Swindlers and Hustlers

It comes as no surprise to me that it has taken so many years for Sirs Michael "mike" Myers and the Farrelly Sisters to come up with new projects, waiting for the statute(s) of limitation to run on my purportedly non-copyrightable ideas that they or their asshole colleagues blatantly stole. (i.e. mini-me and solidified cum).

I cherish every moment of their inevitable demise.

My so-called "unfounded" accusations are limited to the names that are mentioned herein.

So sue me, fuckers.

I totally forgot what I was going to say!

I was texting a friend while I was in Aleggebra class, but it didn't matter because the teacher doesn't teach us shit anyway (pardon my french).

So I spent my time in class cell-texting my friends (I borrowed someone else's cell-phone; unfortunately I wasn't wearing gloves or diapers, because the experience gave me an immediate case Swine Flu or Ebola, I'm not sure which).

I do not own a cell phone, because they are forbidden by my religious cult of choice -- Polygamous Mormanism. I am a deceiptful member, and I shall go to Hell. And I shall Enjoy It.

At least I didn't lie to Oprah.

Whatever.

Back to me. At least I don't have to work out or go to the gym or run or bike or work the treadmill to stay in shape. Or try to run a fucking marathon. Or try to be more "black" so I can get on more covers of more shallow magazines that promote diets that I do not and will not endorse.

I recommend a minimum of 5,000 calories per day, and no exercise whatsoever.

My previous idol was a golden fat Buddha at the Buddha Bar (back when I was a lass).

My new idol is Andrea Dworkin.

Take that to the bank.

My Old Lesbian Haircut

It is true that I used to be a "lipstick" lesbian, by which I mean (Wikipedia definitionologists aside) most people assumed I was a heterosexual slut and barfly.

I am a slut, but no longer a barfly. My only heterosexual experience was with a runway model at JC Penney in the local mall. And even that probably doesn't count since I didn't so much lose my virginity as I did claim it.

He or She strutted His or Her Stuff down the catwalk to the drumbeat of the local high school badass band, and I was momentarily smitten, perhaps not by looks or fashion-gear so much as by the hefty amounts of talcum powdered coke that I had just inhaled (Yes, I inhaled), as well as the mushrooms that I had mistakenly assumed were somewhat kosher.

So smitten was I, that I decided that androgyny was not nearly as cool as having tattoos all over one's body. So my date and I went to an unlicensed Tijuana tattoo parlour and I had cupids and hearts and cherubs tattooed all over my breasts, back, thighs and ankles. I also got some piercings.

Everything had to be goth, and remains so to this day. I shall never forget that unforgettable experience, and I enjoy reliving it with every dose of marijuana that I take every sixteenth of every momentarily waking hour. If you do the math (I had to borrow a calculator) that comes out to 3,000 "hits" a day, not including weekends.

Cheers.

P.S. the haircut. I used to look like Angelina Jolie, if she were female.

My New Lesbian Haircut

Good Shylock that I am, I went to "Costcutters" and they still charged me ten bucks to shave my goddamned lesbian sideburns and leave me with a flop of long wavy Jewish brown hair on top of my oversized head. I immediately went home and bleached a prominent lock and dyed it bright blue, circa 1997. Not bad, considering everyone still calls me "mister."

In an alternate universe not too many light years away, I wouldn't need to shave my pits and pubes and legs or cut and dye my hair or wear a corset.

I would be Rizzo, stuck bored and childless and ageless at age 35 but still a teen forever and ever. That's who I aspire to be: a disgruntled butch dyke bitch with few hopes and fewer dreams. Except wet ones.

Thank you, Lizabeth Scott.