Call Me

So its official, I put the squash on my Jem cover band, Tori Amos kept talking to imaginary creatures on her keyboard, refusing to practice around them, and I'll be damned if Bjork's Misfits cover band didn't work the the shit out of the music tent and the Tri-State Fair grounds last month. It was too be expected, as Bjork and Beer Battered food just compliment each other so easily. Like Chocolate and Peanut Butter.

I entertained the prospect of a Carrie Nations revival, but it looks like original "Z-man" Phil Spector is going to be busy producing Paris Hiltons come back album. I hear the early title is "The Parisskank Redemption." So I'm done with singing, aside from my intimate solo work at The Broadway, but that's really just for the true fans. I like to give back to them.

So with my band officially dissolved, I was directionless. I didn't know where to go, or what to do. I was just left standing, alone in a world that's so cold. Well it wasn't that cold, but it has been a little overcast in the mornings, but I'm usually in bed sleeping it off, so that's not really standing, let alone in a world that so cold. With nothing better to do, I went into the local T-Mobile Shoppe to pay my bill, when inspiration struck me. Technically it was a Sony Erickson, and it hit me square in the noggin. I turned to see Naomi Campbell standing next to the display. The glass had been smashed and she was frothing at the mouth. Apparently her primal instinct had kicked in and she was chucking phones like ninja stars.

I dove behind the counter and tried to confront the scared store clerks as they cowered in terror. I assured them that she would run out of phones in a minute, and simply move on, that was her nature. To my horror, they informed me that they had just received a delivery and that Naomi could have enough ammo to last almost an hour. Clearly this would not do, as I had a lunch date with Jake Gyllenhaal.

I had to take action, as Frau is never that late to a lunch date. Its one of my mottos, never be that late to a lunch date. Of course you want to be a little late, you know, keep'em waiting and all. But not too late, because you never know when Kirstin Dunst is going to be lurking behind the decorative plants, waiting for the right moment to swoop in and declare the territory as her own. The bitch. And nobody wants Kirstin's sloppy seconds. I leapt from behind the counter and flew across the store, all Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon style and kicked Naomi in the head. She went down like Kate Moss on a cocaine covered Pete Doherty.

The store clerks all carried me on their shoulders and declared me their savior, just as Catherine Zeta-Jones walked in and awarded me with the key to Wales. And that was when I decided my true calling was to become a vigilante. Well, for a couple of hours at least, until I found out that I couldn't find an invisible jet. Totally Lame. So I threw out my Feminum bracelets, and the magic lasso I had weaved with the hair I pulled out of Criss Angel's hair brush.

What's the point, really, if you don't have an invisible jet to travel in?