Sinderella

I was getting ready to go to a Halloween party at Jack Nicholson’s house with my friend Pygar last night when I received a Robo-Call from Ticketmaster telling me that I needed to call them to correct a problem with my Miley Cyrus / Hannah Montana tickets [don’t judge, I mean how often do you get to see not one but TWO superstars on the stage… I wonder if they’ll do a duet…]. Of course I immediately put everything on hold in order to call back. I had front row seats after all. Well, let me just say, dear readers, that the US Government is doing this whole “Gitmo Interrogation” thing all wrong. They don’t need to be blasting Van Halen's “Panama” or doing water-boarding torture to these suspected terrorists… they just need to have them call Ticketmaster customer service. Now that’s freaking torture, I tell you what. After being on hold for four hours, turns out the show has been moved to another venue and I no longer have front row seats. Bullocks to that, I say, I didn’t really even want to go anyway… I was just talking it up so that I could jack up the price when I scalped them to Roman Polanski [I was even going to throw in some ‘Ludes…].

After getting off the phone, Pygar is all pissed off because he’d been waiting the whole time and we’re totally late for the party, but whatever, he was dressed all Ren-Faire. Which is totally weak, because he goes to Ren-Faire every year, so it’s not like he really even put any thought into a costume, he just pulled it out of the closet. Lame. I do have to hand it to him though, he may be a blind angel, but at least he isn’t totally affected like those other Ren-Faire people, fucking Ren-Faire, I swear. Actually, I take that back, instead of Ticketmaster-boarding, we just need to stick terrorist suspects in a room with Ren-Faire people, oh man, that would be torture. Gives me chills just thinking about it.

Anywho, so we finally get to this party, and yeah it was totally bumping, but by the time we get there, all the booze is gone, and everyone knows that “All Cranberry and No Vodka makes Frau a dull girl!” So I need to play catch up, but all they have is freaking Coors in a keg [Really. Coors. In a keg]. So I pop the ‘Ludes that I was going to give to Roman and everything is going pretty cool. I’m all mellow yellow, and this hot guy dressed up as Lindsay Lohan come up to me and starts putting the moves on, and I’m all cool, and we totally go out to the hot tub and start making out and he is a super hot kisser. Just as things are heating up, Pygar comes over and he wants to leave because he’s bored and he hates Coors [not that I blame him, but still, he makes a horrible wing man]. So then I’m off like Cinderella, I don’t bother to give my snogging partner my number or even tell him my name, I love to leave with an air of mystery. Though I don't leave a slipper behind, clearly Cinderella wasn't wearing Pradas, otherwise that bitch would have made sure she didn't drop no slipper.

This morning, I rolled out of bed around, well, who am I kidding, it was just half an hour ago [I can’t miss Oprah], and I’m reading the paper but when I see the headline, I nearly choke on a Boo Berry. Turns out that the guy dressed like Lindsay Lohan wasn’t a guy dressed like Lindsay at all, it was Lindsay Lohan. And there, on the front page, above a picture of Lindsay giving me a tonsillectomy is the headline “‘Samantha Who?’ Lindsay makes nice with new gal pal!”

"Scissor-me-timbers!” I exclaim to the Boo Berry Ghost, who says nothing. Though I can feel him silently judging me with those sleepy eyes of his. Well I certainly hope she wasn’t having a flare up… thats the last thing I need...

When life hands you lemons...

I was cold chillin’ at the local Coffee Bean with Angie talking about our plans for Halloween. I had asked her what she was going to be, and she said she was going to dress up as “Octomom.”

“Ah, a little ‘Victor/Victoria’ there. That’s fun,” I said, but she just stared at me as if she didn’t quite understand. “Julie Andrews?”

“No, Frau, Octomom has nothing to do with ‘The Sound of Music.’ Surely you’ve heard of her,” She said. I paused for a moment then sucked up the last of my Blended Ultimate. “Isn’t that your third one?”

“Yeah,” I answered sleepily. I explained to her that for the past month I had been staying up all night trying to capture some activity of the paranormal type on my fancy new digital camcorder, and it had started to really take a toll on me the past few days, so I was hitting the caffeine harder than I usually do.

“But you told me that you already knew that the ghost of Michael Jackson was haunting your place.”

“Yeah I know, but I was just trying to get some footage that I could sell to include in the final cut of ‘This is It.’ So far the only thing I got was some ghostly footprints when Michael moonwalked through some baby powder I put on the floor.”




“But, Frau, the movie came out already. It started playing yesterday.”

“Dang it, seriously?! Hmmm… well maybe I can use the footage and make like a total low budget horror movie out of it.”

“Uhm, Frau…,” she started, but then trailed off. Clearly jealous of my freaking fantastic idea. It’ll be like the “Blair Witch Project,” only better! I'll show her... I'll show all of them *MWAHAHAHAHA*

Eye spy with my little eye...

I don't know if this is one of those freaky "Magic Eye" pictures that were all the rage in the 90's or what [I always hated those fucking things anyway]... but they say that J-Lo is in the picture below, but for the life of me, I just can't see her. You would think that I would at least be able to see her ass or something, but seriously... just can't see her. I've looked at this image for hours on end... but nope, no J-Lo... Perhaps, dear readers, you can help a sister out... can you see J-Lo?


I know, its hard, huh?

Number Nine... Number Nine... Number Nine...

I was cruisin down the street, in my six-fo when I saw the spirit of my friend Pygar cast in a glow of shimmering lights. Fearing the spirit would fade before my eyes, I jumped the curb and pulled the car to a stop right in front of Pygar.

“Oh Spirit, will you speak to me?” I implored, running up to him

“Hey Frau, I was going to call you.” Pygar said.

“CUT CUT!” yelled an obnoxious Steven Spielberg, well I guess that is kind of redundant.

“Wait, what’s going on?” I asked, confused.

“We should wrap up filming today, and I should be around tomorrow to pick up Chi-Chi.”

“Chi-Chi?”

“My Puggle… You were watching her... while I was on location filming. We’re doing some pick up scenes here in LA and should finish today.”

“Of course of course, I, uhm, just didn’t realize that it was going to be over a year. I thought you had died.”

“Frau, Angels don’t die, Angels are love.”

“That doesn’t make sense. Love dies all the time, just look at Hugh Hefner and Holly Madison,” I said, but only received a blank stare in reply.

“I’ll swing by tomorrow and take her off your hands,” he added calmly.

“Sure, sure, of course, I’ll be around all day.” Oh cursed Fortuna, why hast thou spun your wheel away from me. I had put Chi-Chi out in my back yard, oh so many months ago and sorta left her there. I spied her from the kitchen window just last week, she was burning sage and listening to the Indigo Girls, I’m afraid she’s gone totally feral!

I drove away, frantically searching for a pet store, if only I had gotten that iPhone, I’m sure there would be an app for this. From the corner of my eye I spied a shop called “Puppies and Pussies” across the street. I took a chance, hoping it wasn’t some sorta of lesbian bathhouse, and flipped a u-turn. Traffic stopped and horns started blazing as I jumped the curb and pulled to a stop right in front of the door. People continued to honk, I can only assume they recognized me and were clamoring for an autograph.

“There’s no time, sorry,” I waved to my fan base as I exited the car and threw the shop doors open. It was very dramatic. “Shopkeep, how much is that doggie in the window!” I cried out, pointing to the Puggle behind glass.

“Sorry, we just sold him. The gentleman is in the bathroom right now. Maybe you can talk it out with him,” she said just as I heard the toilet flush.

“NEMESIS!” I screamed and pointed, all Body Snatchers style, at Rufus Wainwright as he exited the bathroom. I guess I don’t need to tell you that he was dressed like Judy Garland after a bender.

“Well, well, well, little Miss Pretty, it seems I have thwarted you yet again,” he said, picking up a white kitten and stroking as if he were channeling Telly Savalas.

“Technically, you haven’t paid yet,” the Shopkeeper mentioned on the side.

“Technically nothing!” he yelled and threw the cat at my head. If ever my catlike reflexes were going to be any use to me, it definitely was in that moment, while a cat was flying towards my beautiful face. I quickly leapt out of the way into a display of toys, where I landed with a loud squeak, just as the cat sailed by, its hiss like the buzzing of a seriously pissed off bee flying past my ear. Unfortunately, the Shopkeeper wasn’t so lucky, and she ended up taking that pussy right in the face.

As I struggled to get out of the pile of squeaky toys, Rufus seized the moment and napped the Puggle. “Now I’m off to go play ‘Beatles Rock Band,’ suckers!” he cackled as he ran out of the store. He knows how to run in heels, I’ll give him that much. Once I recomposed myself, I followed shortly. I just had to leave, as the screams from the Shopkeeper were starting to really annoy me. Total drama queen, and I don’t have time for that kind of drama in my life. I ended up having to go to the dog pound, where I picked up a German Shepard. Pygar should be none the wiser, he is blind after all. Besides, more people need to rescue dogs from the pound and not support puppy mills. If only everyone knew that there are some great dogs that can be found there… and knowing is half the battle!

Spin me right round...

I was reading an article at NME.com about how Johnny Marr was going to be playing on the new Postal Service right after he finished playing on the new Miley Cyrus record, or was it Hannah Montana? I get them confused, all of these white girls look alike to me. Anywho, its crazy, who isn't he playing with these days, well, besides Morrissey. So naturally I started to scour the interweb to listen to some leaked tracks [you know, once I discovered the interweb wasn't just a delivery method for porno, it has actually been quite useful]. Just as the track finished loading there was an annoying knock at my door. I quickly slipped into my bathrobe and opened the door to find Jodie Foster [who looked like she was fresh from a Bad News Bears game] with two roughians standing behind her.

“Madame,” Jodie started, “you owe us 2.4 billion dollars.”

“First, Ms Foster, I would like to say that I am quite flattered, but these scissors don’t cut that way. And even if they did, just look at me.” I said with an open handed Vanna gesture to my hotness, “I wouldn’t have to pay for it.”

“Madame, my name is not Ms. Foster, I work for The Record Company—“

“The Record Company? Awesome, what does a bitch have to do to get a digital remaster of Gucci Crew II?”

“Madame, that is not why we are here.”

“Why not!?! Don’t you people realize the masters are degrading as we speak! Degrading. As. We. Speak!”

“Madame, you owe us 2.4 billion for illegally downloading album tracks from the Britney Spears album.”

“Miley Cyrus,” I corrected, or was it Paris Hilton?

“Same thing."

"I know, huh..."

"We will take a personal check.” Faux Jodie continued.

“Well I don’t have 2.4 billion dollars,” I lied. Of course I wasn’t going to give this Faux Jodie anything. I hadn’t even listened to the track yet, sure I was going to download it if it were any good, well I probably would have downloaded it if it sucked too, because if it sucked, I shouldn’t have to pay for it. If I was guilty of anything, it was second degree manslaughter, but I was never convicted, and the statute of limitations expired last year.

“Well, if you can’t pay us, then we’re going to have to smash some shit up,” Faux Jodie said, then did one of those silent instructive head nods to her roughians, who then shoved past me and started over turning my furniture and what not.Then they pulled out my collection of classic vinyl. When Faux Jodie pulled out my signed copy of Bob Denver’s Spoken Word I pleaded with her for mercy. She merely cackled and threw it mit viel spaß against the front steps.

Her roughians joined in the heinous act. I think one of them actually started to eat one of the records, I dunno, he wasn't quite all there. Then, just as quickly as they came, then turned into a black smoke and vanished, one of them even too my robe.

I was left standing there on my front porch, naked and shocked. How could The Record Company do this to me! I was a loyal consumer. I even made the immediate switch over to CDs back in the day... and sure they were overpriced, but they promised me that they price would drop when more people switched to the new medium... even though prices went up instead of down. If I was guilty of anything, it was trusting too much, that and the previously mentioned manslaughter... statute of limitations, fuckers, try and convict me now!

A Haunting in Long Beach

So last night I was putting together my new Ikea bookcase, it looked really cute in the catalogue so I ordered it, I think it was called the Solange [seriously, where do they come up with these names?]... anywho... I was just finishing up when lights started to dim and flicker and I heard the low pained moaning coming from the basement. I grabbed the broom and rapped the handle on the floor.

"Will you shut up! I swear, Christian Charles Philip Bale, if I have to come down there!" I threatened. He obviously knew I meant business, as he quieted up right proper.

The lights continued to dim and flicker as a ghostly image began to manifest before me. I reached for a weapon, grabbing the thing closest to me, the Allen Wrench from my Solange Bookcase toolkit. I gripped it stoutly, holding it like a sextagonal shiv.

"Who are you spirit, the power of Frau compels you!"

"Tis I, the ghost of Mickey Rourke's Face," the spirit howled.

"Oh shit," I said to myself, "this is some bad Juju!" I quickly dropped my improvised shiv and grabbed the phone, ringing up my spiritual adviser, Miss Cleo. She promised to rush right over.

I distracted the spirit with a rousing game of Stratego while we waited. He was actually quite nice, despite his sad history of being severely beaten and abused. Three hours later, Miss Cleo finally rolls up, smelling of Nightrain and Patchouli.

"Go into the light, spirit, it is time for you to rest now," she then began chanting in some unknown language, well that or she was just slurring her words so badly. The lights then brightened, flashed off and then back on again. The Ghost of Mickey Rourke's Face still hanging in the air, all weathered and worn.

Then, from the darkened hallway, a cry echoed out, "EEEE-HHHH, Sha-mon...!" as another spirit moonwalked by.

I squealed with delight, after all, I did have tickets to one of the London shows. "Do 'Rock With You,'" I called out to the spirit.

"Sorry," the Ghost of Michael Jackson said, "I'm only doing stuff from 'Invincible.'"

"Nooooooooooooooooooo!" I cried out into the dark night as he began singing "Break of Dawn." Haunted by the Ghost of MJ and I don't even get to hear fucking "Off The Wall." Totally. Lame...

Idiot Country

I was sitting at my desk working on an Op-Ed piece for the New Yorker, when I was struck with a terminal case of writers block. I was making myself a death mask out of Play-Doh when there was an urgent knock at the door. “Not a moment too late,” I thought to myself, expecting the delivery of my new shower massager, as mine had broken two days ago, and everyone knows the importance of a quality shower massager to a lady. I did a quick prep in the mirror, as you never know how hot the UPS guy is going to be, and well, he might wanna help a lady hook up her shower massager, then I opened the door and leaned aloofly against the frame, my robe slightly open to reveal my supple cleavage.

“OMG, I need help!” a frumpy queen squealed without even looking up from his phone. My fantasy of a little soft-core afternoon delight dashed against the rocky shores of reality as I stared into the chubby face of Perez Hilton with a blackened eye.


“Uhm, are you texting somebody?”

“Shaa! No! I’m tweeting.”

“Look you little meth-head, I don’t have any Codeine, so just beat it.”

“I said ‘tweeting!’ I’m updating my twitter. I’ve been assaulted by Will.i.am and I need to go to the hospital.”

“So, then do you think that maybe you should call the hospital instead of musing a twit.”

“It’s a ‘tweet!’”

“Tweet, twit, to-may-to, to-mah-to.”

“Look you faggot—,” he started.

“Hold up, did you just call me a faggot?” I interrupted. “Let me tell you something,” I said, taking off both of my earrings in one swift motion and slipping into Phylicia Rashad mode, “Your ass has the nerve to come up in here while I’m working on something that actually has merit and contributes to the well being of society as a whole [did I neglect to mention that my Op-Ed piece was an instructional article on how to use gamma waves and ions to actually cause Elisabeth Hasselbecks mouth to permanently seal shut! Like I said: a true contribution to society as a whole], and you sit there on your phone texting telling me to call you an ambulance!”

“WTF, no! I didn’t want you to call the hospital, I was just going door to door telling everyone that I need medical attention. I already made a video for my website, and the sky writers should be up in the air any minute now. So now I’m going door to door, you know, so everyone knows I was assaulted. And then I want GLAAD to apologize to me... ”

"For what? Calling you out as the waste of space that you are?"

"OMG, no! They victimized me! Didn't you see my Facebook update? They said that I can't say faggot, but I can totally use that word to insult somebody, because I am a faggot."

"I didn't think that was ever up for question, and being associated with you is definitely an insult. So, did Will.i.am. even hit you?”

“That’s not the point, he’s totally a thug, you stupid faggot--,”

“That’s it, I’m gonna teach you a little something about thug life, you vapid hole…”

Needless to say, I spent the rest of the afternoon digging another six foot hole in the backyard, why does this always happen on the days I give the help off. It sure is getting crowded back there, and sadly, I don’t think we’ve actually thinned the idiot herd enough to have made a difference…

yet…

Remember the time...

I was driving with my BFF, Angie, to dedicate a memorial to my dearly departed friend Pygar, sure he died over a year ago, but his memorial had to be perfect. He left such a legacy, I didn’t want it to be something lame, you know, like a park bench or sidewalk stone. It finally hit me last week, and once it popped into my head I knew it was perfect.

We pulled in and Angie wanted me to wait out front with her while she had a cigarette, really I think it was because she saw a little Vietnamese baby in a stroller across the street and she was thinking about nicking it, but then we saw something crawling out of the manhole in the middle of the street.

“Oh my god, it’s a C.H.U.D.!” She screamed.

“Calm down, its just Ryan Seacrest,” I assured her.

“Well, if it isn’t my nemesis, Frau Bella,” he scowled as he shuffled over.

“If I had a nickel every time I heard that, I’d be dead.” I scoffed. “Look, I don’t have time for this isn’t there a bridge you need to be under or something?”

“Funny lady, well you won’t be laughing in court!” he said pushing an envelope into my hands. “You’ve just been served!”

“What’s this for?” I asked.

“For when you took out my eye with the rice crispy treat!”

“Oh yeah, that was good times,” I laughed. “Besides you’ve got both of your eyes still, sure you’ve got no dignity, but I don’t think you ever did.”

“This ones glass,” he said, tapping his right eye. And now you can consider yourself served, see you in court.”

“You know you can’t serve me if you're the plaintiff, dumb ass.”

“Oh really?” he said, snatching the envelope back. “You, give this to her.” He said to Angie, only she had wandered off like he wasn’t even there.

“Guess you're used to that,” I smiled.

"I'll get you, Frau Bella, mark my words! Seacrest, out!" he said, crawling back into the sewer.

"Out indeed, that'll be the day."

“Excuse me, miss, how does this look?” the attendant interrupted, holding up a sheet with cut out white vinyl lettering. It was cut in a classy Engravers Old English font and read “In Memory of Pygar from the beginning of time to May 13, 2008.”

“Oh that looks perfect!” I squealed. I was glad that I decided against the Comic Sans. It was really a tough call, and I spent many a sleepless night debating on it. How many times did I wake up next to an empty bottle of scotch and a hot nameless naked man laying the floor and not have been any closer to making a decision, too many I tell you.

“Where do you want me to stick it?”

“On the rearview window, right next to the one for ‘Shy Girl,’” I sighed. Oh Pygar, how you will be missed, but you’re with Shy Girl now. Angie had wandered back just has they finished applying the letters.

“Where did you get that?” I asked, indicating toward the Vietnamese baby.

“Found her.”

“Do you think maybe you should call the police or something, you know, turn her in.”

“Nah. By the way, the window looks nice.”

“I know Pygar would love it! It’s really classy.”

“Totally!” she said, then to the baby, “So what am I going to call you?”

If you liked it, then you shoulda put a ring on it...

My friend Portia de Rossi is always trying to set me up on dates. I swear, just because she got married she thinks that all of her friends need to be married to. It’s like since they can’t convert me into a lez, they still feel the need to convert me into something. It’s part of the gay agenda, look it up. It’s on Wikipedia, so you know its fact.

Anywho, so against my better judgment, I accept her offer, only after she promised me that this guy was nothing like that George Clooney character she set me up with before. Loser will not stop calling, and I’ve even changed my number five times, yet somehow he always gets it!

But I digress, as arranged, yesterday afternoon I go to meet Jake in front of the Natural History Museum. I think it’s a little odd, an afternoon date, and I didn’t realize that the museum had a bar, but I’ve never been, so, maybe it’s like one of those chill-lounge bars. And besides, its 5:00 somewhere, I always say!

I was standing outside the museum wearin’ my Apple Bottom Jeans, boots with the fur, everyone at the park was lookin’ at me, when Jake walked up. I’ll have to admit, he was pretty cute, but there seemed to be a little blonde child following him as he walked up. We did the introductions, he was naturally a little shy, and I, well, naturally flawless. And we were chatting for a minute and this little kid keeps looking up at me.

“So, who’s the Toe-Head?” I finally had to ask.

“Oh, sorry, this is little Bobby, I’m a ‘Big Brother’ and I thought it would be fun if we all went to see the dinosaurs together.”

“Is this some sorta Jurassic Park shit? Cause I’m not down with that,” I said, but he laughed, I think he thought I was joking, but fuck, those Velociraptors can open doors!

“YAY, dinosaurs!” Bobby squealed, obviously he hadn’t seen the film, otherwise I doubt he would be that excited.

Jake laughed again, and then we went into the museum and little Bobby ran straight up to the two dinosaur fossils that were in the foyer, right past the velvet ropes, and hugged onto the Tyrannosaurus’ leg.

“Sorry,” Jake said to me, “Bobby can be a little precarious.” He then turned to Bobby and gently called to him, “Bobby, come back here, danger Bobby, danger.”

“Danger?” I said. “They’re dead, they’re about as threatening as Ryan Seacrest with a switchblade. What’s the problem, let the little Toe-Head have some fun.” Then Bobby started to curiously rub on the T-Rex leg. “Well he certainly likes his natural history, doesn’t he?”

We walked around the rest of the museum, Bobby looking for things to rub his junk on, Jake insisting we check out every exhibit, and me looking for that elusive bar. After we saw the Sylvia Plath exhibit [I guess she was a famous cook or something, as everyone was crowding around to catch a glimpse of her oven], we finally made it to the Insectarium on the 5th floor [I guess not many people know its there].

Jake excused himself to go to the restroom, while little Bobby and I looked at all of the bugs. He was keenly interested in rubbing on a cart that had several small glass cases with spiders in them. I was going to find somebody to remove the spiders from the room, because arachnids have no place in the Insectarium, when little Bobby knocked over one of the glass cases, freeing the spider. It leapt onto his arm and bit him before I could knock it off and stab it squarely with the heel of my stilettos [had I known we were going to be walking around all afternoon, I would have worn something a little more sensible, or at least my pumps that feel like a sneaker, but that’s the price you pay for fashion].

“Oh no, Bobby,” I said, looking at the sticker on the side of the tipped case, “that spider was radioactive!”

“AWESOME!” Bobby squealed. “Does that mean that I’m going to be like Spiderman?!”

“No, Bobby, I think that means you’re going to die soon. So you’d better make your peace with Sylvia.” I said as Jake showed up.

“So cold.” Bobby whispered, as he began to shiver.

“Is everything okay?” he asked.

“Oh yeah… sure--I think it’s a touch of the Swine Flu. You’d better get little Bobby home, I’m going to—go find some alcohol… to—uhm… kill the germs,” I said as I excused myself and headed for the nearest bar. So we’ll see, he was kinda cute, so I kinda hope Jake calls for a second date… and at least it’ll just be the two of us…

Drew Barrymore can suck it!

I had just finished working out at the gym, and I must say I was lookin fly, you know with just the right amount of sweat to give my smooth skin a nice glisten, but not so much that I look like a two bit whore or a Kardashian. So I walk into the locker room and I start to change when I hear what sounded like a little mouse in the dark corner of the locker room.

“Psst… psst...” a dark figure called out to me.

“Look lady,” I say to the figure in the shadows, “these scissors don’t cut that way, but if you wanna ogle all of this Fine Frau Fabulousness, then by all means, just don’t think you can test these melons for ripeness.”

“Help me Frau Bella, you’re my only hope!” the figure pleaded as she took a step into the light to reveal herself as Drew Barrymore.

“If I had a nickel for every time I’ve heard that. What is it Barrymore? I’ve got 99 problems and your bitch ass isn’t one of them.”

“I’ve been training on the treadmill to run the LA Marathon, and, well, you know, how sometimes, well—“

“Out with it woman!” I shouted impatiently. The locker room was starting to smell like a dirty toilet and I needed the get the fuck out before my hair started to smell like it too!

“… well, sometimes marathon runners, you know, they lose control of their bowels.”

“What? Are you telling me that you pooped yourself while running on the elliptical?” I asked as she stepped from the shadows. I won’t get into the nasty ass details, but it was nasty. Nasty like poop running down Drew Barrymore’s leg. That kinda nasty. She took a step closer to me. “WOAH there Barrymore, you just hold up right there. How long were you on the elliptical?”

“It was like 40 minutes! You have to help me, do you have some clothes I could borrow?”

“Oh, sorry, no,” I lied. But the wheels were spinning, and no, I don’t mean the wheels in a spin class. She could help me get financing for my independent film, Fraubarella, for those of you not in the know. So if I helped her, she was surely to help me. Even so, there is no way I was lending her my Chanel jogging suit, I don’t care if it was spelled Channel. “I have an idea,’ I said to her, “Do you have to trust me.”

“I totally trust you,” she said with that cute little ET smile. And I smiled back, we totally had a moment, then I grabbed her arm and threw her out of the locker room. She stood frozen in front of a spin class, whose cycles were spinning down as they stared at the sight before them.

I waited a beat then stepped out of the locker room. “Oh my goodness,” I shouted, “Tori Spelling has just shit herself!” Then to Drew, I mouthed the word “run,” and she did, like Rufus Wainwright to a bathhouse. After she was ran out the front doors, when I could hear the people on their cycles talking about that nasty Tori Spelling, and I knew my plan had worked.

I quickly grabbed my stuff and casually went outside. I walked up to Drew’s Datsun just as she was getting ready to pull away.

“So, hey, I understand you have a production company. Well, I have got this great script—“

“Oh sorry, I don’t have time, I’ve got to get out of here.”

“But, I totally helped you out, don’t you want to return the favor?”

“No, not really,” she smiled that Firestarter smile.

“Well, can you at least give me a buck so I can get some Del Taco fries?” I asked. She scowled and pulled away, squealing her tires on the way out. And that is why Drew Barrymore is on my shit list.