom she chooses to associate.
The YouTube was of Frankie mocking and insulting and elderly woman, affectionately referred to by all as Mama Elsa, who was the mother of Marysol Patton, another housewife on the Miami franchise. Mama Elsa was a beauty in her youth, until she made an unfortunate decision to go to a plastic surgeon for some facial work that left her permanently disfigured. While Frankie mercilessly mocked Mama Elsa on the Internet, Lea’s distinctive cackle could be heard throughout in the background. The entire video was cruel and unnecessary. I was outraged.
So when Frankie appeared this season, I came in with a preconceived notion. Because I love the show and didn’t want to waste energy on his prior negativity, I gave him a fair shake. I even enjoyed him at first. As the season progressed, Frankie became less and less able to keep up his façade. The evil, bitter, entitled bigot began to seep out as he used and cast away a variety of house guests and his sexual inappropriateness with other house guests increased. The self-centered arrogant shitpickle that is his true self could not be hidden for the entire performance.
He has used the death of his grandfather, his sister, his “charity work”, his “fame” and anything else at his disposal to claw his way to $500,000. Viewer hatred of Frankie has reached a boiling point. Today I received a Facebook Entry of Frankie’s chronicling day one of Frankie’s philanthropic journey to build schools in Africa for the less fortunate. I present it to you unedited in all of its vileness below. Be forewarned, our little pink-haired charity worker’s heart is filled with disgust for Delta employees, fat people, black people, Israel, Jewish people…the list goes on. The mission of the trip seems completely lost on him, but his true nature rings through quite loudly.
For the always skeptical Sucksters, I’m editing in this photo that Frankie posted with the FB post. I obviously can’t link to the FB post but it is currently set to friends and friendsof friends. I’m sure all you good judys at Sucks are only one flamer away from having access.
Well, WE MADE IT and IT IS BEAUTIFUL!
After a frantic night of packing I managed to fit my entire life in to a matching 3-piece Tumi set consisting of a 22’’ duffle, a 4-suit garment bag and a huge padded backpack. I was pretty impressed and Courtney was extremely impressed, cause she knows I like to have all of my clothing options. But I figured, if I was going to be roughing it in Africa, I could choose between the Dolce & Gabanna or the Versace skinny jeans that looked similar, though lord knows not identical. Please.
And so we are off to the airport…
The first plane sucked my ass (badly), but the second was Sasha Fierce! JFK airport itself, however, was a complete and utter disaster! I was like how did they manage to find all of the most incompetent people in the world, move them all to NYC, employ them all at JFK, and assign them all to work for Delta? Kudos whoever figured that one out. We got to the Delta international check in, and there is a long line to go…absolutely nowhere. There is nothing at the end of this line that everyone is standing in. Now even though I have several hours before my plane departs, Disney World has thought me how to circumnavigate unnecessary lines. So I did. I pushed my way past all the people to the front of the line with no purpose. One guy did say, “Hey you just cut in front of everyone in the line!” To Which I responded, “Yeah I did, to ask why we are all in it. Did that thought occur to you?” “Um, well, no.” “Ok, well I’m gonna ask if this is where we are supposed to be and if we are, you can go in front of me, how’s that?” God I hate people encounter number one.
Meanwhile, Courtney has bypassed the line completely and has begun attempting to check-herself in to the kiosk. Now I don’t know how many of you have tried to check-in via Kiosk, but it is fucking pointless. You wait around for hours punching a touch-screen computer that asks you a series of 5-10 minute long questions, stringing you along, making you feel so accomplished and so near your goal, only to literally, and without warning, shut-down completely and post “See agent…” in the left corner of a blank screen. Now I have invested what feels like 10 years of my life into this elaborate check-in process with planes whooshing by the screen and happy little bags to press to say how many you have and pretty flying red Delta triangles, but when the fucking machine doesn’t work… “See agent…” Really? No we apologize to have wasted your life but could you please help expedite the check-in process by seeing an agent? Really? God I hate computers incident one.
So we get in-line to “see agent…” who better be Beyonce at this point cause I am getting pissed, and we are in line for about 15 minutes when Courtney hears a man at the front say something like this: “If you are going to Dakar…wrong line…other side…go immediately.” Now our flight is to Dakar because we have to transfer there to get to Jo’burg, so at hearing this a blood vessel popped in my neck. I literally scream from across the room at this man, “Wait sir, can you say that again.” I was ignored, and believe me everyone heard me. “Sir, what about Dakar? I am traveling there!” The agent and I made eye contact and he turned away. That was it, say goodbye to the step touching chorus boy named Frankie, Tranny Ferotia was in full force. “I will fucking kill you!!!” I scream as I carry my 80 pound Tumi matching carry-ons over, under, around, and thru the mass of those seatbelt snap back line formers, knocking children, luggage, and Israel-ies (sp?) out of my way. Oh yeah, lots of Jews on their way home. I was like don’t go, I don’t watch the news, but it was on in a cab and it looks bad, don’t go!
So I approach this huge black man in an even bigger bright red blazer—he looked like what would happen if the guy from the Green Mile was in Jersey Boys—and I proceeded to make known to him my dilemma. He was so confused, and then this bitch Yvonne came over and was like, well they were in the wrong line and there is plenty of time until their plane takes off, they can just walk across the street to the other identical Delta terminal and get checked in there (because apparently the one I was at does not check in flights to Dakar). I politely (not politely) offred the solution that just because my plane wasn’t leaving in 25 minutes, does not mean I should wait in line again as it was due to their incompeteance, negligence, and fatness, that I was ever in the wrong place anyway. Finally they agreed and I headed across the street armed with the knowledge that Yvonne said I could cut the line over there. Looking back on that moment, perhaps if I had patiently waited in the first line (remember, the one to nowhere) I may have been told that Dakar check-in was across the street, but this is only day 1 of my life-changing vacation, lets not get to introspective quite just yet.
So I storm across the street, again knocking over Jews and Firetrucks, unitil I see the line that I assume I am supposed to be in and I walk directly to the front, Courtney in tow. I am so pissed casue I have been at the airport for over an hour and I should be in the Lounge having tea right now. So I walk up to the person next in line, lovely mousy girl thing, and I say, “Hi, I am so sorry but I was waiting in like forever across the street and it ended up being the wrong line and so Yvonne told me that I should come over here and go to the front of the line, is that ok?” She replied, “Yeah, at least you are going to make your flight, I was here for 4 hours yesterday in the wrong line and when I finally made it to the counter they told me the flight was closed and to come back tomorrow.” Part of me felt bad… but the dominate part of me understood that that is why she’s a stupid bitch and why I am getting on my plane and she isn’t and I got in front of her.
The rest of my airport experiece had such highlights as me saying to a fat black Chilies Togo worker: “Really? How do you say ‘Fuck You’ in American?” And me saying to an adorable little old Asian lady who politely told me that I could not eat in here: “Oh, do you want to come over here and say that to my face?”
But overall it was a really “smooth” and “uneventful” trip filled with love and good will. Especially when I was transferring planes in Dakar and I hear a beautiful tenor softly singing, “We’re soaring, flying, there’s not a star in heaven that we can’t reach…” I was like, High School Musical, and I quickly chessed (ballet vocab) across the bus to see what I would find. And what I did find was a gorgeous 18-year Chelsea boy who happened to be on his way home to Jo’burg…
Thanks for reading, more to come soon.
JK, his name was Ron (pronounced Rhou-on with the rolling R) and was Afrikaans. I was like, “So you like High School musical? (blink, blink, blink)” He said of course, and we launched into a discussion about how I was singing it at a concert in Jo’burg at the Montecasino on the 19th with other Broadway folk and that he should come. To which he responded, “Broadway in South Africa? (there was no mention of BSA prior to this) Yeah, I’ve heard of you guys, they have been advertising a lot down here, sure I’ll come.” At which point Courtney and I both shat ourselves and fell over.
Well that’s day one, got to the gorgeous hotel, nothing much to report there, can’t figure out when to sleep and when to be up, but I am sure that will all sort itself out eventually, though it is 3:44am and Courtney and I just ordered b’fast cause our stomachs hurt. Oh, foreign travels.
Love you all so much and can’t wait till you all see me tanned, rested, and snatched! I mean, can’t wait to see your pale, tired, New York faces again in 3 weeks!