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,
John Mayer has no verbal filter. That’s what I adore about him. I always know where I stand with him because he just says whatever comes into his mind at that moment – not giving a second thought to how off color it might be. He’s like a 3 year old with a really big vocabulary and a microphone. It’s refreshing, really.
I wasn’t surprised in the least to learn his diarrhea of the mouth was a blaze in the March issue of Playboy magazine – where he dishes on everything from bad haircuts to crazy monkey sex with Jessica Simpson.
He dubs 29-year-old Simpson (whom he dated from 2006 to 2007) “a drug.”
“And drugs aren’t good for you if you do lots of them,” he says, adding, “Yeah, that girl is like crack cocaine to me. Sexually it was crazy. That’s all I’ll say. It was like napalm, sexual napalm. Did you ever say, ‘I want to quit my life and just fucking snort you? If you charged me $10,000 to fuck you, I would start selling all my shit just to keep fucking you.’”
If it shocks you to find out that Jessica is a freaky-deaky trollup in the bedroom capable of incredible feats of whoratrics, don’t be. I never bought that “good dumb girl” bit to begin with. When they first started dating, he brought her over to dinner because he claimed “I really like this one.”
When we first met, I really wasn’t even sure who she was. She flipped her hair more than I cared for and never stopped smacking her gum, but I gave her the benefit of the doubt because it wasn’t often John actually remembered one of his girlfriend’s names, much less be found with one in an upright position – and I wanted to be a supportive friend.
It started out to be a lovely evening. I was still with my ex-boyfriend Kanye West at the time – and he was grilling steaks. My ex-boyfriend Kanye West just LOVED to grill – and he is great at it. So while he and John were out back doing the macho man thing watching meat get charred on the grill, I got to know Jessica a bit in the parlor.
“So what do you do?” I asked, feigning interest and trying to pretend I didn’t notice her slowly humping the arm of the chair.
“I’m a singer and actress.” she said, smacking her gum like a cow chewing cud.
I tried. Lord knows I tried. I tried making conversation with the girl for more than 2o minutes – but she never stopped heaving and grunting. Most people would think that someone screaming ‘YES! YES! OHHH YESSSSSSS! BABY! OHHHH!!!!! YESSSSSS!” while describing something as mundane as my morning hike in Runyon Canyon to be flattering and indicative that she was truly engaged in my line of conversation. But really, I just found it a little too distracting. At first I thought she must really enjoy the sound of my voice -but when she started simulating oral sex on my espresso Pottery Barn candle pillar, I realized she hadn’t been listening to a word I said.
Right around the time she started straddling the Cuisinart in my kitchen, Kanye and John came back in the house wearing proud grins and carrying a plate of charred meat. Not a moment too soon too, because I really wasn’t prepared to see what would happen if Jessica hit the puree button.
It wasn’t until we sat down to dinner that I noticed that John was wearing the strangest outfit. Well, it wasn’t an outfit so much as his accessories. He was wearing a dog collar that appeared to have leash hanging from it. The only reason I noticed it was because Jessica took a hold of the leash and kept yanking it whenever he tried to speak freely.
“She’s a bit controlling, isn’t she?” I whispered to Kanye as I watched John ask permission to take a drink of water.
I thought it was weird that she called him “dirty pig boy”….but I figured, “who am I to judge?” My ex boyfriend Kanye West and I had little pet names for each other. I’d call him “Love Muffin”. He’d call me “Crazy Bitch, I’m not gay so stop breaking into my house!” When you’re in love, you make up funny terms of endearment for one another. To each her own.
It wasn’t until I found John bound and gagged in my bathroom wearing false eyelashes and a Victoria’s Secret “Secret Embrace” push up bra that I realized his relationship with Jessica Simpson might not be the healthiest, most functional choice.
“Oh honey.” I said, looking down at the poor pathetic pop sensation in drag.
“I’m addicted to her, man!” he cried,”‘I’m fucking addicted.”
You know what happened after that. Things eventually crashed and burned. He drowned his sorrows in a million trashy groupies and Jennifer Aniston. It was all very tragic. Like Romeo and Juliet meets Dominatrix without a safe word.
On the upside, Jessica and I are now very close, wonderful friends. She’s adorable – and makes a mean banana strawberry smoothie. The girl really does love hitting that puree button.
Love ya like a Simpson Smoothie,
When I broke up with my boyfriend, Kanye West – again – I knew he was quite angry and heartbroken. He cried. He threw things. He begged. He fired, like, six people (one of whom didn’t even work for him). His theatrics were really rather embarrassing. I even heard he had some sort of weird outburst involving Taylor Swift during the MTV Video Music Awards.
The poor man was distraught – but had no one to blame but himself…cheating on me like that. And with the likes of Connie Chung and Bill O’Reilly? Granted, Bill is a hot piece of ass – so I really couldn’t blame him for that. But Connie? That was just insulting. I don’t care if she can crack walnuts with her woo-ha. Sending my no good, cheating boyfriend Kanye West packing was the best thing I ever did.
But I had no idea he could be so vindictive.
For years now, I’ve been raising chinchillas and white Bengal cats in my backyard. It wasn’t something I really planned on – it just sort of happened. Uma Thurman showed up at my house in the middle of the night (something she does more often that I’d like, frankly). And as usual, she was up to some shady business. She had lipstick on her teeth, yet oddly wasn’t wearing any lipstick – and she was only wearing one shoe. She rushed into my living room and immediately closed all the curtains.
“You gotta keep this for me.” She said, eyes darting around the room, breathless, ”Don’t ask questions – just take care of her, ok?”
She pulled out a plump chinchilla from her Berkin bag and handed her to me. Then she ran out leaving the door open behind her. I wasn’t exactly sure how one should care for a chinchilla – but how hard could it be? She was adorable, and we bonded almost instantly. I named her Florence.
Well, Uma does this shit to me all the time. She abandons this poor defenseless creature without telling me why – and then neglects to tell me that little Florence is knocked up. In a few weeks, I was the proud father of three bastard baby chinchillas. Well, I don’t know if you know this – but chinchillas are a randy bunch. Every time I turned around, they were mating – so before I knew it, I had a little farm.
The Bengal cats came later. I won’t bore you with that story – but suffice it to say, Paris Hilton is indebted to me for life. She should have known that Bengal cats wouldn’t be as easy to train as a chihuahua.
Incidentally, in case you ever find yourself in the same situation – it is NEVER a good idea to put chinchillas and Bengal cats in the same pen together. I’m just saying.
Anyway, I came home the other night to a surprisingly quiet homestead. The Bengal cats (Jennifer, Bernadette and Howard) were gone. Florence and all her bastard children (and all her children’s bastard children) were gone. I sat in front of the mirror and watched myself cry (because I look truly fetching with tears streaming down my cheeks).
Then I saw this picture.
Well listen up ex-boyfriend Kanye West – I am TOTALLY not taking you back this time. We are OVER.
And I want my Josh Grobin CD back.
I had dinner at the McCain’s a few nights ago. Let’s just say it wasssssssss…..awkward.
It had been ages since I’d seen my good friends – so I was excited about our lovely evening of dinner and board games. You may not know this, but John is exceptionally good at Candyland. Cindy was making her world famous turkey chili, and John was [as usual] in charge of dessert – fat free coconut sorbet sprinkled with Lipitor.
Things started out normal enough. It was the usual chit chat. I was catching John up on all the goings on in my life – my on again-off again-on again-off again relationship with Kanye West, the new curl enhancing balm from KMS that has changed my life, my love of Cheetos….you know, stuff you talk about with close friends. Meghan made a batch of her delicious pomegranate mojitos. It was just like old times.
But then….well, it got weird.
We were playing a lively game of Twister…and it was down to me and John. He’s a wiry little spark plug! Who knew he could back bend and drink mojitos at the same time? I was sprawled out like mangled roadkill, and wincing in pain as I was trying to put left foot on yellow – when Cindy dropped the bomb that she (along with Meghan) had posed for the NOH8 Campaign that opposes Proposition 8.
John collapsed right on top of me.
You should know right now that I’m not one to involve myself with politics. The McCains know this about me – and it’s one of the reasons they are so endeared to me. I keep things light. So I was not very comfortable when the feuding couple put me right in the middle and forced me to take sides.
“Ok, look,” I said, “John, I get that you think that a marriage is between a man and a woman. I think it’s cool that you’ve accepted Meghan and her openly lesbian lifestyle – but at some point, you have to realize how contradictory your personal life and political agendas are – and make a decision one way or the other. This isn’t a bisexual swingers club. You can’t have it both ways.”
When I said this, Cindy just smiled triumphantly – as though she had just found a Chanel pants suit on the 70% off rack.
So I looked at her and said, “I don’t know what you’re so smug about Missy. This is an abomination, and goes against everything we Republicans believe in. You just spat in the face of all that we espouse in our politics! We support order among the people. Good Christian values. If the queers are allowed to marry, what will be next? Allowing lesbians to work at UPS? Opening up our hair salon doors to fags? Then what would we have? We’d have haircuts that compliment our bone structure and packages delivered on time. It’s madness, I say. Madness!”
Cindy just sort of looked at me….stunned. Meghan didn’t seem to be paying attention. She was busy on the couch gnawing on her toes. She’s a little strange, that one. John was smiling now.
“This country doesn’t need gay marriage,” I went on to say, “In fact, I was just having this conversation with my boyfriend Kanye West while we were fitting him for a harness the other day. The deviant gay lifestyle will be the downfall of this great nation if we allow our laws to support their perversions. And when I unzipped Kanye’s leather hood so he could speak, he agreed too.”
From there, I hugged it out with Cindy – and told her she looked fierce in the photo. Because, well, she did. After dessert, John and I played our traditional game of strip poker – and then called it a night.
When I got home, I found my boyfriend Kanye West in a compromising position with Bill O’Reilly and Connie Chung. So I had to break up with him. Again.
Love ya like a little T & A with my GOP,