Well, it’s been four long and scary months since I went into hiding. I couldn’t handle it. Sarah Palin had seemed to be working some sort of witchcraft over the nation, as if she had gotten some witchy blessing through some crazy fundamentalist church, of course that isn’t what happened, I mean come on, some crazy witch blessing, the American people wouldn’t vote into that as much as they would vote for a Muslim. But people were genuinely thinking about voting for her, because really, it wouldn’t have been a vote for creepy old what’s his name… anywho, long story short, the shit was freaking me out and I needed to get away. So I poured all of my money in the Stock Market, a wise investment if you ask me, and holed up in the Bomb shelter I secretly built on the Spelling Estate using old furniture while insulating the walls with the stacks of “So NoTorious” DVDs Candy had buried.
I had purchased enough supplies to last through the next four years, so I was set, broken off from the world, in a glorified Isolation Tank. Everything was fine for the first few months, but then I wasn’t sure it was months, because I had forgotten to bring a calendar, at really it felt like years. I tried to guesstimate the passage of time based how many Happy Days tapes I watched, I do have to say, I really think the show jumped the shark at the beginning of the 5th season, but I digress… the solitude started to make me a little crazy, or maybe it was all of the sugar and partially hydrogenated oils… a word of advice, never go shopping for the apocalypse when you are hungry, you’ll just end up with a bunch of Ho-Hos, Twinkies, and Chex Party Mix.
So after what felt like three years, I emerged prematurely, as I had gone dry on Cup Cakes and I was damn near to the last of the Vodka. Much to my disappointment, it had only been four months, but I was pleased to learn that the creepy old man didn’t win the election and the bimbo had a lovely parting gift in the form of a new wardrobe. Sadly, I had sorta let myself go, no worries though, I’ll just have to pull out some of my investment money and get myself liposuction as an early holiday present to myself…
Well, here I am in Beijing for the 2008 Olympics. Some of you may be surprised that I’m here, but being an Olympic athlete is just one of the many pieces of fabric that make up the rich tapestry of my life. Anywho, while I was waiting for my event, Freestyle Ribbon Diving, you know it’s the one where you dive with those long flowing ribbons and you twirl it around. It is, historically, the most dangerous Olympic event. There are at least half a dozen fatalities every Olympic Games. Bitches who aren’t as skilled as me get tangled in their ribbons while trying to do a half Gloria Gaynor summersault jackknife twist, and then they drown. But I digress, now where was I, oh yes, I was making out with Michael Phelps, killing some time before my event. My breath smelled like General Tso’s Chicken, but Michael really wanted to make out with me, and who am I to deny a fan. So we snogged for a few minutes, then I heard them announcing my event and jetted off to the diving platforms.
Let me recap for those of you who missed the rebroadcast, I was wearing my Red White and Blue thong, with star shaped pasties, I felt so patriotic! I confidently climbed to the highest diving platform. The crowd was hushed with antici…. pation. Then I dived, a executing a perfect Triple Lindy. Naturally the crowd went wild, and I scored tens across the board, except for the Chinese Judge, who gave me a 7.
I sat, mad-dogging the judge as the Chinese diver made her way to the top of the platform, and just as she was about to dive, the Chinese Judge screamed pointed to the other side of the pool “Look its Ricky Rouse!” Everyone turned, and indeed international pop sensation Ricky Rouse was standing near the far side of the pool smoking. After a momentary distration, I turned back just in time to the Chinese diver climb down off the platform.
“Well, since we all were distracted by Ricky Rouse and we missed seeing the last dive, we will have to judged it based on the instant replay,” announced the Chinese Judge who was already writing down his score.
“Instant reply?” I cried, “She didn’t even dive!”
“Oh yes she did,” the he said, scowling at me. “Just look at the replay.” I looked at the monitor and sure enough, there was the diver, executing the prefect dive.
“Fraud!” I yelled, pointing my accusing finger at the judge. “Play that tape again!”
“What? Why? That was a perfect dive,” said the German judge, “And we know a thing or two about perfection.”
“What are you, Borg?” I spat, “Clearly, the footage you are reviewing is computer animation!” The other judges gasped in unison and quickly rewound the tape, and sure enough, somebody had inserted frames from Shrek the Third.
Needless to say, China was disqualified from the event and that is how I was able to win the silver medal. I mean, I would have gotten gold, but they found out that I had been doping.
I was at home innocently playing Grand Theft Auto IV, and by that, I mean, I was driving down Wilshire when I ran over a Russian Prostitute, though it could have been Helen Mirren [she is so versatile!], I’m not entirely sure. Anyway, I shouldn’t be expected to remember the little details when I am in such a rush.
You see, earlier that day, I was talking with my friend, Miss Cleo, and she had predicted that Jamie Lynn would be giving an extremely exploitive photo shoot that afternoon, you know, selling the pictures of her new baby. So I wanted to be first in line, as I could easily sell those bad boys off to that coke head on The Insider [definitely not TMZ… fascists…].
I had been casually making my way there, obeying all traffic laws, like a good citizen, when I spotted the photographer from OK! Magazine. I recognized her, as she was supposed to do a spread on my gracious home for a September issue, but the spread was bumped by yet another expose on Amy Winehouse’s room at the rehab clinic. Anywho, I had to put the petal to the metal, My Ford Festiva rocked to a speedy 45 MPH, and I sideswiped the photographer’s car, forcing her into a Del Taco drive through. I was almost tempted to turn back and get some fries, Del Taco fries are the best you know, but then thought to keep the lead. I approached the hospital at top speed, careening the Festiva through the doors of the emergency room at 46 miles per hour. The car stalled out in front of the doors, which was fine, it would block the way from the hungry lenses of the paparazzi, those photos were going to be mine exclusively!
“Where is she!?!” I demanded from the nurse at the front counter. She stammered, while staring passed the Festiva at Helen Mirren, who was pounding on the roof of the car trying to get into the ER. “Go around!” I shouted at her, waving her away, then to the nurse, “What room is she in!”
“Room 242,” she finally answered.
I grabbed my Hello Kitty point and shoot camera from the glove box of the Festiva and bolted up the stairs. As I reached the room, I threw the door open and started clicking away. After I snapped a few pictures, I lowered my camera.
“What is this shit?” I asked rhetorically.
“I’m being creative,” answered Madonna from the hospital bed. The limp bodies of William Orbit, Bjork, and Timbaland hanging from the ceiling, their blood being drained through plastic tubing that lead to the back of the evil succubus’ neck.
“It was a rhetorical question, after all, I do have eyes.”
“help me,” cried a weak voice from the corner. I turned to see Justin Timberlake lying on the ground, feebly reaching up for me.
“Oh whatever ‘Michael,’” I said with a sneer, and walked out.
I had just started my cushy new job as a reporter, well I use the term “reporter” very loosely as the I was reporting for TMZ. They pulled me in as a guest reporter when the sex video of me and Reece Witherspoon started to circulate. I didn’t have the heart to correct them [as I would never have slept with a closet Bush supporter], and besides, I had already cashed the check they sent me [I was in desperate need to get my nails did]. Anywho, I was leisurely sitting at my desk rolling bits of Play-Doh into small little balls when some PA comes over to me and asks me what I was doing. “Look, scrub, first of all, you do not look me in the face, you can address the cubical wall, but not personally, as if I were the wall, rather you will talk to the wall as if it were a medium.” I chastised him. You really have to put these PAs in place from the get-go, otherwise they’ll sell your story to some trashy tabloid show. “A medium?” He asked the wall. “Yeah, you know, like Tangina.” I answered, not looking up from my task. “So what do you want?” “Harvey wants to know what you are doing.” “Harvey? Is that like your imaginary rabbit?” I asked, then addressed the empty space next to him. “Oh, hi Harvey, how are you?” I said with some sarcasm, I know, it’s really hard for me to be sarcastic. “Well, Harvey, I think it’s obvious what I’m doing. I’m making Dippin’ Dots, I would make some spaghetti, but my press is broken.” I said, indicating to the broken Play-Doh factory on my desk. Needless to say, those things work for shit on walnuts. “Do you want some Dippin’ Dots, Harvey?” I asked, offering the empty space my Doh Dippin’ Dots. Then I realized that everyone was standing around and the room was filled with cameras. “What’s the deal, is this like Big Brother or something?” “No, we’re doing a show, live,” some Jew-ey lookin’ dude tersely answered, “and all eyes are on you.” “Well then obviously you heard me before, you do not look me in the face, you can address the cubical wall—"“You’re fired.” He interrupted.
“Wait, what?”
“You heard me.”
“You can’t fire me! I was in that tape, you know, the one,” I said, winking to the camera, “the one with Reece.”
“No, you weren’t. Our sources discovered that it was Denise Richards, not you.”
“Scissor-me-timbers!”
“Yeah, and we’ll be wanting that check back.”
“Uhm, yeah… about that… can I pay you back in Marlboro Miles?”
Well, long story short, I was able to sell my story to Extra, you know a credible news source, and then pay this Harvey Levin guy back, well, he did take half of the payment in Marlboro Miles, I swear, sometimes it seems like I’ll never get that jacket…
Well hello my dear readers, sorry to have been on the downlow [and not in the Eddie Murphy way] but I was busy researching for a role I auditioned for. What with the writers strike and all, the networks were all desperate to get some new programming on the air that they green lit a "re-imagining" of "The Facts of Life." Its all the rage now, you know, taking shit we've already seen and "re-imagining" it, except this was going to be good, not like that crapfest Bionic Woman... lame... you CANT be bionic without that "da-da-da-da-da-da-da" slow-motion bionic sound effect. Anywho, NBC was going for like a grittier real life version of "The Facts of Life," and the first few scripts that were thrown together before the strike were fantastic! Like Tuttie was dealing ecstasy while earning money to attend the all white school by pole dancing at the local strip joint. And rather than being everyones friend, Natalie is ostracized for being fat and ugly, you know, totally real life situations!
I, of course, was trying out for the Blair role. The troubled girl who constantly has to deal with being perfect in a non-perfect world. I know, the role would totally be walk-through for me. Sure its hardly a stretch acting wise, kinda like Courtney Love playing a junkie, but this was going to be my big break out role, you know, get me in the public eye, after all Courtney was nominated for an Oscar, but then again so was Spielberg. Anywho, this was going to allow me to get funding for my independent film "Fraubarella." So after spending the better part of two months sequestered away in an all girls school in northern New York I was ready, a sure thing, this role was MINE!
I worked the hell out of that audition! And as I left, I walked passed a nervous Miley Ray Cyrus, who was sitting in a folding chair waiting for her turn to audition. She scowled at me from behind dog-eared script she was reading in a feeble last minute attempt to remember the lines.
"Good luck, bitch." I sneered, then spit in her eye and kept walking without as much as backwards glance. Yeah, I slipped a little on the wet floor that janitor was mopping and almost fell, but I don't think Miley saw, what with the spit in her eye. "Next time put a fucking sign down." I growled at the janitor.
"I'm sorry, please don't tell my boss." Lisa Whelchel pleaded. I raised my hand to backhand her, a quiet sob escaped her as she flinched."That's right, bitch, respect."
Anywho, it was last night that I finally got the call. I didn't get the part, but they did want to offer me the part of Jo, the bull dyke lesbian. "No thanks! These scissors don't cut that way!" I said angrily before hanging up the phone. "The nerve." I said, turning to Angelina Jolie. We were flipping through the United Colors of Benetton Kids catalogue, though I don't think she realized that is was a catalogue for clothing.
"Shhhh, don't speak." She said, holding her finger to my lips. Then we started making out. I mean, she is hot, that doesn't make me a lez or anything.
So after what felt like three years, I emerged prematurely, as I had gone dry on Cup Cakes and I was damn near to the last of the Vodka. Much to my disappointment, it had only been four months, but I was pleased to learn that the creepy old man didn’t win the election and the bimbo had a lovely parting gift in the form of a new wardrobe. Sadly, I had sorta let myself go, no worries though, I’ll just have to pull out some of my investment money and get myself liposuction as an early holiday present to myself…
