I'm the new American Idol...

It was late Saturday night and I had just finished washing my hair. I felt the need to step out and I was cravin' a Tanquery shot of Penicillin to cure my cabin fever. I figured the best place was a short walk down the street. I prefer to take the car, as whenever I walk down the street I am just inundated with men offering to leave their wives for me. But every now and again a girl needs a boost to the ego, so it was okay.

I sashayed up to the Broadway Bar. You, my dear reader, are probably wondering what a classy lady like myself would be doing in a dive like the Broadway Bar. Well, earlier in the week I spied a flyer that said Veronica would be on tour, taking her "Dog and Pony" show on the road. I had seen one of Ms. Velarde's performances down in TJ once before, and let me tell you, a-mazing. Sadly, I must have misread the flyer, as I was off by a week, and I had missed the show.

But, oh Fortuna, it was Karaoke Night. That was something I could get behind. Nothing like drunken 'mos singing showtunes. Or at least that is what one would think. After six or seven performances of boring ass renditions of "Sister Christian" and "Wind Beneath My Wings," my buzz was fading fast. Then some little 'mo who went by Jose the Pussycat, went up on stage, sequined cape and all. I held my breath. This was going to be good! But then Fortuna's wheel spun against me as the Karaoke Ringmaster announced Jose was going to do an acappella version of Bobby Browns "My prerogative." That was the straw that broke the camels back, and it was indeed my prerogative to get this party started.

I leapt off my bar stool and kicked Jose to the floor. dousing the stage with my gin, I sparked up a ring of fire, snatching the mic from Joses limp wrist seconds before all of his hair product ignited. "Track GR1" I commanded the Karaoke Ringmaster. Then I worked the crowd into a frothy frenzy belting out a version of "Welcome to the Jungle" that would have made even Axel cry.

Fucking Jennifer Aniston...

I was sitting at the local Coffee Shop when that pris Jennifer Aniston rolls up with her entourage of publicists and story spinners. I couldn't help but over hear their conversations, after I moved to the table next to hers that is.

"I have to keep my image clean! I am America's new sweetheart, goddamn it! I need my face on every supermarket mag!" She commanded. "That Cunt Angelina can't be getting all this good will attention adopting all her fucking little brown babies! Who cares about these brats, AMERICA LOVES ME! Not her!"

"We can spin stories about how you are heartbroken over Brad, the women of America will eat it up, you know, really identify with your pain." Chirped one of her publicists.

"Yeah, and we can tell them how you are persevering after that home wrecker ruined your life." added another.

"And you can get your hair cut in that Rachael cut from ten years ago..." I chimed in. She jerked her gaze in my direction, scowling.

"What did you say, Bitch?" She growled.

"I saaaaid... you can get you hair cut in that Rachael do that you did. That way people will recognize you more while you cling to the ever dimming spotlight of your career, reaching for attention while you effectively have done nothing."

She was shocked silent. Her entourage aghast. Trying to decipher some reaction from her on how they should react, attempting to read the blank botoxed slate. Then she sprung at me, her reflexes similar to that of a rabid cat with brain damage. I grabbed my coffee and flung it into her face. She shrieked as her face began to melt. Seriously. It was fucking melting! I was shocked, and nauseated, but I kept my cool... cause Im cool like that... like the De La Soul song...

"Dammit, you bitch! I just put that face on!" Demon Aniston bellowed as her wings unfurled from behind her.

"Whatever." I shot back disaffectedly as she rose up into the night and flew off.

Damned Lofts

So last week, I got kicked out of my apartment. That damned Downtown Long Beach Business Group decided to turn my apartment complex into a parking garage to accommodate the new Walmart. Its not like there isn't already a parking garage right next to the Walmart... but they're turning that into Lofts next week... I had to spend the night in Lincoln Park last night. It wasn't so bad, I found a nice place under the bridge in the Japanese Garden. I started charging a toll to passerbys... I almost have enough to buy one of the new Condos on Ocean Blvd.

Beware the Capezio clad Girl Scout

I remember this one time, this girl... we'll call her Miss Tina Dodgers, tried to sell me bunk girl scout cookies. My first clue was when I answered the door. There standing before me was Miss Tina dressed in a ragged sash made with legwarmers that were stapled together, a torn green skirt, and some brand new Capezios. Her "obviously a wig" blonde hair was matted with dirt, clearly she had just lifted it out of a dumpster.

I glared at her suspiciously as she started in on her sales pitch. She yammered on about cookie selections and how they were only 10 dollars a box.

"10 dollars! My, that is a dramatic increase," I balked.

"All the funds go to needy girl scouts in the 909," she retaliated.

"I don't recall Double Stuff Oreos being on the Girl Scout list of cookies." Without missing a beat she went into new cookies that were being offered, she was smarter than I had credited her. "What about Samoas?"

"Samoas are being discontinued," before she could finish her answer a slight glaze crossed her face. This is where I had her, and she knew it! No way were the Samoas going to be discontinued, everybody knows those are the money cookie!

"Charlatan!" I screamed reaching for her hair. She darted away quicker than a bunny and I was left standing with a hand full of dirty blonde. In a matter of seconds she was down the street, a few seconds later the sun gleaming off her bald head could barely be seen.

Let this be a word of advise... beware the Capezio clad Girl Scout.