Adam Lambert

My Opinion: I was working in a swanky LA nightclub as a busboy when I first met Adam Lambert. It was the night of the American Music Awards. He threw the door open with strength uncharacteristic of someone with his slender and delicate frame. He was glistening with sweat; evidently jamming your crotch into your backup dancers’ faces is quite the workout.

The entire room hushed when he entered. He had a sort of animal magnetism that was accentuated by his heavy use of manliner and midnight nail polish. He was defiantly clad in a dark wool pea coat despite the fact that it was a balmy Los Angeles evening. The women swooned, not because of any sort of sexual desire, but out of sheer jealousy for how damn beautiful and expertly quaffed his hair was. The men at the bar didn’t know whether to kick his ass or buy him a drink. In what seemed like slow motion, he walked across the room and sat down at one of the tables in my area.

He ordered a steak, extra rare. I thought his request for the meat to be super bloody was odd, but I had learned a long time ago to ignore the little eccentricities of the rich and famous. I stood well away from the man, watching as he finished his meal in complete silence, waiting for my opportunity to clear his plate, and possibly slip a copy of my demo tape into his front pocket. This was LA right, that sort of shit happens all the time.

I waited for as long as possible, sweat beading up along my forehead, until I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to be discovered and Lambert was my ticket. I approached his table with my stupid little bucket and started clearing away his dishes.

“You know, I’m quite the musician myself,” I said brandishing my demo in one quaking hand.

The time was now, I had to act. I shot my hand forward, but Lambert reacted in what seemed like a microsecond. His steely fingers gripped my wrist and he sank his teeth into my knuckles, biting to the bone and sending a spray of plasma all over the walls of the club.

“Oh my God,” I screamed. “Get him offa me!”
Lambert’s entourage moved quickly and I was thrown into a burlap sack and dragged through the back door of the club. I heard car doors slamming and felt the tight enclosure of what could only be the trunk of a relatively new model Mercedes-Benz.

I awoke three days later clinging to a buoy in Long Beach harbor. I was stark naked and had no recollection of what had occurred.
As the weeks went by I tried to pull my life back together. I had several messages on my machine: one was my boss telling me I was fired for harassing the customers, the other was my girlfriend breaking up with me because she thought I was too masculine. My world was falling apart, and the worse thing was, I started to feel a little strange.

It started slow, but as the days went on, these little changes became harder and harder to ignore. Suddenly I became violently ill whenever I tried to watch football on TV. My skin didn’t seem to feel right unless I used the exact right type of moisturizer. I would wake up in the morning, look in the mirror, and stare in confusion as I looked upon my reflection. Somehow when I was sleeping I had applied liberal amounts of Crew Pomade to my hair and eyeliner to my eyes. Every morning it was the same thing! I would wipe it all off, but every morning it came back, even stronger.

And the worst thing of all: the hunger. I was constantly hungry. I went to the grocery store and ate until I should have exploded, but nothing satisfied my hunger. I knew what I needed, what I hungered for. It was meat. It was man meat.

I began locking myself in my apartment, but one night no amount of hardware could contain me. The hunger was too strong. I threw on a silk robe that my girlfriend had left behind, checked my eyeliner, dabbed on a fresh coat of Burt’s Beeswax, and ran into the streets of Los Angeles. I ran as fast as I could, I screamed at the top of my lungs at the sheer freedom I was experiencing. Of course, no one batted an eyelash. Again, this was LA.

I ran through the streets until I was exhausted. I peered at my surroundings and realized I was outside of a dueling pianos bar. Perfect. Here I would finally be able to satisfy my hunger. I crouched in the shadows until I spied my prey. He left the bar a few minutes later. He was young, possibly still in college, wearing an argyle sweater and Dockers. He stood alone on the curb looking for a cab. Now was my chance. I leaped from the shadows and attacked.

I awoke the next morning with a splitting headache and a bizarre taste in my mouth. I was happy to see that I had made it back to my own apartment, since I had no idea what had happened last night or how I had gotten back home.

I began to get out of bed but froze in terror as I saw shreds of what looked like an argyle sweater littered all over my sheets. Slowly I pulled back the covers of my bed and revealed the nightmare that was hiding there. It was the dude! He was stone cold dead and beginning to turn grey. Oddly though, he had a huge smile on his face.

“Noooo!” I screamed as I fell to my knees. “Damn you Adam Lambert! What have you done to me?!”