If you must know, I haven’t dated in a few months.
Ok, well, maybe it’s been more than a few months. Celibacy, it seems, is my new full time job. The pay sucks and the hours are long. So long, in fact, that I find myself filling them with Grey Goose Gimlets and playing Jeopardy on my iPad with Ice-T’s girlfriend Coco. And since I always lose to that giant breasted trivia genius, I end up chasing the Grey Goose with Xanex, eating mayonnaise, and sunbathing naked in Bob Saget’s front yard. (And by the way Bobby, it wouldn’t hurt you to turn the sprinklers on the lawn every once in a while to give a gal a lil spritz on a hot day. I’m just saying.)
I haven’t dated anyone since I broke up for the last time with my ex-boyfriend, Kanye West. The cheating little buggar broke my heart – and I just haven’t had the confidence to put myself out there again. Despite my gruff masculine exterior, I’m really quite fragile. Like a translucent water lily.
So rather than pursue romantic exploits, I have opted for more enlightened pursuits like reading Gweneth Paltrow’s gospel on homosexuality. Or playing Angry Birds. But I guess my excess sexual energy is starting to manifest in ways that are starting to annoy people – so Betty White decided to stage an intervention.
“Bob Saget is pissed,” Betty said, taking the iPad from my lap,”If you don’t go out on a date soon, we’re going to have you neutered and trained like a police dog to sniff out cocaine on drug busts in Chula Vista.”
“I am perfectly happy on my own,” I insisted,”Now leave me with my Angry Birds and mayo.”
“I’ll take fat, sexless queens for 500,” Coco chirped from under the coffee table.
Next thing I knew, I was at Lindsay Lohan’s house sitting in front of a computer while she, Coco, Betty and Britney Spears sat around me instructing me on how to craft my very first online personals profile. Since she has been on house arrest for some time now, Lindsay has had plenty of time to become savvy to all the various ways to maintain a social life without ever having to leave the comfort of her ash tray.
Even on house arrest, Lindsay’s love life was more exciting than mine. She’s juggling four serious, committed online relationships with people all over the country – including a handicapable poet in Rochester, a transgendered Asian amputee in Baton Rouge, a lesbian coal miner in West Virginia, and a married pastor from Sheboygan, Wisconsin who likes to be referred to as “Shoog.”
Betty took it upon herself to take charge of the “Stats” portion of my profile – which, I’m sure will prove to be a mistake.
“Unless I meet everyone standing on a box, don’t you think people with figure out I’m not really 6′ft 5 inches tall when they meet me in person?” I inquired as Betty’s fingers tapped the keyboard. “I’m not Tom Cruise, for goodness sake. And for that matter, I’m not blond, Betty.”
“It’s called marketing, dumbass.” Betty said flatly, “Besides – everyone knows that blonds are whores. Thinking you’re tall will draw attention away from how freakishly old you are. Online dating is a numbers game. You’ll have a much better chance of getting action if people think you’re tall, young and loose.”
I wanted to spread a pound of mayo on a Chips-ahoy.
Britney insisted on crafting the narrative portion of the profile – which really sort of irritated me. I felt perfectly capable of penning my own narrative. I can be rather quick-witted on a keyboard when I want to be – but according to Miss American-Dream-Since-She-Was-17, I have about as much charm as a bipolar honey badger in a bee hive – and shouldn’t be allowed to type my own name, much less an essay on why someone should want to bang me sideways in the backseat of a Toyota Matrix.
“B, that isn’t true. I can’t lick my own eyebrows. And there is no ‘y’ in double-jointed,” I said, looking over her shoulder as she typed with one finger. “And you typed ‘your’ when it should have read ‘you’re’. You’re making me sound like I’m too dumb to graduate cattle insemination school.”
“Amateur.” Britney murmured while smacking her Bubblicious.”Don’t ya’ll know anything? No man wants someone with a brain. Typos say ‘I’m an idiot’ and you stand a much better chance of landing a man if you’re come across completely oblivious. Geez. It’s like you haven’t seen one episode of my reality show with Kevin Federline.”
Lindsay took charge of ensuring I had appropriate, seductive – yet tasteful profile pictures. And because she loves me like her lucky cocaine razor blade, she took no chances and called in the big guns. And by big guns, of course I mean Blake Lively. Given her recent mass distribution of a collection of self portraits of a whorey nature – she is somewhat of an authority on iPhone self-portrait noir.
While Lindsey snapped the photos, Blake staged and posed me. Personally, I didn’t think leaning over a bathroom sink in a towel and black lace bra was the most fetching way to showcase my best assets – but considering I was the only one in the room whose personal life didn’t have an impressive amount of real estate on TMZ’s website, I wasn’t in a position to argue with their expertise.
I still don’t know how I feel about this online dating thing. I haven’t met anyone yet – but I have gotten one email from a gentleman who sounds nice enough. But I don’t really have a good sense of what he looks like – because he appears to be really quite shy. Unless you count the photos he’s sent of his nether regions – which, frankly, he seemed all too eager to send quickly in the first place, he really has not been very forthcoming. We’re making progress though. He’s at least gone above the waist to send me this:
I dunno. He seems a bit boney to me. And it seems sort of strange to me that he keeps wanting to put me in touch with his PR team for coaching on what to say if asked how we met. It’s been a while since I’ve dated – so maybe that’s just protocol now, I don’t know. But I get the feeling he might be married.
I have to dive head first back into the dating pool without my floaties – so I will give him the benefit of the doubt if for no other reason but because he seems to be quite the social media maven – and I really need to learn more about this Tweeter thing everyone keeps going on about. Who knows. He may just turn out to be an honest, stand-up guy.
It’s all so exhausting. I miss the days when one could fall in love the old fashioned way – through a glory hole in a Minnesota airport bathroom.
Love ya like cyber-sex with Shoog,
Betty White has a rather unhealthy obsession with collecting comic books – in case you weren’t aware. More specifically, an obscure genre of comic books about gay bears that fight crime using bedazzled broomsticks and have an endearing affection for kittens. I know. It doesn’t make sense to me either. So she dragged me out to San Diego to the Comicon convention – the world’s largest comic book/sci-fi/action adventure/koo-koo-for-cocoa-puffs convention of it’s kind.
It’s basically a giant costume ball orgy for geeks and dorks. And I mean that in a loving, nurturing kind of way. After a couple of days there, I concluded that Comicon is a lot like the Renaissance Fair. An excuse for nerds with bad hygiene to get dress up in ridiculous outfits and act out strange fetishes in public without risk of being arrested or getting a wedgy from the high school quarterback.
As it happens, these crime fighting gay bear comic books aren’t exactly easy to find – so we spent the better part of the first day on a gay bear scavenger hunt …going through bins of dusty comic books and pushing aside the occasional midget in a Wonder Woman costume.
“Now pay attention,” Betty said emphatically, “Take this whistle, and blow it hard if you find anything that looks like a gay bear. I need you to take this very seriously. FIND THE GAY BEARS! Do you copy?”
I nodded my head and feigned my very best impression of a soldier salute.
We probably would have been more productive with our time if I hadn’t kept blowing my whistle and screaming “Where are all the gay bears? Gay bears where are you?” All that did was draw the attention of a few dozen bearded men of large proportion who kept pinching my ass, asking if I’d ever seen Cher in concert, and comparing me to various types of gourmet sausage.
While Betty was furiously rummaging through crates of creepy comics, I decided to take a break and visit a panel discussion. The one I happened into was featuring the new movie “Salt” – so Angelina Jolie was there looking stunning in black leather. Once I saw her, I sort of hunched down in my chair hoping she wouldn’t see me.
I should clarify that I have nothing ill to say about Angelina Jolie. I think she’s a lovely person, perfectly adequate actress, and can take an acceptable photograph. But for reasons I’m still not completely clear on, she cannot stand the site of me – and has on more than one occasion called the authorities to have me forcibly removed from the premises. I may have attended one of her movie premiers wearing a sandwich board sign with a photo of Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston on one side, and the word “Home-wrecker” on the other. But that doesn’t seem like reasonable cause to dislike someone, does it? I know. I don’t get it either. But the bitch doesn’t like me, and there’s not much I can do about it.
She spoke thoughtfully of her character in the movie, Salt – and how she could identify with the fact that the character is “a little off.”
“There’s a real duplicity to her personality,” she said. “There’s a part of her that’s not necessarily a good guy, and because of certain things that happened to her, she’s a bit damaged. She’s not just heroic. She’s not even. She’s not just brave. There’s something a little off about her, and maybe there’s something off about me.”
She then went on to explain that she did all the stunts for the movie and even sustained an injury that left a scar on her face.
Whatever. That, dear friends, was a lie. She most certainly did not get that scar from doing a stunt. Not that I’m surprised. She’s always inventing little stories that paint her conveniently in a brighter, more heroic light. It seems to make riding the train in that koo-koo-ka-choo head of hers a more pleasant journey. Like the time she claimed I released live rats into the overhead compartment of her private jet. I would never do such a thing – and I find it offensive that she would think it appropriate to make up such heinous lies about me. They were not rats. They were mice. Very cute mice, might I add.
Because I’m a gentleman, I’m not going divulge the truth about how she really got that scar. Lets just say an innocent round of Rock-Paper-Scissors may have gotten a little out of hand. How was I supposed to know you’re not supposed to use real scissors?
I spent the rest of the afternoon roaming around the convention center looking for Betty. Eventually I found her standing in line to get an autograph from the woman who played the Admiral on Star Trek Next Generation – Natalija Nogulich…who is really quite stunning in person. Betty wanted Natalija to autograph her left breast – and when Natalija refused, Betty put her in a headlock until she agreed. It was an embarrassing spectacle…but it seemed to take Betty’s mind off of the fact that she still hadn’t found the gay bear comic books.
We never did find them – and Betty has been despondent ever since. So if you happen to know where I can find one in good condition, please email me. I’ll pay up to $4 for it. $5 if it isn’t stained with unidentified bodily fluids.
Love ya like filling Angie Jolie’s gas tank with salt ,
Link to Angelina Jolie at Comicon: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2010/07/23/angelina-jolie-my-face-wa_n_657515.html
Ever since Naomi Campbell appeared on Oprah to discuss her issues with anger management, she hasn’t been any fun at all. She hasn’t beat up one single servant in weeks – and quite frankly, I’m beginning to get concerned. And now, I find out she’s found Kabbalah. According to Page Six in the New York Post, She’s been meeting in secret with Madonna’s mentor, Eitan Yardeni.
Since when does she believe in the principles of Kabbalah anyway? Two years ago, she was bashing it in the media by saying, “I knew about kabbalah before Madonna got involved. Kabbalah is not a religion, it’s a program. I don’t like to get hooked on things like that. It reminds me of AA, but just with different words. They’ve got the same principles . . . I just believe in God. I am religious. I pray most days and do my thing. But each to their own.”
Now she’s drinking the Kabbalah Koolaid and getting all Zohar on our asses.
Where does that leave me? Does this mean we won’t spend anymore Friday evenings hiding behind trash cans outside Kohls and attacking poorly dressed patrons as they come out? Seeing her lose her temper and fly into a rage is what endears me to her most, and if she ends up finding peace through spirituality, I’m afraid we’ll drift apart and have nothing in common anymore. I was distraught with worry.
And Lindsay Lohan dropping buy to ask a favor was not helping matters.
“No, I’m not paying for your trip to Cannes,” I said flatly.
Desperate to go to the film festival this year to wrangle money for her recently green-lighted Linda Lovelace biopic “Inferno,” she’s been trying to swing a free trip for a while now, but no one seems willing to pay for it. I guess people are worried she’ll use the money on illegal cow tranquilizers instead of plane fare (again). So here she is in my living room, turning on the water works trying to guilt me into footing the bill while sneaking Tic-Tacs from my candy dish into her purse.
“You can just forget about it, young lady,” I continued, “And honey, those aren’t pills. They’re breath mints.”
She frowned and emptied out the stash she’d stuffed in her purse onto my floor and stormed out. Kids.
I could feel my tension mounting…and I needed to do something to blow off some steam. Since Naomi is too busy meditating in a hot room with incense, I had to find something to relax on my own. So I spent the afternoon applying peroxide to all of Elton John’s hair pieces. That did seem to relax me a little.
Love ya like the good ol’ days terrorizing unattractive people with Naomi Campbell,
Link to Lindsay Lohan Story: http://www.nypost.com/p/pagesix/no_free_ride_C4CqCwpRTHSjwrVPcBWslO
Link to Naomi Campbell Story: http://www.nypost.com/p/pagesix/naomi_has_fresh_eye_on_kabbalah_4HQ2LWLYgD8T45wZENHYoK
Mia Farrow is a no-good trouble-maker … and she is always sticking her busy-body nose in where it doesn’t belong. She’s a horrible gossip – and she gets dirt across the network faster than 3G. Secretly, I LOVE that about her – which is why we’re such dear friends. But since it was Naomi Campbell that was drowning her sorrows in a martini in my living room, I had to take the side of the person closest to me who also happens to have a swift left hook and can plunge a stiletto in your eye in one breathe if you don’t support her anger. And right now, Mia is NOT Naomi’s favorite person.
Mia had to open her big mouth and tell ABC News that former President of Liberia, Charles Taylor gave Naomi a “blood diamond.” A blood diamond refers to diamonds mined to finance weapons used for war. Taylor is currently on trial for 11 counts of war crimes and crimes against humanity – so now this little tidbit of gift giving will likely land Naomi on the courtroom stand….and there is nothing Naomi hates more than being put in the challenging position of being cross examined in a room where she can’t hit anyone without risk of being tackled by the bailiff.
As it is, she’s already having a hard time controlling that temper of hers. She beat the hell out of a camera during an interview when someone asked her about the damn diamond.
“Personally, I don’t see what the big deal is,” I said to Naomi, refilling her glass, “Jewelry is jewelry as far as I’m concerned. What difference does it make that it was used to finance atrocities of war? It was a gift, for goodness sake. When someone gives me a gift, I don’t ask if it was mined for the purpose of killing people. That would be tacky! I accept the gift in the spirit in which it’s given – and then I have it appraised and auctioned at first availability, like a good Christian.”
At this point, Naomi was using my sofa pillow as a drum and was pounding on it until feathers started to fly about the room. Naomi hates a mess – so she lost her temper and started running around the house trying to find a housekeeper to punch.
I always enjoy seeing Naomi in a rage. There is something about it that relaxes me. So to egg her on, I said, “And what kind of friend is Mia to go around snitching to the media like that? Who does she think she is? Tacky. It’s just tacky. Stupid bitch. I hope you didn’t tell her about the Beanie Baby’s Osama Bin Laden gave you at Valentines Day. Those are collector’s items – so I’m sure the bitch would spill it to the Enquirer as soon as look at you.”
Naomi eventually tired herself out chasing my Gardener around the yard. He’s a fast little bugger, so she never did catch up to him. Finally I found her sleeping on the lawn, sucking her thumb. She looked so peaceful. Like an angel. An angel with a rap sheet the size of the Declaration of Independence…but an angel, nonetheless.
And Mia – keep your damn mouth shut you dumb bitch. You’re an awful, hateful shrew – and you should be ashamed. I love you, darling. Call me.
Love ya singing “Diamonds are a Girl’s Best Friend” at a cocktail party in Liberia,
Link to story: http://abcnews.go.com/Blotter/naomi-campbells-blood-diamond/story?id=9561083
My phone has been ringing off the hook today – which, to be honest, was a little inconvenient….and sort of annoying. Wednesday is the day I take voice lessons with Adam Lambert….and every time the phone rings, it really throws him off when he’s hitting those high notes. I can’t tell you who our voice teacher is – because I promised I wouldn’t…she’s very shy. But if I could tell you, I would tell you it’s Paula Abdul. But I can’t tell you – so please don’t ask.
Anyway, our voice teacher – lets call her Baula – was taking us through a very difficult voice exercise that involves trying to hold a very low baritone while swallowing a Percocet. It’s very challenging – but when done properly, really strengthens the vocal cords and leaves you feeling quite relaxed. Adam had reached his low tone and held it for a good 20 seconds before swallowing the pill – but as he was getting ready to gulp, my phone rang. My Susan Boyle ring tone startled the hell out of him – and he choked. Baula had to give him the Heimlich maneuver – which was tricky because she had to stand on a bar stool in order to do it. I would have done it, but I had to answer my phone.
It was Regis Philbin. He was PISSED. Kelly Ripa had shocked him on the air by premiering a new tattoo of her husband’s last name – placed on her wrist.
“You need to talk to Kelly! Someone needs to talk some sense into that girl!” he belted into the phone, “She got a tattoo, of all things, on her wrist! Who does she think she is? P!nk? Kat Von D? It’s madness!”
“You need to calm yourself, Reeg.” I began, “First of all, even if I wanted to school her on the downside of body art, she wouldn’t listen to me anyway. For years I’ve tried to convince her to lay off the air-brush tanning. Has she listened? No. She’s gone from a healthy bronze to an anorexic umpa lumpa – and quite frankly, her incessant rebellion against my counsel has taught me to just keep my mouth shut. If she wants to ink herself silly, so be it. I really could care less. I have to go Love, I’m in the middle of my voice lesson with Adam Lambert and Baula Rabdul. Give my love to Joy. You’re a peach. Kisses.”
So, back to the voice lesson. Baula wasn’t pleased with my baritone Percocet exercise (apparently it was “pitchy” in spots) – so for my benefit, she demonstrated the proper technique three times in a row – and before we knew it, she was laying across the top of the piano snoring. While Adam covered her with a blanket and turned her to the side so she wouldn’t swallow her tongue (again), my phone rang for the second time.
It was Victoria Beckham. Based on the tone in her voice, I could tell she was staring at herself in the mirror as she spoke, “Dahling, I’m bloody despondent and I need to talk someone. I’m a wretched mess.”
She explained that her arch nemesis, Joan Rivers was saying terrible things about her in an interview with Closer magazine. Joan’s quote:
”Victoria Beckham is so nasty. Why don’t she just go home?! Her dresses are beautiful, but I don’t care what she does. She’s mean to all the people around her. She’s too short to be a diva. We all use the same hair-dresssers, makeup artists, limo-drivers and greeters at the airports in LA and nobody has anything nice to say about her. They say she’s rude. She can’t be having a bad day everyday. Victoria Beckham should get a life. I am not a fan of outrageous consumption. I think it is vulgar.”
“Two things,” I said flatly, “You’re far too sensitive, Love Biscuit. Celebrities say hateful things about other celebrities in the media whenever they have nothing very interesting going on in their lives and need to keep the spotlight shining on them. It’s all for the sake of PR. Get a grip, V. Far more relevant stars hate your guts…you shouldn’t get your thong in a bunch over lil ol’ Joan. And PS, has anyone even ever heard of Closer magazine? I have to go…Adam Lambert is starting to use my printer cartridge for eyeliner. Give my love to Davey and the kids. Kisses.”
Talk about a wasted afternoon. We didn’t even get to my favorite voice exercise where we test our vocal range while doing tequila shots and whistling.
Love ya like hitting a high note on Ativan,
I should disclaim to you that I’m shit-faced drunk right now – having just hosted a lovely dinner party with my two very best friends in the whole wide world – Betty White and Anna Wintour. So I really cannot be held responsible for the things said from this moment on. Seriously, I’m wasted.
I’m drunk for a few reasons:
1) Betty loves to play drinking games, and I suck at drinking games…so I always end up blitzed, wearing wigs I stole from Fay Dunaway, and drunk dialing Victoria Beckham.
2) Anna just found out she’s being honored by the Magazine Editor’s Hall of Fame at it’s annual gala in April…so she’s acting all, “I’m too sexy for this magazine” now – and all I wanted to do the entire evening was bitch-slap her ego with a rolled up latest issue of British Vogue. Translation: I’m fucking jealous.
3) Betty won’t shut up about this Facebook campaign for her to host Saturday Night Live that is sweeping the globe. She spent most of dinner tweeting on her Iphone and bragging about her knowledge of social media by using terms like “Farmville” or “status update”. If she wasn’t campaigning for more chickens and cows for her virtual farm, she was yelling at her agent on the phone to demand more money from Playboy to pose nude for their annual “GILF” issue. She’s more famous now than she was in the 80′s – and frankly, it’s just going to her head. Translation: I’m fucking jealous.
My two best friends are wildly successful and getting oodles of attention from around the world – and what do I have? Nothing. That’s what. Nothing. I just felt so small sitting at the dinner table as they both gushed about how well their careers were going.
“I’ll tell you one thing,” Betty said, taking a swig of her margarita, “If I do SNL, they better not book that bitch Beyonce as the musical guest. I’d rather die than share a stage with that over-exposed witch with a weave!”
Betty insists that Beyonce stole the role of Foxy Cleopatra in the Austin Powers: Goldmember movie right out from underneath her. She’s had it out for her ever since.
“When I was told about my Hall of Fame honor,” Anna began, “I was so excited, I couldn’t sleep for two days. Finally, I had my assistant tie Kate Moss to a chair and force feed her complex carbohydrates while I watched and laughed. It relaxed me.”
I had nothing impressive to contribute to the conversation.
“Johnny Weir added me as a friend on Facebook,” I chimed in, trying to feel important. As the words came out of my mouth, I realized how pathetic I was compared to these power bitches. So I drank. And drank some more.
And PS, I never should have accepted Johnny Weir’s friend request. He keeps posting hateful things on my wall ever since I sent him six goats for his farm. They apparently ate a bunch of his outlandish leotards and tried to mate with his Olympic fox fur costume. I guess I misunderstood that whole Farmville game.
You can imagine my embarrassment when I accidentally had a housekeeper knocked off when James Gandolfini sent me a request for Mafia Wars.
Love ya like singing “Wannabe” into the phone as Victoria screams at me from the other end,
Robert Pattinson spent the weekend passed out in my guest room after a harrowing work week. The poor dear has been burning the candle at both ends ever since those little vampire movies came out – but his Details magazine photo shoot where he posed with a naked woman nearly drove him to a nervous breakdown.
“I really hate vaginas,” he says in his Details interview (on newsstands February 23).
(Meanwhile, somewhere out there, Senator Larry Craig is reading this in an airport bathroom and thinking, “Preach!”)
“I’m allergic to vaginas,” he continues in the interview. “But I can’t say I had no idea, because it was a 12-hour shoot, so kind of get the picture that these women are going to stay naked after, like, five or six hours… Thank God I was hungover.”
Everyone thinks being an actor is nothing but A-List parties, sleeping til noon, memorizing a couple of lines than then snorting a few. But let me tell you, it’s very hard work. And poor little Bobby Pattinson having to endure the sight of girly bits during a 12 hour photo shoot is the dark side of Hollywood that I do my best to shield you from – but friends, that’s the harsh reality of this business we call “Show”.
Bobby has been asleep for three straight days – the poor dear. I’m not sure if it is the stress of his nonstop promotional tour for the Twilight series, his horrific allergic reaction to the va-jay-jay, or the six Ambien I gave him with dinner. Eminem always served them between soup and the main course – and while I might not agree with all of his rap lyrics, the man knows his dinner party protocol – so I happily stole the idea.
While he slept, I took it upon myself to do some research. In this business, it’s silly to think he wouldn’t find himself in another situation where he’s being filmed and exposed to female anatomy at the same time. How embarrassing would it be to break out in hives and start itching like crazy while trying to film a love scene with Queen Latifah? It could happen…and if it did, I wanted him to be prepared.
As it turns out though, there doesn’t seem to be a medication available over the counter (or prescription for that matter) for an allergy to vagina. Who knew? I must have read 20 or 30 drug labels from Benedryl to Zyrtec – but none of them seemed to have any indications for exposure to vagina. I was baffled.
So I called my dear friend Clay Aiken for some homeopathic advice. He’s sort of a self-professed guru on natural cold remedies and homemade personal lubricants. I figured he’d have some insight.
“Darling – what do you recommend for an allergy to the whoo-ha?” I asked.
“Sex with men.” he said flatly.
So when Bobby wakes up, I’m going to suggest this to him and recommend one of Clay’s homemade personal lubricants.
Love ya like twice daily treatment for vagina allergies,
Link to US Weekly story: http://www.usmagazine.com/moviestvmusic/news/pic-robert-pattinson-poses-with-a-naked-woman-2010132
You may have heard, but Giselle Bundchen gave birth to a happy, healthy baby boy with her husband Tom Brady. She fancies herself somewhat of an environmental earth mother, and is going around saying “I had a water birth.” In fact, that’s the headline in People magazine.
Technically, it’s true. She did have her baby in the bathtub in their penthouse in Beacon Hill. But she’s making it sound like she is this holistic, tree-hugging, granola type – and frankly, it just isn’t true. Popping the kid out in the bathtub was not exactly planned, if you want the truth – it came as a total shock to all of us, and sort of ruined the theme of a perfectly lovely dinner party.
A bunch of us get together for regular dinner gatherings – and we rotate between each other’s homes. This particular evening, it was Giselle’s turn – and the theme was Indian.
When I got there, America Ferrera and Rihanna were dicing onions while Arianna Huffington and Who’s The Boss’s Danny Pintauro were playing Madd Libs. Giselle was stirring something in a pot that looked like something you’d find in a porta-potty. It smelled delicious though – so I didn’t ask questions. She kept adding more and more curry.
“Make it more spicy!” cried Faith Hill, who was bouncing on a hippity-hop in the family room.
I was in charge of dessert, so I brought a simple, but traditional Indian dish – Gajar Ka Halwa. It was nothing really. It was a family recipe handed down from my great grandmother…who wasn’t really Indian, but once had a one night stand with one – and therefore believed herself to be an authority.
When we finally sat down to dinner, Danny Pintauro was already pretty drunk. Not that it was anything new. Love me some Danny Pintauro – but the boy is one bottle of Grey Goose away from being on a liver transplant waiting list. He was slurring, and weaving…swaying and drooling. Arianna was being her typical enabling self by holding him upright and feeding him Pedialight through a sippy cup.
Faith was arguing with Rihanna about how many syllables were in the word “umbrella” – and Giselle, America and I were having a lively debate about the color puce. I was insistent that it was a dark red. America was convinced it was grayish purple. Giselle was adamant that it was another word for vagina.
All of the sudden, Giselle turned an unflattering shade of grey and excused herself to the restroom. She was gone for quite some time, and I began to get worried – so I went to check on her. I went up stairs to her room and found her hunched over the bathtub making the most obscene noises.
“Darling, are you ok?” I asked.
“I have the gas,” she groaned. “Spicy curry. Bad. My puce hurts.”
I won’t disclose what happened from that point. Not because it’s private – but because it’s graphic, and to be candid - just plain gross. Before I knew it, I was filling the tub with warm water and screaming for Faith to bring me a pair of thongs.
This isn’t the story that Giselle is telling the media. She’s acting as though she is all about the natural birth – and I, for one, know that’s total bullshit. This is the same woman who asked for an epidural when she was constipated before a Victoria’s Secret runway show. I’m just saying.
Love ya like the miracle of life in bath salts,
Link to New Story: http://www.people.com/people/article/0,,20339949,00.html
Ok, it’s my fault. The poor thing went a little too far this time – and I kinda think it might be because of conversation we had one evening over cocktails.
It was a few months ago now. I was driving through The Hills on my way to Laguna Beach, having just passed through The Jersey Shore…and found myself hopelessly lost. I kept driving by the same mansions over and over again. I thought I’d never get out. Well, I didn’t want to be “that guy” who never asks for directions – so finally I stopped at a modest home that appeared to look along the lines of something Frank Lloyd Wright would have designed if he was gifting it to a cousin with bad taste. I wrapped on the door and hoped it would be answered by Zac Efron in a bath towel. No such luck.
It was Heidi Montag. Luckily I didn’t catch her doing anything important. She was just sitting in the kitchen texting and plotting how to get pregnant without Spencer knowing about it. I introduced myself and explained my situation – that I was hopelessly lost and was trying to find my way to Laguna Beach – or at the very least, The Real World D.C. I complimented her lip gloss – so she invited me in for some caffeine free herbal tea and a Red Bull.
Pretty soon, we were gabbing like two teenage girls at summer camp for the knocked up. Tea and Red Bull turned into martinis. Before I knew it, homegirl was taking off her top and asking me to feel her boobs and “be honest, do they feel real or not?” To my surprise, they did feel quite life like. Like water balloons really. If I had been on the second story of a building, I would have dropped one on someones head below.
I was going through her closet looking for any pair of skinny jeans that might fit me for a little cocktail party I was invited to…and she confided that she had been thinking about getting a little nip-tuck here and there – and stupid me had to go and egg her on.
She was all, “I don’t really like my nose. It still feels too big.”
So I was all, “Totally. It’s like you should be helping the police sniff out cocaine on drug busts or something.”
And then she was like, “And my cheekbones aren’t high enough.”
So I was like, “Well, you could always take some bone from that gigantic chin of yours and have it implanted into your cheeks, honey. It would make you look less like a gorilla.”
It went on from there. You get the idea. Before I know it, she’s on the cover of People magazine talking about her addiction to plastic surgery. Well I just feel terrible. I was TOTALLY joking that night. I thought she looked terrific the way she was! Now, because of my attempt at playful silliness, the poor dear looks like a Barbie live-action movie.
I should send a fruit basket or something.
Heidi, honey, if you’re listening – here is my advice: enough with the nips, snips, and plumps – mmmkay? Like the application of make up or trading sex for jewelry, a little goes a long way….and too much just ends up making you a hooker.
Love ya like Restylane fillers at lunch,