Wednesday, January 18, 2006

Next

Its been tough trying to find the right man, one who can sooth this savage beast. Just follow the path of destroyed men with crumpled egos, and you will find me. I don't know what men find so intimidating about me. Anywho, so a girls got needs, and I figure I can score myself a "sure thing" on the "Love Connection" or something. So I ring up Chuck Woolery too see if I can get on the show. Before I could ask, another call rings in.

"Back in two-and-two," he says, clicking over before I could protest. After five minutes I got tired of waiting. Stupid Chucks got no phone manners. I ring up my hairdresser, Mary, she's famous, trust, and ask her what is a girl to do? She's kinda simple though, god bless'er, and she starts babbling about when she was on the Newlywed game and when asked where was the strangest place she made "whoopee" she wrote "in the butt" on her little answer card. I hung up on her.

So last week I was taping an episode of MTV's Next. There I was, sitting on the bus with four other women. Girls, really, as they're all too giddy and giggle entirely too much. I almost whipped out my blade and cut this chick Robyn when she tried to touch my hair. Anywho. Robyn was up first, and the moment she steps off the bus, these other bitches start talking shit about her. So I tune them out, and start making my grocery list in my head. Then the next thing I knew, when I look over, two of them are totally making out!

"What is this, the bus to the Lilith Faire?!?!" Before I could get more indignant, Robyn comes back in complaining that she got "Nexted" for being a red head. "Its not like the carpet matches the drapes, hon," I say, trying to calm her. She pretends to be appalled, but we all know its true. With a scowl, she tells me that I'm up next. "Watch these girls don't get all Mulholland Drive on you," I warn before exiting.

I alight from the bus with grace, excited to met my next conquest. I guess I must have looked confused, cause this little boy with a flat top waves me over.

"Do you know where my date is?" I inquire.
"Hi, I'm Shelia, I'm your date." She answers.
"What the... ? What are you Lesbaneese or something? Look, I'm flattered, but these scissors don't cut that way." Then I "nexted" myself.

I wrote a letter to the producers telling then that I wanted to date a boy. They apologized for the error and said they would set something up. But until then, it looks like another night with the shower massager.