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If hair and paint can make a man what he ain’t, then why the hell do they need the silicone and the pasties over at Perry’s? I’ve never considered myself anti-tranny, but after finally getting in line to see the famous drag brunch around the corner from where I live, it just seems clear to me: The queens with the “real” boobs rely on the boobs. The queens with the socks, or whatever it is they’re using to fill their bras, rely on talent.

Take Shi-Queeta-Lee (pictured), a stuffer and easily the best of the performers. Her Tina Turner‘s dead on: legs up to her armpits, jaw with a perfect quiver, a “Proud Mary” routine that shows Beyonce who’s boss. And she actually knows the words.

That wasn’t the case with the more boobalicious among the performers, one of whom, instead of actually performing, decided it would be hilarious to take her one-boob-in-one-boob-out act to the space behind my friend’s chair, grab two big handfuls of said friend’s goods and shake them up and down for what seemed like a solid 20 minutes. But that wasn’t quite enough. A fellow bruncher then came up behind my friend, who was not (a) a tranny (b) being paid or (c) exactly comfortable being felt up, and decided to grab her breasts and give them a similar butter-churn. “It’s OK,” he says. “I’m gay.”

Actually, dude, it’s not. Your mother did not raise you right. I changed places with her, figuring I had less to grab, but it was too late. The Perry’s brunch for us had played itself out, $40 later (food, drinks, tip). Not exactly worth it, in my opinion, which is too bad. Dressing up in bad, itchy bridesmaid dresses (I have three in my closet right now if anyone wants to borrow one) to celebrate a friend’s upcoming wedding with mimosas and a drag show sounded like a blast… but, Perry’s, take the hint. Hire a few more Tinas. And tell your Lil’ Kims that if they like breasts so very much, they should stick to feeling up their own.