“It really isn’t that embarrassing, Harry,” I lied, caressing his arm thoughtfully to sooth his bruised ego.
Then I slapped him across the face.
“Wake up honey!” I shouted. The slap startled Harry Belafonte from the slumber he slipped into while I was talking. “As I was saying, it really isn’t that embarrassing. You know the media has the attention span of a geriatric blow fish. One minute they’re making your accidental on-camera nap a YouTube sensation, the next the masses are on to the latest idiotic drama being played out on Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.”
Now I was squirting him with a water bottle to keep his attention. “Trust me, it will be forgotten about in a couple of days.”
I turned my attention to a crackling coming from the dining room floor. I looked down to find Buttercup perusing the latest headlines in one of my news periodicals.
You may not know this, but Buttercup is committed to staying abreast of current events. Politics. International economics. Foreign policy. You name it, he’s digesting it. Figuratively and literally – since he usually ends up eating whatever he reads. He was making his way through People magazine when he came across an image of Katy Perry performing while on tour in the UK.
The site of Katy set him into a rage and he began furiously ripping the magazine to shreds.
I should point out that for reasons I’m unable to disclose pending police investigation, Buttercup is NOT a Katy Perry fan. So whenever he sees a picture of her, he flies into a violent tirade that inevitably results in my having to replace furniture or feigning shock and disbelief when a neighborhood pet or toddler goes mysteriously missing.
Ordinarily I’d scold Buttercup for such an inappropriate outburst and take away his internet porn privileges – but in this case, I couldn’t really blame him for being upset by this particular image of Katy. Say what you will about my dear Buttercup – but this is one crazy nastyass honey badger who knows a fashion offense when he sees one.
Unless her intention was to apply for a entry level job on the Everlasting Gobstopper assembly line in Willy Wonka’s factory, I have to concur with Buttercup that she would have been better off wearing the plastic bag she sings about drifting through the wind, wanting to start again.
Start again, Katy. Start. Again.
I turned back to Harry, who was now propped up against the refrigerator snoring. I threw a pepper grinder at his head, and it knocked him over. The fall woke him abruptly – so now that I had his attention again, I continued, “And anyway, your little nap via satellite isn’t nearly as damaging as the press my poor dear Lindsay Lohan is getting about her questionable oral hygiene.”
Harry’s eyes started to get heavy again and he lay his head on the pepper grinder as if it were a pillow while my lecture continued, “Just think about that for a moment, Harry. The next time you start to feel sorry for yourself, think about all those nasty things people are saying about my little darling’s meth mouth just because her teeth are starting look like Indian corn.”
I didn’t have time for this nonsense. I should be spending every waking moment planning strategy for the upcoming election. In case you’re living under a rock with no internet connection, I should fill you in on Betty White’s latest pet project in her pursuit to be the most popular girl on earth. She’s decided Hollywood isn’t big enough anymore to sustain her thirst for the chewy center of attention – so she’s announced on Craig Ferguson’s Late Late Show her plans to run for the Presidency.
You should know it was not my idea to be Betty’s campaign manager. I wanted no part of this hot mess. But she is my best friend – so when she asked me, I was compelled to oblige without argument. Besides, she’s been my alibi more times than I can count whenever I’ve landed in sticky situations that required tampering with DNA evidence or disposing of a mouthy “loose end.” Therefore, I wasn’t exactly in a position to decline.
So I really don’t have time for the petty dramas of my embarrassing friends right now. I need to focus if I am going to orchestrate a flawless tour of kissing hands and shaking babies on the presidential trail (Wait. Scratch that. Reverse it.). Managing crisis PR would be a full time job as it is in the face of the political mud-slinging that was sure to ensue the moment Betty’s opponents start digging into her questionable past.
I slid the snoring Harry Belafonte into one corner of the kitchen, put a blanket over him, and kissed him on the forehead. Then I wrapped his foot in gauze and slapped Buttercup on the nose for not minding me when I told him NOT to gnaw on Harry’s toes.
“Bad Buttercup!” I said in a hush whisper as not to wake the dozing Harry. I didn’t want to be in the room when he discovered this little piggy went home. And by home, of course I mean it ended up in Buttercup’s belly.
He’s gonna be pissed.
I spent the rest of the afternoon mapping out the campaign trail. I’m still undecided between having a kick off event at Dunkin Donuts or at a bath house. After all, it’s important to go where the voters are….and getting the police on Betty’s bandwagon wouldn’t be hard. After so many indecent exposure and solicitation arrests, they’ve all gotten to know her pretty well already. And there’s no better time to influence the gays than when they’re in the middle of getting a handy-j in the steam room.
It was a toss up. I decided to give it some more thought while enjoying donut holes during a refreshing eucalyptus steam at the spa.
Love ya like blanketing the campaign trail with “White Power” posters,
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,
“Sarah, you need to calm yourself down, Love-Biscuit. We both know that it’s impossible to extinguish the burning brush of young love. If Levi and Bristol are determined to make a go of their relationship, no amount of campaigning to the contrary will make a difference,” I said to Sarah Palin on speaker phone while I cracked eggs into my cake batter.
I was baking a cake for Lindsay Lohan. She really loves my Red Velvet Surprise – the surprise being a delicious center filling of Ghiradelli’s chocolate and Adderall. She requested it to sooth her nerves on the eve of her 90-day jail term that began today. She’s like a daughter to me, that one. So I was more than happy to appeal to her sweet tooth during these dark times. And by sweet tooth, of course I mean drug habit.
Poor dear Sarah was riled up after hearing the news that her daughter had reconnected with her baby daddy – and the two were planning to marry. They are also shopping around for a reality series to document their newlywed antics. It isn’t as though either one of them are qualified for much else these days – and the bills must be paid if they ever hope to build a college fund for little baby Tripp. And by college fund, of course I mean rehab.
“I really think you’re underestimating the power of their bond,” I continued, mixing in sifted cocoa, “Show me one reality show couple who hasn’t represented all that is good and pure about love and marriage. Ozzie and Sharon Osbourne. Nick Lachey and Jessica Simpson. Vienna Girardi and Jake Pavelka. All shining examples of true love that serve as beacons to us all for what everlasting romance should look like over 18 episodes.”
At that point, Sarah put me on hold so she could shoot the beaver she’d been hunting in the woods all morning. I used it as an opportunity to click back to my phone sex date with Mel Gibson. When I clicked over, he was still screaming.
“Uh huh, yeah baby,” I breathed in monotone, “Yes, of course you deserve to be blown. Yes. Yes. I am a gold-digging whore. Yes. Hey honey, can you hang on a sec – I need to reattach my nipple clamps…they’ve come loose. Oh I’m such a bad boy!”
Our phone sex trysts have been getting rather intense of late. There is just something INSANE about his delivery these days that makes going to confession at the Catholic church more graphically descriptive – and my priest seems to really enjoy that.
I clicked back over to Sarah only to hear her giggling with loud gunshots in the background. My baking assistant, Betty White decided to help by adding two cups of rum to the cake batter.
“For the last time, Betty – this is NOT a rum cake!” I snapped, slapping her hand with my mixing spoon. “You never mix uppers with downers! That is the first thing they teach you in culinary pharmacy school! This cake has to be perfect for my baby-girl Lilo. Now hand me a pack of those Marlboro Reds. I’ll bake those in too so my little pumpkin has something to exchange for pills and lesbian sex.”
Over martinis and a joint, Betty and I spent the remainder of the afternoon icing the cake with my special cream cheese hydracodone frosting. Betty is really quite good at cake decorating, if you didn’t know. It’s fascinating to watch as she forms perfect borders of ribbons and pills – finishing it off with an even sprinkling of powdered sugar. At least I think it’s powdered sugar.
Unfortunately, the joint gave us both the munchies by the early evening – and we ended up eating the cake meant for dear Lilo. It’s just as well. It’s a smoke free jail anyway.
Love ya like prescription strength cake,
Link to Bristol/Levi Story: http://tvwatch.people.com/2010/07/20/bristol-palin-levi-johnston-reality-show-deal/
Link to Lindsay Lohan Jail Story: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2010/07/20/lindsay-lohan-surrenders-_n_652638.html
Link to Mel Gibson scandal: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2010/07/20/mel-gibsons-alleged-tripl_n_652352.html
“No Love, you cannot hide out in my basement,” I said to Lindsay Lohan in a text message, “I learned my lesson about harboring fugitives the last time I hid Gary Coleman under my sink after he hit someone with his truck in a bowling alley parking lot. xoxo”
She replied with a sad face.
A warrant for her arrest was issued when she failed to show up for her court appointment where she was to give a progress report on her probation. She claims her passport was “stolen” at the Cannes Film Festival in France and couldn’t make it back into the country in time. She didn’t seem to worried about being robbed as she partied on a yacht in the French Rivera though – which is why I had to put my foot down and refuse to harbor her fugitive arse to hide from the po-po. I had to teach the girl a lesson about responsibility. That, and I was pissed I wasn’t invited to the party on the yacht. Bitch.
I don’t have time for this nonsense right now. I’ve already spent most of the day repainting my music room after I came home last night from strip bingo with Elizabeth Taylor and Betty White to find someone had painted it in a giant mural of bananas and cherries. It looked like a Starburst candy commercial from the 90′s exploded all over my walls.
“I’ve gotta hand it to Elton,” Betty laughed as she observed the room, “Of all of his practical jokes of endearment, this is one of my favorites.”
Though annoyed, I wasn’t upset with Elton John for turning my room into a gigantic pack of Skittles. The poor dear did need to blow off some steam after finding out religious conservatives are trying to ban him from Morocco’s Mawazine World Rhythms festival in the capital Rabat….so I decided to overlook the inconvenience of moving all my furniture and repainting.
“Honey, lift with your knees,” I said to Liz as she hauled bongo drums out of the room, “The last thing I need is to have you throw your back out before you’ve had a chance to move the piano.”
Anyway, the festival Elton is scheduled to perform at is backed by Morocco’s King Mohammed – and brings together musicians from 50 countries. It has drawn criticism from Islamists who say such events encourage promiscuity and alcohol consumption, corrupting Islamic values.
“We asked the government to exclude this person from the list of artists invited to this festival. This man — sorry, I should say this person, not this man — is known for bragging about his homosexuality,” said Mustapha Ramid, a leading parliamentarian from the opposition Islamist PJD party.
Ramid went on to say, “Morocco is an Islamic state where stages should not used to allow a person with such a degree of debauchery to perform because we have to shield the young from such influences.”
The festival director doesn’t seem to give a damn what the religious conservatives are spouting. He’s all,”Elton John is one of the best artists in the world. He is great and extraordinary when he appears on stage. That’s why we invite him and welcome him to the Mawazine festival.”
Poor Elton. I feel for him. I wanted to make him feel better, so while Liz dragged my life-size ceramic cheetahs to the middle of the room so we could paint the wall behind them, I sent him a text to lend my heartfelt support.
“Hey Kitten, it was so thoughtful of you to paint my music room to look like an enormous bowl of Fruity Pebbles.” I texted, “Best of luck performing in Morocco you pudgy shriveled up Piccadilly bitch! May you one day have the thighs of a normal-sized person. Besos! xoxo.”
Later, over cocktails and a Hostess Snowball, Betty informed me that Lindsey’s warrant was recalled a few hours later after her bond was posted. I was relieved. An orange prison jumpsuit would be unflattering to her skin tone and just draw more attention to the bags under her dilated bloodshot eyes.
Love ya like eating Snowballs while Liz Taylor moves my piano,
Link to Lindsay Lohan story: http://omg.yahoo.com/news/warrant-for-lohan-recalled-after-bond-posted/41170?nc
Link to Elton John Story: http://new.music.yahoo.com/elton-john/news/morocco-resists-islamist-calls-to-ban-elton-john–62001779