Last Saturday night, a sexed-up, belly-baring, Burning Man–esque duo currently looking for a home (read: TV network), held a fund-raiser in Mount Washington for their “sketch comedy meets un-cooking” show Sexy Bitches Like It Raw. I was lured in by the promise of “mass amounts of food,” live music, auctions for jewelry, art and spiritual-healing sessions, and, of course, the premiere of the pilot episode of Sexy Bitches Like It Raw.

About a half hour after the purported start time, I tiptoed into the ’70s-era home that had been donated for the shindig and was greeted by a flurry of chaos — sex kittens in corsets and fishnets setting up chairs; pierced and polished men alternately garnishing and tasting platters of raw food and licking heavily accessorized fingers of questionable cleanliness. It would seem that the dress code for the evening was (unseasonable) Burning Man best, relegating me a social pariah in my cashmere and twill.

Low on blood sugar and patience, I surveyed the scene for snacks. With nary a crudité being put out for guests, I wandered onto the patio and slumped down on a folding chair to listen to the band warm up. I was engaging in a stimulating internal dialogue on the allure of polished wood when a goateed gentleman in fun fur and feathers hollered: “They’re towing cars!”

Seeing as I had nothing better to do, I stepped outside to double-check. I was shocked to find a pink parking ticket affixed to the window of my beloved veggie-powered Benz and to see the car behind me being dragged onto a flatbed tow truck. I asked the parking officer standing by about the alleged violation.

“Red-flag day,” he replied.

“Huh?” I countered. I’d never heard of this holiday and wondered what it had to do with parking zones.

He went on to explain that red-flag days are declared when there’s higher-than-average fire danger. Confused, I looked around for a flag. Nada.

“How would I know it’s a red-flag day?”

“You’d get a flier on your car in the morning.”

“And if I’m just visiting?”

“The owner of the household you are visiting should inform you.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“I can see what you’re getting at,” he said, his every syllable soaked in I don’t make the rules, I just enforce ’em subtext.

I moved my car and trudged back to the party. Closing in on 10 o’clock, Sexy Bitch Amae (Ah-may), of the spiky, bleached hair and the ubiquitous dangling belly-button jewelry, asked us all to gather in the living room for what I was hoping to be dinner .?.?.

Enter a food-prep minion dwarfed by a large white turban, who led us in a “nice, long Sat Nam,” which is a Kundalini prayer for .?.?. um .?.?. er .?.?. something good? I wasn’t really paying attention — I was too busy chewing the inside of my lip for emergency sustenance.

“Bring that breath up to your third eye and blast it out your 10th gate! .?.?. You’re beautiful!” she cooed.

And on that note, the pilot episode of Sexy Bitches Like It Raw made its glorious West Coast debut. I sat there, (bleeding) mouth agape — unsatiated and appalled. The credits opened with a montage that included Amae and Mystique naked but for some craftily placed sliced fruit. It spiraled downward from there with the girls posturing awkwardly and self-consciously while (sort of) teaching the viewers how to make raw nut milk, which Mystique gulped and dribbled down her admittedly beautiful face and onto her exposed cleavage. Later the Bitches, dressed in slutty teacher/Catholic-school-girl costumes, taught us how to make faux oatmeal while pawing at one another and moaning into the camera. The cooking segments book-ended an irrelevant puppet show and a “sketch” in which the Bitches’ “talking” breasts prattled onabout the benefits of nut milk.

When it was over the person next to me asked, “Did you like it?”

I was too busy biting my tongue to answer.

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