B’s Almost True Hollywood Stories

Episode I: The Love That Dare Not Speak It’s Name

It’s three a.m. In an upstairs bedroom in a vast mansion in Lebanon, Tennessee, a phone rings on a bedside nightstand, startling awake the bed’s lone muppet-faced occupant.

Reba (sleepily): Howdy, y’all.

Kathy: Reba, it’s me.

Reba: Is this Leann Rahms agin? What now? You need another cover story about a-sleeping at mah house for the naht so yer husband don’t git suspicious?

Kathy: No, Reba. It’s Kathy.

Reba: Kathy? Kathy Griffin?

Kathy: Yes, Reba, Kathy. Kathy Griffin.

Reba: What in tarnation are you a callin’ for at this time of night. Why you even callin’ at all for that matter. I thought I told you to leave the past in the past, girl. What’s dun is dun.

Kathy: I know we agreed to go our separate ways and never speak of what happened between us, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think of you once in a while.

Reba: Are you drunk? Jesus almighty girl. You got the common sense of a moonshiner with two busted taillights and an expired license plate, I swear, drunk dialin’ lahk this.

Kathy: I’m a little fucked up. I was down in the VIP at the Viper room earlier and things got a little crazy. I might have snorted a little coke out of Tara Reid’s belly button. Or Lindsay Lohan’s buttcrack, I’m not sure. It was one of those wastes of skin, anyway.

Reba: What the hell do you want, Kathy? Ah need to git up early tumorrah tah go duck huntin’ with Kelly Clarkson.

Kathy: It’s our son, I’m really worried about him.

Reba: How many tahms have ah got to tell ya, no amount of donut-bumpin’ and rug-munchin’ and clam-bakin’ can beget a child, you moron.

Kathy: Say what you will, if you must, Reba, but I know the truth. When I ran away from home and hitchhiked South, I never expected to find love. When I enrolled at the Chockie, Oklahoma, School of Secretaryin’, Makeuppin’, and Autobody Repair, and found myself rooming with you in that one room trailer-dorm, you introduced me to the charms of a true Suthern Lady. I’ll never forget catching a glimpse of us in that broken mirror above the wash basin, it looked like I was being ravaged by a huge ginger Tribble, quite a thrill for a dyed in the wool Trekkie from up North. You can’t deny that our love created this child.

Reba: No, ah can’t deny it. But Doctors and Geneticists and Grade School Textbooks can. You need tah leave that poor boy alone, he’s sufferin’ enough public ridicule as it is. Yuh probaly got knocked up on one a yer drunken escapades down at the National Guard barracks.

Kathy: That’s so not true! I know you are his Mother, and so am I! He needs our help right now. He’s on the ‘roids and he’s scaring the shit out of everyone who sees him! He looks like the evil clown from kids’ dreams that tries to butter their muffins! What happened to our little beautiful orange boy? We need to help him!

Reba: This conversation’s over. Ah’m a tahred of all a yer ridiculous claims and accusations. You need to git right with that boy and git him straightened out. Now good bye and don’t call here agin.

Kathy: No! Wait! Reba! Can’t we just put on our sun hats and little white gloves like real Suthern Ladies and trowel a little mound for old time’s sake?

Reba: Take care a yerself, Kathy. *click*

Kathy Griffin and Reba Mcentire were certainly not the first young ladies to find sapphic love their first time away from home at a Secretaryin’ and Trades College. What makes their story unique however, is Kathy’s insistence to this day that her and Reba’s penetrationless union produced a love child. Although she has not been able to produce any proof, some say their alleged son’s picture is all the proof Kathy needs:

“I already had no valid chance of needing my testicles looking like this, so why not go on the juice?”

With Reba’s hair and Kathy’s looks, Carrot Top could very well be the product of their star-crossed romance, but until all the facts are known, we here at B’s Almost True Hollywood Stories will leave the judgment up to you, Dear Reader.

PS: Although we would never support something as terrible as the Kick a Ginger fiasco in which children with red hair were kicked at school, if you should happen across one of these Gingers, please, kick them.