Pause.
“If you’re wondering how the guy qualified for his office, remember that this school is trying to be ‘meanest place on the planet.’”
“Rumor has it Saddam Hussein applied to this school and was rejected as being too nice.”
When the laughter subsided, Leno pointed at the picture of Colton and Bella again. “That lady? The one who looks so pissed? That was naked guy’s date! And wait ‘til you hear her story! You’d be pissed, too. She had a worst first date than Macaulay Culkin when he visited Neverland!”
Awkward groans and scattered laughs from the audience.
“Ladies and gentlemen please welcome…. Bella Bottoms!”
The curtain parted. Bella stood there, clutching her purse, blinking wide-eyed like Lucille Ball in the “Vitameatavegamin” commercial, milking the moment.
Talk about juxtaposition! If the audience had been expecting an outrageousdrag queen with a big up-do of a wig (Bella’s normal attire), what they saw was Jacqueline Kennedy circa 1960. Short, bobbed hair. A pillbox hat. Cinch-waisted dress. Pumps—not 3-inch heels. Still, this version was 6’5” versus the 5’7” original.
Then Bella turned left, walking the wrong way, wobbling like a little girl in her mother’s shoes. It was classic and endearing.
The audience hooted and clapped.
Leno gave a dog whistle and motioned her towards his desk.
Bella took a seat, crossed her legs primly, and carefully removed her white gloves.
She smiled genteelly. “I think your audience is a little disappointed, Jay. You said Oklahoma, and they were probably expecting Shawntel Smith. You know, Miss America. She’s from Oklahoma.”
“Is that true?” Leno asked the audience. “Are you disappointed?”
Loud clapping and cheering. Someone in the crowd yelled “Bella! Bella!”
Leno waited for the applause to die down. Gave Bella his signature half-smirk. “Satisfied?”
Bella stroked the pearl necklace that graced her neck. “Why do men always want to know that? I mean, if you have to ask—”
It would have been a funny enough laugh-line if uttered by a run-of-the-mill drag queen, but coming from the mouth of America’s stoic widow, the effect was amplified.
The camera cut to an audience shot, zeroed in on a woman elbowing her husband—his looking mortified, her guffawing.
The joke ricocheted around the room, moving from one red-faced, belly-fat husband to the next, their wives high-fiving each other in solidarity.
Leno leaned forward, straightened his tie. “Can I ask you about what happened that night? March 22nd?”
“It all started when I left my hotel and went for a stroll…”
Bella stopped mid-sentence, looked down at her boobs, and frowned. Pushed the left one up a bit. Craned her head, assessing her handiwork.
“You went for a walk?” Leno prompted.
“Stroll. One walks to the powder room, strolls outdoors. So, there I was, strolling, and there was this young man sitting in his car. We chatted. He asked if I wanted to see his—”
Leno reached out to cover the microphone on his desk.
“—Grandma’s farm,” Bella finished. She reached into her bag, retrieved her compact, and tried angling its little mirror to see her chest.
“That didn’t seem odd to you?” Leno asked. “The farm bit?”
“I work in gay bars, honey. I’ve heard stranger things than that.” Bella put the compact away. “Say, Jay, you don’t happen to have any duct tape in that desk, do you? I think I’m having a wardrobe issue. Too much ballast on the left.”
Leno shook his head. “Fresh out. Madonna was a guest last night. She had the same problem.”
