There's this creepy connection between leather sex, Star Trek, and the Renaissance Fair. - Margaret Cho

[quoting her producer] "The network is concerned. They're concerned about the fullness of your face. They think you're really overweight and you're going to have to do something about it." I didn't know what to say to that. I always thought I was decent looking; I had no idea that I was a giant face taking over America! HERE COMES THE FACE!!

The best part of any fashion show is Karl Lagerfeld with his white hair, and the big glasses, and a fuckin' fan. Like he's some kind of Spanish lady or something. And I look at the fan and I'm like, "Bitch, it's not that hot, what'choo doin'?"

So when some man says to me, "Don't you wish you were beautiful?" those are like killing words. That's my death, if I don't pummel it into his soft, not-yet-completely-formed radio disc-jockey skull that I am already beautiful, and I wish for nothing, other than for him to go away. I am so beautiful, sometimes people weep when they see me. And it has nothing to do with what I look like really, it is just that I gave myself the power to say that I am beautiful, and if I could do that, maybe there is hope for them too. You can't even get to me. I got special service, boundaries like the rings of Saturn. I am protected. I am four–five faggots deep all around me, who don't see your name on the list, who will not let you in here looking like that, who will hold you in a cold, hard, unflinching stare or back hand compliment you until you cry. If you even had the courage to ask me out you would have to do it by mail, sent months in advance, on a single 5×7 sheet of eggshell vellum, signed in blood and sealed in gold and scented with a light mist of the new fragrance by Alan Cumming, just so I could throw it away without becoming repulsed.