(In case it isn’t obvious, this is a parody of “The Ladies Who Lunch,” by Stephen Sondheim. Thanks and credit to him.)

I’d like to propose a toast:
Here’s to the faggots who brunch, everybody laugh.
Backstabbing their friends and all acting like cunts
To the restaurant staff.
Mimosas raised, they cheers their besties, playing the role,
Their muscles praised: “You’re looking chesty, getting real swole!”
Does ANYbody…REALLY…
Say “swole”??
I’ll drink to that.

And here’s to the boys who talk shit—
Don’t you just love those?
Exaggerating slights until they have a fit,
Turning friends to foes.
Embellishing their tragic lives,
Telling their latest saga.
Then dishing on the Real Housewives
And dissing Lady Gaga!
I’ll drink to that.
And one for Gaga!

And here’s to the luxury gay—
Six figure value.
Drinking to forget what he does with his day
To afford his view.
Booking a trip out of town
To stave off the gnawing letdown
Each weekend a jewel in his crown—
Circuit party tea!
Let’s do some E!
Let’s all do some E!

And here’s to those tech-loving queens—
Aren’t they too much?
Spending all their time staring down at their screens,
Just to stay in touch.
Another share from Twitter’s feed,
Then onto Scruff for cruising,
Next onto Facebook just to read
About these apps they’re using!
AAAAAAAAAAAAH!
I’ll drink to that.

So here’s to the tastemaking queer
As the saying goes…
Everything we’ve fought for just to get us here–
Everybody knows!
A toast to all our bar-hopping buds,
The meth-smoking steroid-muscled studs,
Those hypocrites in designer duds–
Everybody pose! Pose!
Pose! Pose! Pose! Pose! Pose! Pose!
Pose!