Versace Can Suck It

A few weekends ago, my dear gal, Miss Carmen Garcia, celebrated her 17th Birthday at the Latin Lime party held at Corner 51. Ok, she's not seventeen. 28, I think. Same diff. You're probably thinking, "You, Anne? At at Latin dance club?" What, you don't think I can rock that kind of situation? Well I certainly can. It's called Fake it Til You Make It, kids. So I thought I'd sport these never-before-worn, hot Versace heels given to me by a friend in the fashion world who scooped them up after a photo shoot. If he hadn't been a gay man he'd have kept them himself, but you can't fit big man dogs into these sleek stilletos. Ohhh nooo. And I figured that the shoes would distract from the fact that I was wearing entirely too much clothing compared to my Latina sisters. I was wrong. I was distracting no one.

So, there I was, there I was, there I was, fitting in like a picante puta amongst the caliente crowd, up on the riser/bench area so I could scan the scene, when I shifted my 100 some odd pound weight to my right side, and

SNAP went the heel.

When most broads would have cried, died, and left the scene, I want you to know that not only did I stay, but eventually boogied on down, down, boogied on down, down, down, boogied on down. At first, I remained standing on the ball of my right foot, improvising the heel. (Hey, this bitch completed improv levels 1-4 at UCB and The PIT before she quit, ayite?) Picture how a flamingo might stand. Eventually I got tired of the quivering calf and kicked off my sunday shoes entirely.

(How often do you think Corner 51 cleans their carpets?)

Anyway, back to the piece of shyte shoes by Versace. They are Versus, Donatella's line. Donatella, I'd expect this quality from Payless shoes, which might have a tendency to break at some point down the line, but on the first wear? Doubtful. You should be ashamed of yourself, you bleached out, orange-skinned wide mouthed bass. Don't drive Gianni's empire into the ground. He's dead for cryin' out loud. Imagine how pissed I'd be if I had paid for these shoes??!?? (That'd be tough to imagine. Even when I sell out, I still won't pay for designer caca.)

Donatella, stop contemplating how often Corner 51 cleans their carpets, and look at me. There's no prize involved.

Here's me and the birthday girl. Can you guess which one is a better merengue dancer? I'm doing my best "FU, Donatella" impression. More likely, it's my regular face. I'm not grabbing her boob, but if it fulfills the fantasy, please, don't let me stop you.

Here's me dancing in a cage. Ok, it's a railing, but just go with it. The male admirers were all over me like bums on baloney. Ok, no they weren't.

And finally: Silly me, and glam gals Carmen, and Sue (who so generously took photos of us-- and my shoe accident, for insurance and bitch-slapping purposes). These shoes are going straight back to Versace for repairs and then will be sold immediately on Ebay. Basta!

Adios, muchachos!