Wendy Williams IS being stalked by her studio audience



Wendy Williams is about to have the orgasm of a lifetime. Her wig is off, her skin is moist and smells of Georgia peach, her eyes are shut, the AC is fighting August weather (and winning, for now), and her man is doing his thing. A tingly feeling is spreading from her guts and seems to be flooding the night streets of Livingston, New Jersey.  

But, just when Wendy Williams is about to reach the climax, she feels something --something else. A presence people in the showbiz call the showbuzz, the angst that precedes each and every performance, and that gets dissolved, quick as Kool-Aid in water, when the camera is on.

She opens her eyes. There is a studio audience of 78 people (60 women and 18 men, 17 of which declare themselves gay and one who does not declare himself gay, but just made out in the toilet with the guy wearing the foil-like jacquard jacket two rows in front of him) sitting in black foldable chairs that have been placed around her queen bed, which is the size of two king beds, but she insists on calling it a queen bed because, well, she’s Wendy and Wendy has principles.

Wendy jumps out of bed, making her man’s face fall, mouth-first, in a pillow that was placed under her pelvis to assure comfort. While Wendy Williams is trying to cover her privates with the wig that was over a lamp, 156 hands pend from limp wrists and, with the unprepared unison of a baseball stadium crowd, the audience yells:

“How you do-uhn?”

A computer-generated duck offers a hundred dollar bills to people: a man who just lost his job, a woman who has just been diagnosed with cancer and a man whose son was accepted in an Ivy League school, but they can’t afford the tuition fees. The duck laughs and fans his money close to people who don’t have money.

And we’re back from break

“Say it like you mean it, woo-woo shout it out. Feel it, feel it, feel it”

The theme song is blasting the stereos and the camera is on. Used to sliding on the buttery floor of the studio, Wendy takes the stage. graciously She points her finger at the spectators, back home, and greets hundreds of thousands of Americans.

“Thanks for watching! Say hello to my co-hosts, my live studio audience”  

Wendy is looking straight at the glassy eye of a camera, the size of a doberman. But she stutter when she gets to “studio audience”. The same people who were in her room the previous night are taking the seats turned to the stage.

The audience had slept on her room --the AC officially lost the war against August weather after five minutes. Her husband and son urged her to call the police, but she knows what happens to celebrities who call the police: Hot Topics happens. So she decided to sleep the studio audience off. Id did not work. At 5am, Wendy was awaken by a symphony of snores and gut sounds and decided she was not going down without a fight.

The sun was still a promise in the horizon when she took her SUV and hit the freeway. The road was empty, except for a red sightseeing bus that was always paired with her car, with the studio audience snapping pictures.

She parked her car at the one place where no one would follow her. Her guilty pleasure, that wasn’t shared by a single soul in the world. Wendy Williams took a three hour visit to a 24-7 Costco. But, instead of running away, the pack of fan-stalkers formed a line and turned out to be very participative in the shopping spree. A dozen of retired women would boo her choices of French mustard or other snob products. “Ain’t nobody got money for that,” said an obese man who removed a jar of agave syrup from her cart and replaced it with a five pound sack of white sugar. “There you go.”

There is no explanation to how did these people got there. How can they stalk her with the agility of a fox (Wendy Williams would say “the agility of Amber Rose when she spots a happy marriage she can tear to pieces”, but she is too busy pretending not to be freaking out right now while she is on stage).

But there they are, and their faces are facts: a mouth twitching, tongue clicking, crown-wearing audience, exploding in cheer every time she expresses common-sense with a witty phrase, or dims her eyes and spread bottom lip when uttering her catchphrase.
And they followed her all the way to the studio, in Chelsea, where the TV hostess is spilling other people’s T --hers is well hidden.

“Well, it would be news if a picture of her dressed, and well dressed, had leaked”, Wendy says about the new nude pictures of a daytime reality TV star that surfaced. She sips tea in a huge mug that says WENDY and spills T like she does every day, for two generations now. But something is off. She seems tense. Giddy, almost. Laughing more than she uses to, but having less fun. There is a twitch in her eye, where usually there’s nothing but shine.

A white haired woman is at the beach with a man whose hair is white as well. He gets up and invites her to go to the ocean. She looks at her long-sleeved shirt and a deep voice says “Don’t be the you that lets psoriasis get in the way of enjoying life.” The voice offers a new drug. The same woman is splashing around in the sea. The same woman who seemed so happy with her flack-less skin is looking at the ocean, while her man caresses her white hair and the deep voice (is it you God?) lists 40 seconds of possible side effects: “Some serious infections require hospitalization.Before treatment, get tested for tuberculosis. Always tell your doctor if you have muscle aches, headache, fever, sweats, chills. These might be signs of a rare potentially fatal brain condition”. The woman smiles, signalizing she does not have a rare potentially fatal brain condition.
And we’re back from the breaks

When Hot Topics is done, it is time to interact with the audience, that gets to talk to her in Ask Wendy. So Wendy Williams stands in the belly of the beast, between roles 4 and 5. She is faking a smile and distributing her five feet eleven (and an undisclosed amount of pounds) of native intelligence to solve doubts of the real people.

“Come on over.”

She says to a white woman with cornrowed hair.

“Hey Wendy, how you do-uhn? I’m Sarah from Idaho. My question is: I recently caught my best friend making out with my brother. She’s a player. What should I do?”

“Was she having a good time?”

“For all I’ve seen, she was”

“Was he having a good time?”
“Sure was”

“Well, then you know what to do: nothing.”

Wendy smiles at the camera and blinks. The crowd goes ape shit. For the noise, it seems like there are more people than when the show started. And there are. The audience is metastasizing, Wendy notices when she is about to answer a second question, and her smile fades.

Now the man who had declared himself straight, but made out with the flamboyant set designer in the foil-like jacquard jacket, is sharing his seat with a woman that he kisses every other minute, as if to prove something, and two kids: his wife and children. The very pregnant woman was now carrying a baby covered in placenta, that oozes from her jeans and paints the tip of her white stilettos.

The show is a success. For everyone, but for the host.

On her way out, Wendy Williams goes through the crowd that lines up in front of the studio, in 26th street. The people who had tickets for that day and couldn’t enter, because the studio audience was already taking the whole studio.

A tourist from Florida, her best floral dress soaked with sweat under the bosom and an imaginary mustache of salty water polishing her upper lip, yells

“We waited for five hours to get in. You think you’re better than us, honey?”

But Wendy does not. She is just very confused.

“Just cause you got money?”

Wendy does have money. But it’s useless now. She called the best bodyguard companies. No one would touch the stalkers --even Justin Bieber’s crew refused the job.

So Wendy asks Wendy what she should do, while she enters her SUV and sees the shadow of the sightseeing bus pairing with her car. Her driver asks.
“Do you want me to turn on the TV, so you don’t have to look at them? JJ is on.”

And it hits her. Of course. How could she have not thought of it before? She decides to do it Wendy style. She will take her real-life drama to the television.


A rap battle is taking place inside a suburban house packed with non-whites. A famous British singer materializes and starts singing “Don’t go breaking my heart”, one of his biggest hits. “You always lose your edge when you’re hungry” and handles the singer a chocolate that has 23% of the daily recommended amount of trans fat. The singer goes back to being a non professional rapper.

And we’re back from break

Wendy Williams is as demurred as Wendy Williams can be, in a black Versace lace dress that covers her upper body, to show some respect, but shows a little legs, to show a little something off. She sits down in the plaintiffs desk, which gives her the chills

The bailiff enters the room. With no delay, he declares:  

“TV host Wendy Williams is suing 76 unknown people, for following her for the past 48 hours, breaking into her property and eating all the Häagen-Dazs she had left in the fridge.”

The honorable Judge Judy enters the room, this is actually a television studio dressed as a court. There is a collective gasp when the five feet woman takes her place. She makes her way solemnly to the bench. No need to request silence, she brings a coat of silence and respect behind her.
“Mrs. Williams, it is your claim that the defendants have been… following you for the past 48 hours,  is that correct?”

“Stalking, your honor”

“Why have them been doing it?”

“I do not know, your honor”

“Have you tried to take protective measures?”

“I’ve tried persuading them to leave, yes.”

“That’s not my question. I didn’t ask you if you were making an effort. I asked you whether you had called the police.”

“No, I have not”

Wendy covers the half of her mouth that is not being filmed and, pretending to be telling a secret, she whispers in the loudest voice she can utter. “Your honor, you know how we, TV people, can’t do things like every other...”
Judge Judy interrupts her: “Say what you gotta say out loud, young lady!”

Wendy is embarrassed, for the first time in 35 years. “Sorry, Judge. I have tried. But my way. I even went to Costco to scare them off, your honor.”

Judge Judy rolls her eyes and resorts to irony. “Oh, jeez. Costco didn’t solve it? Guess I won’t be able to do anything. You’re in trouble, young lady. Don’t you pee on my leg and tell me it’s the meltdown of the polar ice!”

Wendy tries to justify herself, but is shut by a single raised finger from the judge.

“You did not follow the law, young lady. Let’s see about all of these people”

Judge Judy turns to the side of the defendants. They are all sitting towards Wendy.

“You. All of you! Look at me, not at her! What are your names?”

The crowd stands in a wave: “How you do-uhn?”

“QUIET! How did you end up here?”

One of the defendants stands up, hand raised. She wants to say something.

“Oh, so we got a class representative. Go ahead, answer the question”

The woman claws the hand that had been raised, and now  if trying to hold a hand microphone that is not there, while she talks articulating every silabe.  “Hey Judge Judy, how you do-uhn? I’m Sarah from Idaho. My question is: I recently caught my best friend making out with my brother, She’s a player. What should I do?”

“What? Have you all gone bonkers? Am I having a stroke or is Justice being pointed at the face and laughed at?” The crowd breaks in laughter. Even the newborn baby is chucking, his tiny hands creating a right angle with his two miniscule forearms, Judge Judy notices. Her face is shadowed by doubt, that she expresses as anger: “Why are you people doing this?”

The crowd goes from clapping to woo-wooing. Two young girls are twerking with the bailiff, who tries to escape but is surrounded by bums.  
“Ay, quiet! Quiet! Quiet! Qui-et! SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Judge Judy gavels the audience back to a state of silence. It’s the first time she used the F word on air.

“I would sentence you to death if I could. I would, believe me, cause this is more than a tort we got going on here. But, since this is make believe court and I can’t, you’re fined in five thousand dollars each. And five more thousand for every time you approach the plaintiff”

Silence in the studio. People are appalled. How can TV do that to them? They were just there to have a good time, let some steam off. Isn’t that what Wendy is all about? The two day old baby cries for the first time in his life. The man who had declared himself straight waves goodbye to the guy wearing the foil-like jacquard jacket, while his wife pretends not to notice.

And, just like they had condensed from thin air, the crowd disassembles, in the blink of an eye. There is no one else in the room. Just two TV hosts that won’t exchange another word after the cameras are off --they will just smile to one another, knowing that some good television had been made that afternoon.

Wendy goes back to spilling the T on TV and having unattended orgasms two times a month. But they will never be as good again.