Baby Curry

I was scanning for a job in the LA Weekly when I found one looking for an Au Pair. "I have a great pair," I thought to myself and rang up for an interview. Surely this will be the easiest job I've ever had! I put on my Versace blouse, the one that really shows off my pair. Sure it wasn't a real Versace, and I had my seamstress friend Erin make it for me. She is a wiz with the Handy-stitch. But it was pretty passable, nothing like that horrible shirt that Lisa Bonnet made for Theo that one time.

Anywho. I show up at the house, its like in Beverly Hills or Westwood or something. I don't really know, as I am too concerned about making sure my pair is in absolutely perfect placement. After one final quick adjustment, I walk up and ring the bell. Curiously, the door swings open but nobody is there. I peer into the darkness of the foyer, but can see nothing.

"What are your crimes?" I hear a voice call up to me. Startled, I look around, and then finally down.

"Oh, aren't you Tim Cruise?"

"Its Tom!"

"Oh, does it really matter Tim? You kind of self-destructed. I hear Paramount dropped you like Xenu after the huge financial disappointment of Mission Impossible III, do you really think people are going to care too much? You should probably just get used to it, don'tcha think, Tim?" He quietly glared up at me. "Now that's the spirit! Anywho, I'm here for the pair job." I say as I bend down to show him my fantastic cleavage.

"You are going to have to talk to Katie, my wife, whom I've had sex with numerous times, heterosexual sex, we made a baby! I have an appointment with Lindsay Lohan. I'm going to get her off of drugs and alcohol and on to the clear path." I laugh out loud, but then realize he is serious.

"Well aren't you just the cutest little thing!" I say as I get down on one knee to kiss him on the cheek. "You have fun with your little friends, Timmy!"

"Ew, girl cooties!" He cries out, and stomps down the walkway to his waiting chauffer. I wait for a moment, and the decide to let myself in. Naturally, I am looking for stuff to swipe, when Katie walks in the room. She looks kinda down, but is dressed pretty nice. She has on this cute little dress, it almost looks like a Gucci, but not as tacky. She is also wearing this hideous anklet, its really clunky and has a couple of flashing lights on it. Its a little too cyber-punk, and doesn't really go with the outfit. Poor thing, I don't have the heart to tell her.

"Are you here for the Au Pair job?" She asks.

"Yeah, but I want to be upfront and let you know that these scissors don't cut that way," I say as I lean forward to show her my wonderful pair.

"I'm sorry to have to be deceptive, but there isn't really an Au Pair job," I knew it, bitch is just jealous cause clearly I got her share. Why do women always gotta hate a sista cause she got a bigger pair? "What I really need you to do is get these letters to my family. I can't leave the house." She points down to her anklet. I can't help but to sympathize, I wouldn't be caught dead outside with something that ugly either.

We are interrupted by the sudden wail of a baby. Katie then runs into the other room and returns with a beautiful little mulatto baby.

"Aw, isn't she the cutest little thing! Who is the daddy?" I ask.

"Why, Tom, of course." says that chick from 'King of Queens' as she walk in.

"No really?" I giggle.

"Its TOM. Isn't it Katie?" She replies, glaring over at Katie.

"Sure." Katie robotically answers.

"Oh... well... okay then." I play along. "So where are these letters you want me to drop off for you?" A terrified look crosses Katie's face. Maybe she doesn't have any stamps or something. "If you need some stamps, I can lend you some" I offer.

"That's okay," the 'King of Queens' chick says as she puts her arm around me and leads me back to the front door, "I'll lend Katie the stamps and drop the letters off for her." I look over my shoulder back to Katie. She looks terrified. The house seemed to darken around her, almost engulfing her. Then I spy a tiny little vase sitting on a sideboard. "Shit, I totally could have stuck that in my purse!" I thought as the door slammed behind me.

Walk out into velvet

I was making out with Alison Goldfrapp the other night, not cause I'm a lez or anything, but cause she is kind of a starfucker and wanted to get a slice of Frau Bella Pie... and who am I to deny such a delicacy? Anywho, she was all kissin on me, shes a pretty good kisser too, so I won't knock her, when we heard this crashing noise from outside.

Alison kinda freaked out and ran into the closet. "Say hi to Tom for me while yer in there," I grumbled as I put on my silk robe to go out and investigate. As I stepped outside I could hear a pair of faint voices arguing in a loud whisper. They were on the side of the house, so I crept over to get a better listen.

"I've been stalking Alison for the better part of four years now! I've never seen you at the Goldfrappachino meetings! Just who are you!?!" the male voice demanded. He was clearly irritated. "Don't you know anything about properly stalking?"

"I know enough not to wear those Cha-Cha Heels you've got on! And who the hell is Alison?" Immediately recognizing the female voice, I rounded the corner.

"Mary F!" My old Hairdresser. "What the hell are you doing here?" I asked.

"Frau! Uhm... I... uhm... I just thought you might need to have your ends touched up... and uhm... that we would schedule an appointment... "

"Oh" I was still a little suspicious, but on the other hand, maybe she was just dedicated. She was a good stylist. She even did Elizabeth Berkley's hair on Showgirls, though not the hair on her head. But before I could schedule an appointment, in a scandalous turn of events, the guy whipped out a butterfly knife all ninja style and held it to Mary F's creamy white throat!

"Who the hell are you?" I asked him.

"D.B. Jones!" cried Alison from behind me.

"Oh my god! Don't look at me!" D.B Jones sobbed, shielding his face from Alison's judging gaze. Mary F. seized the moment to knock the knife from his hand.

"Empowerment!" Mary F. yelled, recalling the brief time in her Self Defense for Women class, before she dropped out. D.B. Jones, in a fit of shame and rage ran off into the night.

"I'll get you Frau Bella!" I could hear him calling back through the sobs. "I'll get you for blowing my operation!"

Lover...

So I went to a party last Saturday night, some bougie Hollywood type producer party. There was lots of Goldbergs and Weinsteins there. I looked fabulous, of course, effortless on my part. My new hairdresser, Christina [I had to fire the the retarded one, Mary], really out did herself. Though she kept wanting to give me a bikini wax, like she was really insistent on it. I was a little creeped out and declined.

Anywho, so I'm at this party, and of course, everyone wants to put me in their films. Seriously, Imp the new Hepburn. I have to play it coy, mostly because I am. I'm in the middle of chewing out Spielberg, when I have to excuse myself to the restroom. Seriously, he should be paying me back for that shit-fest War of the Worlds. I find the ladies room, and there, slumped over the toilet, is a strapping young lad. Its hard to tell if he is cute or not, with his face shoved in the bowl heaving, his curly blonde locks further obscuring his face, but I decide to take a gamble and try and console him.

When he is finally done, he stands and thanks me. Kinda of a strange guy, as he had two little red dimples colored in on his checks, but these Hollywood type parties of full of weirdos, so I didn't hold it against him. Besides, he was still kinda cute. He said his name was Sam with his cute little British accent. I swoon.

"Sam! You're a wreck, let me take you home before somebody takes advantage of you!" I tell him. He seems quite grateful. Frau is gonna get some tonight! Well, I finally get him home and he slumps over on the sofa and passes out. Fucker.

The next morning, when he wakes, I find out he isn't even British, he's Australian. I ain't dating some penal colony reject. So when he asks me out for breakfast, I had to promptly give him the boot to the curb. So yet again, poor Frau doesn't get a piece of the pie. Freaking Australians.

Maybe I'll call him...

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.

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.