The Toronto Drag scene really is royalty. Every year they have a pageant to elect the Fabulous Imperial Court Of Toronto. There are drag queens wandering around with titles like "Her Imperial Majesty The Queen Mother Consuela Centigrade the Third".
Every bar you go, there's a man in a skirt. I've just seen the same Cher medley performed twice in an evening.
They've just held a Drag Idol competition. Stunningly, it was won by Bonnie, the fiendish bull dyke security manager at Crews Bar. Last anyone saw of her, she was a short, scowling pit bull in a lumberjack shirt.
Out on the smoking porch, her girlfriend Bonnie roars, "Okay fags. Stub 'em out and get in there! She's on." Meekly, we oblige.
Suddenly, she's on stage looking like... well, like a very pretty man dressed as a stunning woman. There's big hair, a bigger dress, and the biggest high heels, and she's strutting to torch songs like there's no tomorrow.
Matt leans over. "My god," he gasps. "She's.... smiling!"
Later Bonnie totters out to the smoking deck, pushing Candice, a drunk drag queen in a wheelchair. "These shoes are killing me!" she bellows. "How do you dance in these things every night?"
Candice shrugs, and points to her foot. It's in plaster.
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