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.

No... I wasn't detained at Gitmo...

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…

Olympic Gold... kind of...

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.

Remember... Vote Frau!

Being the Paparazzo is hard...

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.

The Newest Scoop

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…