What Happens in Real Life Not Reality

The liquid was coarse, dark and terribly over processed, but it was heaven to someone who hadn't slept in twelve hours. Josephena sipped her cup of coffee, taking a moment to reflect on scrawling message in her lap. The crisp piece of printer paper crackled loudly as she gripped it for some measure of reassurance. It was only paper, and it offered nothing but the message it bore. Stop This Article. Stop it or you will die!

Josephena had discovered the message left in her email box directly after her meeting with her partner and editor. At first she'd merely considered it one of many messages that would undoubtedly appear once news spread that she and her co-writer were collecting several revealing articles on Celebrity. The gossip mill was always working overtime in this industry, but on further examination, it seemed that this particular message wasn't sent by a jilted starlet, or any company therewithin, but originated from somewhere else entirely. She couldn't explain it exactly, at least not in a way which would make sense. She, however, had an eerie feeling that this was only the beginning of something more to come.

As she sat tucked away in the back of the De-Nile Cafe, pondering her new found fears over terrible coffee, she wondered for a moment, if perhaps she might be over-reacting. Rebecca had warned them both that no one in this town enjoyed bad publicity, but they had merely laughed it off. Who didn't enjoy publicity, bad or good? In this town everyone was clamoring at the chance to start a scintillating rumor. It was the foot-in-the-door for a reality show, or line of slinky lingerie. Why would anyone care if they printed a collection of articles? It was press, it was media, it was exactly what they all wanted.

Although, looking down at the crisp piece of paper, now slightly crimped by her anxious fingers, she couldn't help wondering if all this work would ultimately put her in a place where her next headline might read "Drowned in bad coffee, dead before she made her mark."

Shaking her head in an attempt to banish her collective fears, Josepehena decided that she had to get to the bottom of this. And what better place to start, then with her partner and their work. Somewhere in there, might lie the key to this new mystery.

Filthy

Someone save me.

I'm sorry. I'm the cliché. I'm exactly what they said I would be.

It all started so innocently. I was a cute baby. No really - I was damn cute. Some producer was in our hometown to bury his Great Aunt and my big sister was pushing my pram up the sidewalk. His name was Jacob Diamond and the sleeze stalked us all the way home. He insisted on talking to my parents - who were in the throes of a messy argument that had them about two minutes from filing from divorce. They signed a contract and sealed up my future. Saved their marriage for about three years, but that's another story.

They mostly used twins, due to child labor laws, but I was a natural and it was just as easy to use me for the real shots and stick some stunt baby in the background for the rest.

The show was a ratings darling and so was I. The older I got, the more they loved me. I was making more money at four than the rest of the cast; I had my own line of dolls, books, toddler clothes.

I was already an empire when the show folded after ten years on the air.

I remember reading the stories of Drew Barrymore & Maculay Culkin, or hearing about all those 80s child stars and how they ended up disillusioned, robbing 7-11 stores and smoking crack.

I vowed that I wasn't so stupid. My parents were equally as fucked up as theirs, but I was my own person (at eleven). I was rich, famous, adored by the masses. And I knew I wouldn't end up like them, snorting coke off some tranvestite hooker's ass outside the Viper Room.

It was crystal meth in some Spic's trailer in East LA for me.

Drunk in public at twelve. Caught smoking pot at thirteen with my co-star and lover, who was nineteen and playing my older brother in some crappy movie that ended up in the dollar bin at Walmart within two months of release. Arrested for possession at fifteen. Slapped with a DUI at sixteen and my license revoked. First stint in rehab came right after that. Sure, I laid low for a few years, got clean.

Then I made a majestic comeback in a new Jacob Diamond sitcom. Ran for five glorious seasons during which I spent the end of my teens and the start of my 20s so drunk or high that I couldn't remember my lines and was generally a slutty bitch to everyone involved. Still, it worked for the character I guess and the royalties from syndication keep me in booze and pills.

Or they did 'til my fucking business manager ran off to Brazil with my mother. And took every damn dime I ever made.

You don't even wanna know what I did to keep myself flush in the dark years. The ones when everyone that matters forgot my name. The ones that are all a blur.

You really don't want to know what I do now, just to survive. Most days are clear, and I wish they weren't. More drugs to take away then pain, they'd be welcome. Hurts so much just to breathe most of the time...

Someone save me, if you will. And take away all these pills.

I think they wrote that song about me. Or for me.

Someone save me.

Someone.

Anyone.

Please?

Pitchin' It Out of the Field

"I've got it! Okay, okay...just listen to this!"

It's a story about a wayward girl who gets caught up in a mystery. Kinda like Adventures in Babysitting meets The Terminator. There will be kids. It will be a kids movie. Kinda like Narnia meets Mr. and Mrs. Smith. I'm thinking that we will start out with a large explosion and some very emotionally charged music. Yeah, yeah. Kinda like X-men meets James Bond. That's it!

We will have to have an A-list actress. I'm thinking Sandra Bullock. Kinda like Speed meets Dangerous Liaisons, only for kids. Come to think of it Sandra would be a perfect mom. I'm thinking Dakota Fanning as the girl.

I'm thinking we will pitch this to Disney. Those guys over at Bunea Vista will eat anything up. They love a kids movie with an edge. There will most definitely be some animation. Kinda like Enchanted meets Finding Nemo with a little bit of Final Destinations thrown in for good measure.

Of course I'm talking about making an epic picture. We will need locations. I'm thinking Britain and Zimbabwe. Harry Potter meets Out of Africa. Are you seeing this?

And there will be a twist. There is always a twist. The girl is going to find out that she is a robot, but it's a funny thing. Kinda like Artificial Intelligence meets Harold and Kumar.

But it's smart. There will be lots of good, witty dialogue. I'm thinking something like Juno meets 28 days later.

Of course we will have zombies, who doesn't like zombies. In fact I think that the girl will have a best friend who's a zombie, but the zombie is animated. Kinda like Sherk meets Resident Evil. Isn't that good!

And we will have to have some really respected British actors. I'm thinking Ian McKellen and Patrick Stewert. Something like Lord of the Rings meets Star Trek, only instead of a spaceship I think we need an Eco-vehicle, you know to promote the environment. Maybe something like a super-Prius that runs on Denise Austin, you know the fitness lady, she always seems so psyched.

The bad guy? Oh yeah, we will need a villain. I'm thinking something dark. World domination. Or maybe the whole universe. Kinda like Star Wars meets Dr Evil from Austin Powers. That would be super dark.

And there will most definitely be a love interest. Someone like Brad Pitt, only younger, because the girl and her zombie best friend are going to fight over his affection. Maybe something like Thelma and Louise meets Cruel Intentions. Cause you know someone is going to get bitch-slapped.

And we are going to have to have a great director. Someone who knows how to keep the audience on the edge of their seats, like the guy who did the Blair Witch Project. Something like that and Aliens, with a bit of Shakespeare in Love. That's the director we have to find.

Oh, and we can't forget a lovable creature that wrecks havoc because they don't know any better. And plenty of sidekicks. Kinda like King Kong, Sex and the City and Cloverfield combined. But for kids.


That makes sense doesn't it?

Intermission: Hoodlumized

Uh oh.

We've been tagged. No no, not in the "tag! You're it!" way. In the "excessive and occasionally beautiful (though not in this case) use of spray paint and sharpies" way.

Check it:

Some people seriously make graffiti into art - or at least super-cool looking.

Sadly, I am not one of them. Apparently though, I think my own website is both Lame, and Poopy.

Go me.

That is all, carry on.

/End Intermission

(Source: Paint That Sh*t Gold.com via DListed.)

Confessions of a Digital Artisté

Retouching, that's what it used to be. A little camoflague here, a little extra color to dull eyes there. Maybe fixing a little smudge issue or covering a blemish, but that was it.

The photograph was the art.

The make-up and lighting artists were the wizards behind the scenes.

Nowadays, its all digital collage - this woman's head on that one's body. Her arm is too fat, slim it down! Her neck is too wrinkly, smooth it up! She's got crows feet, he's got drunk-eyes. She's looking haggard at fifty years old, let's make her look forty- no, thirty! No wait- make it twenty.

And why you're at it - her hair is too yellow. Our readers prefer her as a redhead. Ugh, and that skirt is hideous! Why did they dress her in tangerine for a November cover? Morons! Make it a nice chocolate color.

Its not just National Enquirer and the other supermarket rags that interchange body parts and the like to make a story. No. These days it's the so-called glossies that do it, the respectable mags too. Redbook and Cosmo and Better Housekeeping are just as guilty as US Weekly and People.

Once upon a time, people like the legendary Annie and Fredrick composed incredible images that were incredible images. They shot our idols and celebrities and they created Art of the mundane to grace the covers of our media.

And these days any old hack or pap can snap a shot, send it off to the Perez Hilton School of Photoshop and make the cover. What a crock.

No wonder the Western World is going down to Hell in a Handbasket.

Of course the hand holding the handbasket in that iconic image for later generations will be photoshopped into porcelain perfection before publication - our children's "Migrant Mother" will be a pink-cheeked, perfectly coiffed Katie-Holmes-clone with nary a wrinkle nor spot of dust despite her hardships.

Britney's Decsion 2008

Oprah wants Barack to win.

Oprah is pretty powerful. I better vote for him.

Jessica Alba wants Hillary.

Jessica is pretty, so perhaps that's the way I should vote.

Although McCain is supported by Arnold. He's so strong, and strong people always find some way to win a fight.

But smart people can out-think the strong ones. Oprah is smart. Perhaps Barack is smart. I should vote for smart people.

But Hillary is a woman. Woman need a chance. And Cameron Diaz says that woman need a voice. I like Cameron. Does that mean I should vote for Hillary?

Although McCain is old...and old people are smart. But Hillary is old too.

And Hillary was in US Weekly. That has to count for something.

But Barack was in Style. I like Style. I think I'm stylish, so why am I even considering any of the others. Oprah is stylish, and she wants Barack. I'm stylish, so I should vote for him.

He is kinda cute. Cute has to count for something.

Hillary is kinda pretty. I should probably vote for someone I want to look at.

McCain isn't very attractive. I guess I shouldn't vote for him.

But Micheal Chriton likes McCain. I've read all his books. Maybe it's best to go with someone who likes to read. I think I can read. Although Micheal Chriton isn't that hard to read. Maybe McCain isn't that smart after all.

Ellen wants Hillary. Ellen dances on her show. I dance really well. Hillary it is then...

But Oprah has more money. And that means Barack has more money. I like money, and I think our President needs to have cash on hand.

Although Hillary like gummy bears and Cheetos. I definitely like gummy bears and Cheetos. I also like soda pop. I wonder if she likes Coke or Pepsi?

That could make her fat though. I don't think I want a fat President. She couldn't fit into those Chanel suits that all leaders have to wear.

I don't really like Chanel suits.

Barack doesn't wear Chanel suits. I think he wears Hugo Boss...or Prada.

I should vote for someone who wears Prada....but it would be nice if he also liked gummy bears and Cheetos.

I wonder if McCain likes Cheetos.

I better do some more research.

I'll decide later...American Idol is almost on.

Now, who should I vote for tonight?

Deep Thoughts on the Red Carpet

Hand on my hip, swish 'em while I walk.
  Stop at the line, one leg in front of the other.
    Its slimming.
      Its sexy.
    Its-
  oh SHIT!
Almost fell.
  Good recovery.
    Tilt of the head, just so.
      Ah, that's it.
    Jeez! So many damn flashes.
  Half-blind.
Can't see.
  Shit!
    Fixed smile.
      Oh God. Hope there's no spinach in my teeth.
    They'll cruxify me again in the Tabs!
  Toss the hair, that's it.
Flaunt the new bag.
  Who made it? Fuck! Balenciago? Balengia? Ballywhoo?!
    Just smile and nod.
      Good, point to the little logo decal.
    The dress? Vera Wang.
  Of course I think red is my color.
Excellent.
  Oh yeah, I'm totally wearing it for 'the cause'.
    Which cause? Uh-
      I mean.
    Awareness, of course.
  For what?
Er- AIDS?
  That's right. AIDS Awareness.
    Mm-hmm. Its like a really big ribbon.
      Nod politely, step down the row.
    Gods, its like another hundred yards to the end.
  I think this dress is cutting off my circulation!
I can't feel my fucking FEET!
  Can't breathe.
    Cant' breathe.
      Deep breath.
    Is that the chick from E! - I think so!
  Get ready to smile.
And 3, 2...1... Flash it.
  Hand on my hip, swish 'em while I walk.
    Stop at the line, one leg in front of the other.
      Its slimming.
    Its sexy.

Interlude

"So you see Rebecca, we're not all fluff." Josephena gathered her papers together and stacked them neatly on her lap. "Contrary to what you might believe, Jezel and myself are bringing together countless important articles and subject matters for this project."

"Exactly!" Jezel reached over and squeezed Josephena's shoulder. "Thank you for pointing that out. I've been arguing with our esteemed editor about the relevancy of each and every one of these stories."

Rebecca folded her hands on her large desktop and narrowly eyed the two women in front of her. "I've said it before, I'm not throwing ashes in your eyes. I want this as much as you both do, otherwise I wouldn't have contracted it to you. Frankly, I think you both are the very best at researching these topics, and I think that the majority of what you've brought to the table is noteworthy and I'm completely willing to consider it." She paused.

"Yet, you aren't convinced that either of us are following your advice, right?"

"It's not that Josephena. I know you are entirely capable of acting on your own professionalism. But it's my job to trim the fat and tailor these collective pieces into something that I can present to my boss. I can't have him tossing anything out the window, I need to be absolutely sure where our direction is. I will be fighting for this in the office, just are you both are arguing it in front of me. I'm sure you can see my point."

"Of course we do, Rebecca, but you also have to compromise with us. We are busting our asses out there thumbing through all this information. Bear in mind that this isn't the final product. It's only a collection of options. We have plenty more for you to consider."

Rebecca couldn't help sighing. "How did I know you were going to say that?"

Jezel managed a small laugh. "It's your job. Just as all this," she motioned to the papers on the desk and in Josephena's lap, "is ours."

"Well, I figure we better get looking at what else you both have. I have to say that I very much liked that last piece from the doctor. We might be able to add that in at the end of the book to mark a severe transition, before we wrap up everything with the light Britney Pikes' Comeback."

"We aren't doing that," Jezel said.

"What? Why not?"

"Think about Becca. When we finally put this book out, who knows where Miss. Pikes will ultimately be. I dare to venture at her rate she could be six feet under. I highly doubt we want to send a dace-through-the-daisies story, when there is a very good chance she could be spiraling back down to hell again."

"You have a point. So, what else do you have."

Josephena reached into a Coach bag strung across the back of her chair. "I've saved the best stuff for last. Take a look at this....

Diagnosed with CHISIS

That's it!

I've had enough.

I've watched them flaunt their political views and their physical assets all over this town. Seen them parade their entourages from Rodeo Drive to The Farmer's Market, from Kazakhstan to Zimbabwe and London, too. Shopping in Milan, Tokyo, Paris, New York. Dancing in Ibiza, clubbing in Sydney, snorkling in Brazil. Working and filming and taking lunch meetings, working-dinners. Starring on Broadway or cameos on the small screen. And filing lawsuits for defamation of character and libel and tresspassing and invasion of privacy and even copyright infringement against every rag or legitimate mag to pop a shot that wasn't from a carefully designed photoshoot and photoshopped into oblivion.

Someone blogs about them? They call their lawyers.

Someone whispers their name in a private masturbatory fantasy? Better hope they're not listening, or they'll cry foul about their image being abused.

So that's it. That's the end.

I am officially making my diagnosis. To anyone in Hollywood or beyond who suffers from hyper-sensitivity, who can't take a joke, who believes they're better than anyone else, who only endorses free speech when its conveniant for them, who makes political noises for publicity or who sues irrationally because they think they matter - I'm talking to you.

Classic Hollywood-style Inflated Self-Importance Syndrome.

And damn it, there's but one cure - GET THE FUCK OVER YOURSELF.

Signed,

Dr. Emil Schuffhausen
DRS Clinic, Liechtenstein

Trashy Taria With Tourettes

Why do they all hate me?

I mean, seriously, I've done nothing wrong. JLo's Buttocks! I may be famous, but I got here on my own merits. It wasn't the casting-couch scenario that often accompanies great fame...that wasn't my path. I got here on talent, and talent only. Penis! So what if I'm a fantastic singer, or a great beauty. Does that make me wrong? It shouldn't. Pointy Boobies! But, I find myself wondering if the public actually likes to hate me, or is it something I've done? Jesus Christ My Pussy!

I try to go back...way back, to the time when I first got discovered. I was on a reality show 'America Embraces You (In a good way)'. I was the innocent one, the likable one and the honest one (at least that is what they told me). Somehow I don't believe them anymore. Cocksucker! Was it something they did? Did they start this avalanche of bad publicity? All those losers who couldn't hold a note, or dance the two-step. I bet it was them. Pussy!

It really doesn't matter now though. Grab My Snatch! Why just yesterday I was in the grocery store and while waiting in line, an old woman behind me starting talking to her friend.

"Poor girl," she whispered (although I heard). "Fell on some hard times. But it's her fault. All that flirting and snatching away other women's husbands. And the language!"

I wanted to protest. I should have. Large Penis! I haven't stolen any husbands. Enormous Piss slit! I haven't flirted...much. And yet the old woman stated the information as fact to her friend. As FACT. Filthy Cocksucker!

That's what I can't understand. No matter how well you live you life, if you happen to be a busty female, with an amazing smile and a winning personality, you are automatically filed away under 'floozy'. Dripping Cunt! You can save all the children in Africa. You can stop global warming and bring the price of gas down to a penny, and all they still see you for is your golden locks and plunging cleavage. Slippery Rod! I mean, I've been in several Lifetime movies alongside Sissy Spaceack and Sella I. Ward, dealing with the tragic circumstance of battered and abused teenage girls, who sell themselves to the African diamond mines (via Montreal Canada), and have many unplanned pregnancy. while hooked on smack. I thought films of that caliber would erase any idea that I was a good-for-nothing bimbet. Enlarged Vulva!

Alas, it doesn't seem that way. Why just today in the latest issue of 'The Rag' I was photographed itching myself in my no-no place. Honestly! I was trying to swat at a spider. I swear. Testicles! But, oh no. These filthy photographers sell this pic and without even consulting me, they print a large bold headline 'Trashy Taria with Tourettes'. I didn't know you could catch that in your no-no place. Penis Play!

Oh well, I guess I've done enough venting for today. Hopefully all those who read this in my book understand my plight. Roll around in my Vagina!

I am a good person. Dirty Cocksucker! Really I am.

The Depriciation of Wit

No one appreciates wit anymore.

Intelligent, funny, sharp - but not bitter, like a good cheese that bites your tongue and leaves you hungry for another piece.

They all want one of two things: bitchy, snarky, angry, dumbed-down-ADD-style reporting of pseudo-facts and smutty allegations, or cheery, flowery wholesome God-loving, country-fried-smarm.

I can't write spite-filled, venomous articles - I'm not a shriveled little shrew with a black heart and garlicky soul. (P.S. If souls taste like garlic, order me up a big bowl of it! MMmm I love garlic)

And I won't write puffy, fluffy drivel about pink baby bonnets and the la-la lovey-dove lifestyle of the rich and braindead because, well, I would choke to death on my own self-loathing in minutes.

But to make it in this world, you have to pick a side and stick to it. And since wit don't pay the rent, I'll keep my smart, humorous eloquence to myself and get paid for whatever slop I can churn out.

Man, maybe its time to start my own blog.

Lead Me On

"Jesus Christ, Jezel! You've wasted the last four hours subjecting me to all these article clips. Irony is a cold-hearted bitch, Lunch with a Troll? The Harder they fall? De-Illusions of Gran dour? These are all outrageous! The interviews, exposes, conspiracies and clearly editorialized celebrity subjects. Look at all this! And for what? As I look back over these I can't find anything that will make a noteworthy book!"

"You evidently aren't getting the point."

The brown haired woman behind the desk shakes her head. "Not getting it am I? Well, frankly I don't know what I'm suppose to get. Look here," she indicates a short blurb called 'The Other Side of Elegance'. "What is this suppose to be? An April Fools joke? A serious look into the work that goes into creating an image? Garbage? I don't see what angle this is taking. Is it funny? Is it suppose to be classy insights? I don't get it."

"Becca, listen. There isn't one way to take this. You told me yourself you wanted to have Josephena and myself collect a series of random articles and find some way to make them relevant for this project. We've kept the focus on Hollywood, on the behind-the-scenes and in-front-of-the-camera works. They don't have to make sense, they don't have to be about the same person. They are simply insights; some funny, witty, clever and others a bit scary."

Becca sighs. "Look, Jezel, I know what I said. It isn't as if I'm cutting apart the entire project. I just thought that you and Josie would find a bit more substantial pieces. I mean really...look at this one 'Addicts in the Woods'. I don't even know who this Megan Cornswallow is, and I hardly believe that Carrie Underwood is this Carlos figure. Have you checked any of these facts out, or are you both just going to fill up an entire volume with sensationalize crap?"

"Now Becca, that's being a bit harsh. You know that we can't fact-find everything that we bring in here. Neither of us are sure what is going in the book and what is going to be junked. We can't waste our time looking into all these allegations."

"What about this?" Becca indicates another article. "Paps day out? Paps? Who calls them paps anyway? Are we all going to get our breasts examined while they take pictures?"

"Possibly."

"Jezel."

"What? You asked a stupid question and I returned the favor."

"But come on, can't you even give me a little leverage with this? We are only in the preliminary stages anyway. You have to give me something with a bite that isn't attached to a glorified zombie monster."

"A what?"

Becca sighed again. "You know what I mean. I want something real, not some hocus pocus maybes. I don't want to release something and have it splattered all over the E! channel in the same vein as Keeping up with The Smarsmashins."

"Well, I do see you point on that one."

"Good, then let's stack these over here," she produced a file folder and tucked the pile of papers neatly away. "And let us look at what Josie has." Becca hit the intercom button. "Lola, is Josephena in the building yet?"

"Yes, Miss Speilberg Plutersmith, she just arrived. She's in the elevator now, would you like me to have her go in when she gets up here?"

"That would be wonderful, Lola. And if you don't mind, I would like you to call the Doggy Daycare and let them know that I won't be picking up Evian and Aquafena for another couple of hours. I think I will be here for a while."

"Very good, Miss Speilberg Plutersmith."

Becca turned to Jezel. "Well, hopefully Josie has brought some more material that errs on the side of believability."

"Honestly, Becca, you can be such a bitch."

Becca eyed Jezel, her lips curling into a lovely, gleeful grin. "Honestly Jezel, this is Hollywood. "

The Other Side Of Elegance

Its not all just photoshopping, you know? There's a lot, I mean a lot of hard work by real people. Yeah, I never did understand how girls in the real world want to go around trying to acheive this stupid, shallow - not to mention super-phony - level of so-called beauty. They simply can't. It can't happen.

Okay, so weeks before they walk down the red carpet, maybe even full-time if they're important and rich enough - there is the diet. Personal trainers every day, working out for upwards of two or more hours. There is a personal chef or dietician or someone delivering healthy food.

Then there are the professional, movie-quality make-up artists painting every visible inch of flesh. No shit, they paint and primp and curl and shellac everything to Barbie-doll perfection. Mink eyelashes to get that perfect, non-spider-eye look. Can't get really plump, long Hollywood lashes with Cover Girl Mascara no matter how many celebrities show up in their crappy-ass commercials.

Tape and corsets and all sorts of binding go into making those dresses fit just so and stay on. Custom-made hairpieces to fill-out that glamazon style, borrowed jewelery, borrowed handbags and just about everything else. Not to mention the soft lighting, filtered lenses and just the miracle of good-angles and a talented photographer.

All that BEFORE a single artist touches his pixelated brush to the photograph.

Yeah, its a lot of work to keep the A-, B-, and C-list looking their best. Hells, if my petition every went through and we stopped portraying these bitches as perfect models of natural beauty the economy would sink and hundreds of people, thousands maybe, would be out of work.

*cough* Uh, I mean... April Fools'. Of course those gals are naturally beautiful. Perfect by God's touch.

Results May Vary

"Joan Lake...Melissa...can you both just start from the top. Read down till the end, but go ahead and read the parts left for Sissy Spaceack, she is auditioning for another Lifetime movie, but promised to be in before we air. Remember we are QVC, so make it sound good!"

"Go ahead whenever you are ready."


So you want to be a star?

Well do I have a message for you. Just think, in two weeks...just fourteen days you too can ride the roller-coaster of fame, up and down...up and down...and up.

That's right, if you act now all this can be yours. (hands to indicate the package laid out on the table)

And more.

All you need is this Star Career In a Box package, and you will be tasting the salty serum of success!

That's right. This SICAB includes none other then the same bottled libation that sent Lidsay Mihand to rehab, and T-shirts to be worn as mini-dresses (without panties preferably), and crack pipes, video cameras, plastic surgeons numbers...

(Insert funny reference to surgery)

Oh, mom you are horrible. But act now and we can also include this fantastic leather couch...for all those exhausting auditions you will be going on.

Wow! You can't be serious. All that?

And more.

We aren't kidding. This SICAB is just oozing out the juices of stardom. There are even instructions to figure which paparazzi you should have act as your boyfriend, or who you should blame if you can't sing, or what little jig works best if you forget the lyrics to your own song.

It's was tonsillitis I swear!

(Laughter)

So, get on your phones now and call in your order, these SICABs are already being picked...as the only thing you will need to reach the top.

That's right. And if you act now, we will throw in this amazingly beautiful red string recently imbued with the powerful energy of a hot starlet.

Wow! I can't believe you get all this and the red string imbued with energy from a starlet. And at only 19.99! It's a steal.

No, Sissy, it's a SICAB. The only thing you will need to ride the roller-coaster of fame up and down...

Down and up.

And up and down. For only 19.99.

(Laughter)


"Excellent ladies! That was wonderful! I think we are ready."




Results may vary.

The Heiress & Her Faith

Framed by a bar at the bottom of the screen that reads, "London Redlion: Star of The Rustic Life, recording artist, handbag designer", the young woman with her dyed blonde hair and blue contacts hiding her natural brown eyes sits before a bright white background with a single red loop of string off-center.

"Gosh, I hate interviews! But they're so necessary - so that all my wonderful fans get to hear the truth and the realness right from my own lips.

"You know, its so hard to be really real and honest when the media is always watching and like, scrutinizing every pound and every word, but like, I want to share the really real 'me' with the world. I mean, that's why I'm an actress and singer and model and you know, a triple-threat and stuff.

"So that's why I'm here today - you know, to share the really real me and like, totally more importantly - to share the Message. Right, with a capital M - the Message.

"You see this little red string, right? Its like the most important fashion accessory you'll ever need. Because its a symbol and stuff, about faith and the truth and about love and you know, everything. I know you've like seen other people wearing them and bringing this like, ancient Message to the forefront. Its like all the good parts of being a Jew - except the whole holocaustical thing, ugh - and all the mysticalness of magic.

"No body really knows what the truth is, okay - that's why you have to buy the books and the string and study. We all gotta figure this stuff out. So, I'm here with Kabbucksala International, right? And if you call now, for just three simple, easy payments of $39.95, you too can like, hear the Message. And if you call 1-888-RED-ROPE, that's 1-888-733-7673. So call now and we'll even give you a free gift!"

Editor's Note: London Redlion's endorsement of Kabbucksala and her informercial, spelled the downfall of the celebrity and pop culture's shallow fascination with an ancient religion. Pretty much like everything else she ever touched, it died. Except the crabs, of course, because they just won't go away. Ever.

Anything Goes

"Praise you Jesus!"

Her crimson smile radiated sincerity as she threw up her hand in front of her face, praising her new found religious awakening. I provided a moment to relax back into the conversation, and she resisted another joyous proclamation.

"So, life is better for you now that you've completed the Pauly Shore For the Lord program?"

She nods enthusiastically. "I haven't felt this good since I won my first Oscar."

I resist the temptation to point out that her Oscar was reclaimed after her recent drug bust. Instead I found another direction for our interview to travel. "Your kids are finally back in your life?"

Again she nods. "Praise you Jesus! Little Willy Cruz, Selania, Balad, Le'thesia, Stick, Spot and their sister Jamacia are finally back. This time it's for good. No more late night Child Services visits, not anymore."

"So, you are sure this is the last time that you will be on the wrong side of the fence, so to speak?"

"Barbra, let me tell you how it is. I was lost, but I was found by His Holy Spirit. I took the train bound for Crackville, but the Lord derailed me in the town of Salvation."

I smiled and try desperately to hold back a small laugh. "What about the prostitution? I've heard it's terribly difficult to break the habit of walking the streets at night."

Her long brown hair falls over her shoulders as she shakes her head. "I won't be selling myself ever again. I took a long look at myself while taking the program, and I saw a skank hooked on the junk, selling herself for a hot dog and charm bracelet. That wasn't who I wanted to be, and that's not who I am."

"Who are you then? Who's the real Katie Cruz?"

"A talented actress," came the quick response. "A devoted mother and disciple of Christ."

"So you are telling me that none of the last seventeen years will creep back upon you?"

"No," she strikes back. "Absolutely not! I am a wife of the Almighty now, a concubine of the Heavens."

"Really?" I can't help the tone of sarcasm.

She eyes me shrewdly, but it comes across as confusion. "Honestly, Barbra Malters, the program changed my whole way of thinking. I am valuable." She pauses for a moment and looks around. "Is it okay to smoke in here?"

I shake my head. She looks slightly annoyed. I let it pass.

"What about your husband? Isn't he against this new religious path? We all know how much he enjoys his own faith."

"He can suck it! I'm through with him!"

I can't help a moment of shock. "Are you saying that you are no longer with Tom?"

She nods. "After he brainwashed me, and pimped me out to his other Scientology pals I just couldn't go back to him. All of my problems stem from marrying that bastard."

"Are you saying that he was whoring you out?"

"Uh yeah. And he made me not wear panties when I got out of cars, and hit parked cars with umbrellas."

"That's hard to believe."

"Barbra, are you going to believe someone who jumps on couches and makes silly youtube movies or me?"

"Katie this isn't about what I believe. This is about your comeback."

She nods quickly. "You are right." Another pause. "Are you sure you can't smoke?"

"Yes."

She sniffs suspiciously.

"Are you alright?"

"Uh yeah," she response.

"So, what's your next move now that you are reformed?"

Her eyes shift nervously. "I think I've said too much. I shouldn't of mentioned him. Don't you feel it?"

I shake my head. "I don't know what you are talking about."

She sniffs again. "Don't tell me you can't feel that? It's like eyes on me all the time. Oh Jesus!" She lifts her hands and starts to pray. Suddenly her eyes look directly at me. "No Barbara! You are one of them!"

"One of who?" I respond, immediately realizing that this interview was winding into dangerous territory.

"He's already gotten to you! Oh Dear Lord save me." She starts to sway back and forth in her chair.

"Calm down Katie. I don't know what you are talking about."

Suddenly she launches herself at me, and we both go down in a pile of silk pillows and sparkly evening wear. In an attempt to push her off of me, I grabbed her hair and it comes off in my hand. A wig?

"Security!" I scream.

"You are one of them!" Katie continues to scream. "One of them!"

Two large men pull the former Mrs. Cruz off of me and haul her away kicking and yelling. "Save me Jesus. Save me from them all!"

After composing myself, I nod to the camera man. "Did you get all of that?" He nods. "Good," I respond. "That should take care of that problem."

My cellphone comes out and I immediately dial. "It's done."

"Very good," comes the menicing response from the other end of the phone. "That's one less bitch I have to deal with. Now commence with phase two."

"Yes, Master Tom."




Hey, it's show-business. Anything goes.

Delusional

"Pfft, whatever! Like, I know people are jealous and stuff, but like, I don't know why they are always lying about me and stuff," she says haughtily, flipping her short, brittle blond hair and rolling those famous bi-colored eyes.

"What do you mean they lie about you, Kelly?"

Kelly Bozwich, a minor celebrity and gossip-rag favorite target, just stared across the table at me. Her pouty lips agape, the unusual coloring of her eyes hard to see because her pupils were so wide.

"Well like, you know, they all print pictures of me - that are totally doctored - like, on a computer - and say all these terrible things about like, how I'm anorexic or bulemic or tanorexic or too skinny. And I'm like, whatever, I am beautiful bitches!"

Kelly is referring specifically to a story we ran just three weeks ago in which the headline read: Anorexic? Bulemic? How Hollywood Starlets get Scary Skinny. Frankly, I think she should be glad to be in print period, its not like her career is going anywhere. Or her love life.

"I have to change my whole life around so like, the photogs can have proof that I do eat. You know? I mean, this is totally off-the-record, right? Girl-to-girl?"

I just smile at her, disarming her with my Midwestern innocent charm. Works everytime on these spoiled Hollywood types. Her publicist asked me to print all the sordid details, a rare request but one I am happy to fulfill. This tell-all will be the cherry on top of my portfolio. No more third-rack gossip mag for me, I'm going straight to the top! People, Us, OK! - I'm coming for ya.

"So, it takes a lot of work to get this body. I work out like, thirty minutes every day, seven whole days a week, you know? I eat a whole lemon in my morning tea - well, some in the tea and some I just suck on. I heard it helps keep your lips puffy and puckered. I swear, like, it really works too. Reneé Wallzeiger swears by it and she's got the biggest sourpuss in Hollywood!"

It really does take all my willpower to bite back mirth at that little snipe, but I truly think she meant it as a compliment. My humor is quickly quelled, however, as she gets into the nitty-gritty of her daily routine.

"Anyway, like I was saying. I get up early, like eight a.m. and do my thirty minute of yoga. Sometimes I fall asleep though, its just like, so relaxing. And then, like, I have breakfast tea and my lemon. No sugar though, sugar is like, so bad for you! Hmm. I usually do stuff in the daytime, like shop or read or wait for my agent to find me a job, and then I go out in the afternoon. No, I never eat anything during the day. Ugh, makes me so bloated!"

Try as I might, I cannot imagine this 5'8" waif being bloated. But I suppose at 97.5 pounds, she would notice any little bulge. Its got no where to hide, afterall.

"I totally make sure that I eat dinner at somewhere famous though - like the Ivy or Masuharu's sushi. I have to get photographed eating a big meal at least twice a week or they start printing stories about me being too thin. Like, I'm not like Callista Hartflock was back in the Ally McVeal days. Ew! Or Marie-Kay and Ashleigh Oldson. With all their bones sticking out and stuff. So gross! I'm just about the perfect weight right now. These last few pounds are really hard to lose, but I'm almost right. Don't you think so?"

Delusional is the word that springs to mind, but I cannot tell her that. She is skeletal, at least as scarily so as the women she mentioned in her tirade. When the interview is over and she stands up to leave, its all I can do not to cry for her. How does she function? How do those toothpick legs support her at all? How can she not see the razor-sharp clavicle, the shoulder bones protruding, the fact that I could count her ribs through her shirt and I can see her vertebrae as she walks away?

As soon as she's gone, I order a plate of double-cheese lasagne and two slices of cheesecake and eat them for her. I almost feel badly enough for the kid that I won't write this snarky tell-all.

Almost.

Changes in Fame -- A loose story of my life.

My name is Sally Struethers, and I use to be a big star. Now, I'm writing this blog in order to warn those that try to pursue the lofty heights of fame, what happened to me, and what awaits them at the top.

Yes, that was me acting alongside the infamous Archie Bunkner. Seven glorious years of All In The Family, and a family we were. It was the hey-day of television viewing. The young and old alike use to gather around the glow and sing my praises. I wore fur coats (before fur was a crime) and I had a body to die for. I once heard that men use to take my glossy 5 by 7s into the bathroom with them, but I always wondered why that was. I was naive too. Naivety that got me in trouble.

The industry wanted to capitalize on my fame. They offered me roles on all sorts of sitcoms. Charlies Angels -- Dressed to Kill, Leave it in my Beaver, and Three is Company --so join us. Those were just a few. Although, I turned down most of what was offered to me, I did manage to eek out a few memorable made-for-tv movies. The most popular was; When I Sleep With Murder, I Wake Up Dead. It was a masterpiece in my opinion, but that was because I also directed it.

But those days passed quickly, and I found myself out of work and desperately looking for something to put me back on top. A friend of mine mentioned that I might look into Charity work. Africa was front and center in the news, and I quickly boarded a plane to Ethiopia to join the famine cause.

It was heart-breaking work, but utterly fulfilling. However, I acquired a terrible habit when I was there on the front lines. The desperation that I had carried with me from the states played out on the dinner table. I was originally 85 pounds when I got on the plane bound for Africa (and that was before too thin was in style). I was told that in order to appeal to the audience sending donations to the starving children, I had to look like I wasn't the one starving. It seemed that I was stealing the spotlight away from the tragedy. People were actually sending food donations to me, and that wasn't what the charities wanted. So I started to eat. And Eat. And Eat.

I ballooned to a healthy 450 pounds, and was quickly fired for eating most of the donations sent to the starving children. In my defense, however, most of what was sent over was far too rich for the children to digest in their bloated little tummies. I merely didn't see why anything should go to waste. My bosses, it seems, thought otherwise. I was out of work again. And to add insult to injury, I had to be hoisted onto a cargo plane to get home, because I was too large for the passengers seats.

I made it back, however, and set to losing the weight. I tried all the fad-diets and failed at each one. I was on Weight Watchers, but failed to watch any weight fall off. No one told me that you weren't suppose to eat all the food at once, and then speed through the McDonald's drive up window for a night cap. Three Cheeseburger are only five points...times five...times a milkshake and large fries...divided by uh a case of apple turnovers...well, I failed, that's what I mainly wanted to say.

So, I finally succumbed to gastric-bypass surgery (years before Caral Wilson showed it all over the Internet). The weight just melted off. And I was back in business.

I started exotic dancing at a club down the street from my house. It was like the fame-bug bit me all over again (well, it could of been one of our regulars who bit me, but the fame part still stuck...well, it was sticky whatever it was...but I digress). I was popular again. And people came to see me from all over the Tri-State area.

Eventually that role lead to more promising parts in tasteful adult movies. Let's see, there was Dude Where's my Finger...Forest Crotch (one of my favorites, because the special effects had me in the Vietnam War naked!)...and there was Lord of My Crotch...and Brokeback on my Mountains...and Sally and Michelle's High School Reunion (that was gang-bang extravaganza)...and Aliens Vs Predators In my Crotch (I got to play an alien, that was fun)...and of course the one movie that nabbed me the AFA (adult film award) for best period piece...drum roll please....Crotch and Prejudice!

Again, I digress, but that was a thrilling time in my life. However, that too passed when I started to get too old for the industry.

So, I went under the knife and regained my youth, but in the process I turned myself into a completely different person. With a new face, I had to find something that I could do to put myself back in the spotlight. So, with much thought, a nifty shawl that I got from a fan, I started to dive into the world of crafts and delicate embroidered dollies.

So, basically what I'm trying to say to all of you who hope that your fifteen minutes will come, is be careful what you wish for. You may end up trying to reinvent yourself a thousand times over just to keep your time from running out.

I think the doorbell just rang.

Has it already been 30 minutes? Wow, I guess Dominos is on time. No freebies for me. But then they wouldn't just give ten pizzas to me anyway. Hey, a girl's gotta eat. And there aren't any starving children in this neighborhood...or at least in my apartment.

Anyway, look for me in the new line up of shows this fall. Even though you haven't heard of me yet, my new image is sure to please.

Just Tivo Martha Stewart.

Isn't that a great name? No more Sally, just Martha. A world of possibilites are open to me. And I intend to explore each one.

Is that pepperoni I smell? Gotta go!

Magnum Opus

I haven't seen the sun in three damn days.

My liquid diet is coffee not blood so I am sure vampirism isn't my sickness. All I can taste are cigarettes and the overflowing ashtray gives evidence of why. There's an empty bottle on my desk and its labeled "Gineva's Ever-Waking Pure Engery Riot-tabs". That probably explains why my hands are shaking so bad I can't even manage to light a damn cigarette.

Nothing to worry about. I made deadline - barely. The messenger will be here in five minutes or less. But, there it is, fresh off the printer and stacked ever-so neatly. One-hundred-six pages of cinematic glory condensed into standardised textual format.

Not another damn adaptation, no co-writer(s), no "here, fix someone else's mess and you'll get a line in the credits", nothing. This one is my baby, my own thoughts and vision, a true original piece of work.

Its a story of love and hate and redemption set in a Brave-New-Worldian futuristic dystopia. Clones and automatons and cyborgs and the sad, sad fact that its not about racial minorities anymore - white numbers declining in America as blacks and hispanics and asian numbers rise - its about the slow eradications of the Human race, about us creating our own demise and being out-numbered by engineered individuals. Its like, The Island meets Terminator 2: Judgement Day meets American Beauty.

Its a mother-fucking masterpiece. I'm gonna get a fucking Oscar for this one, baby! Or at least a Golden Globe.

Unless the producers... mangle it... beyond recognition... like they did with my pilot... and- Every other writer's magnum opus.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Damn it.

Fall from Grace

I once directed blockbusters.

I use to eat at Spagos.

I shopped at Barneys, and a Tailor shaped each article of clothing with all my measurements in mind.

I drank champagne with the high and mighty. I danced with women draped in glittery stones, and men callers came whenever I rang for them.

I was rich. I was famous. I was somebody.

I use to order room-service at the four seasons.

Chocolate cakes and tender meats, crisp salads and delicate cocktails that pleasantly stung the lips and warmed the stomach.

I ran charities for homeless dogs, and planned fundraisers for presidents. I drove around in a shiny new car every week, and twice on the weekends.

Plastic surgery was a phone call away, and old age seemed miles behind me. I was eternally young, eternally energized and eternally popular.

I was rich, I was famous. I was somebody.

I use to direct blockbusters. I had the world on a string.

Roberts? No problem. Jolie? Just say when.

They came when I called. They left when I flopped. Their ghosts still remain.

One hundred million was not enough. The studio wanted two. I use to splash up special effect, now I can't afford to affect myself.

They don't want me to be here anymore. My movies didn't soar, they told me. My movies cost too much. And I'm yesterday's news.

I use to direct blockbusters.

I eat at Wendys now.

I shop at Wal-Mart, and wear my clothes two sizes too small.

I eat leftovers from the fridge.

The women dance for me, but they are half-naked on a stage, tired and uninterested. The male callers hang up. I still waiting.

My room-service is take-out, the meat is tough, the salad soggy and the drinks always lukewarm.

The high and mighty don't remember me, the charities can't recall. I don't raise money for presidents, I only raise enough for myself.

The wealth is gone, the cars are gone. Old age finally found me, and I can't stop its wrinkled touch.

I look in the mirror and everything seems blurred.

I once was rich

I once was famous.

Now I'm broke and no one remembers my name.

I was somebody once.

I directed blockbusters.

I was somebody.

The cars. The homes. The life. The illusions of matter.



Now I direct porn.

Non-Disclosure

Just sign here, and initial here, here, there, and there. Turn the page, good. Sign there and there, then initial on the little lines. I've marked them for you, just keep going. Its pretty much on the same on each page. ... How many? Twenty-four, plus the addendum which is three more. Oh, and the forfeiture document at the end.
So they tell me:

1. You see nothing.


2. If you see something, you tell no one.


3. If you tell someone, you will lose your job.


4. If you tell someone and they pay you, you will be sued.


5. If you are sued, you will be pursued for payment until the day you die.

And then they tell me:

1. You hear nothing.


2. If you hear something, you tell no one.


3. If you tell someone, you will lose your job.


4. If you tell someone, and they pay you, you will be sued.


5. If you are sued, you will be pursued for payment until the day you die.

And then they tell me:

1. You will be available 24 hours a day.


2. You will be available 7 days a week.


3. You will not be required to be available on the following holidays: Your Birthday, Christmas, New Year's Eve, Independance Day, Thanksgiving, Easter, Memorial Day, and Labor Day.

Personalized the list just for me. You can probably guess just how honored I was. Oh! And then, get this, they tell me:

1. You will never serve the following brands and/or items: Tim's Cascade Potato Chips, Velveeta, Perrier, tap water, non-imported Vodka, raw Mango (including relishes), unorganic vegetables.


2. You will never purchase or include any "generic" brand ingredients.


3. You will shop exclusively at Whole Foods, Trader Joe or the Farmer's Market.


4. You will serve sushi once a week for six-to-eight people.


5. You will never take your meal with the family.

Hmph. If it weren't for the six grand a month they're paying me to be their personal chef...But, that's Hollywood for ya.

Addicts in the Wood

My name is Megan Sifter Cornswallow. Originally, I worked for a company that trained people to handle delicate group situations. Mainly our teams would work alongside Addicts, listening to them and offering a safe environment for them to confront their vices.

Recently, I finished my tell-all book -- Addicts in the Wood -- about my experiences with one particular group located in Hollywood California. Now, I realize that most people would find any revelations surrounding an Addict Group an extreme violation, but strangely enough, since none of my staff are actual doctors, the normal confidentiality agreements are null and void. And it's Hollywood, nothing is truly held in secret.

Nevertheless, I was enticed into spilling some of the tales spun in supposed confidence, because I couldn't sit idely by and allow one of my colleges to beat me to the punch. I figured I would give you all a taste in this blog, in order to entice you into running out to the nearest bookstore and buy buy buy.

One of the most shocking and possibly unbelievable stories I remember from the Addiction to Addictions group on 71st and Bovine, was a tale involving a rather attractive gentleman named Carlos Bigletter. Now Carlos was addicted to surgery...yes, plastic surgery. He told us all about his nose jobs and foot shaping, his lifts and tucks. Oddly enough from what I can recall, Carlos was not a bad looking man before the more serious operations, but hence the reason that he enlisted in our lovely little get-together. I'm not passing any judgment (at least not in this entry), but I sometimes wonder how people get so obsessed with changing themselves to fit a social mold. Most circles celebrate that which make us unique.

Carlos, however, wasn't interested in unique, but rather fitting in. He had so many operations that he felt he had to have. He listed the various new changes that he would eventually undergo. Face peels, skin bleaching and total body pulls. Some of these I wasn't even aware of, and most of the group found his check-off list a bit over the top (and that is coming from a group of Addicts). I, however, always remained completely above the circulation of gossip....well, until now.

Anyway, suffice to say, Carlos was a very interesting member, but it wasn't until recently that I realized how interesting he truly was. Several weeks after I rotated out of the group, I received an email that Carlos had stopped coming to the meetings. At first I didn't understand why this was such an important topic, but it was the last line of the email that truly sent me reeling.

It seems that Carlos had continued his operations, each one growing more and more extreme. Finally he dropped out of the social scene, stopped coming to groups, and completely disappeared off the radar. Strange huh?

Well, in the email I received, I was informed that Carlos had finally communicated to our head office, that he was so incredibly busy that he couldn't make it any longer. He thanked us for all of our support, but hesitated to go into any detail about what exactly had stole so much of his time. That was, until I read that last line.

Thank you everyone.
You really know how to support me.

Sincerely
Carrie Underwood.

I'm totally serious!

So, I guess Miss Thang is working her magic now. I just wish I would have known this when that season of American Idolizer was on. The whole show would have taken on a completely different light.

But, oh well. I just hope she can enjoy what she has and stop the surgical knife worship.

Hey, that's Hollywood for ya.

This Just In!

"You've Got Mail!"

I gave up on AOL a decade ago, but I always loved that little sound and I use it to this day in Outlook. Unfortunately, I hear it about ten-thousand times a day (no really, literally 10,000 times) because the tipline is always on and its always hot.

Ah, this one is really good, actually. An old friend and fellow blogger tipped me off to a scoop on one of the pap-photo websites. Snaps of our favorite child-star turned teen-queen turned slutty rehab-princess doing what she does best have just surfaced. A little retail therapy on Robertson Blvd., dinner with her ambiguously androgynous galpal-slash-rumored former lover, and caught in the act with a big glass of bubbly while hanging out behind the DJ station.

So I start typing, snarky and bitchy but funny, always funny and snag a couple shots from the set to highlight my story. Never more than a couple hundred words if I can help it. My readers aren't known for their long attention spans.

Before I even hit the "post" button, I've heard that fucking "You've Got Mail" beep at least three more times and my workday hasn't even started. I've got my finger on the pulse in Hollywood, I know all the dish before the celebs involved even know someone was watching. I've got eyes and ears all over that town and for a simple little byline (Thanks Mandy, for instance) at the bottom of the post - they'll fucking spill every little detail about whatever they spotted.

God, its a crazy, fast-paced, glitzy world and I am neck-deep in the scandals and parties and who's who of Hollywood and beyond. If you're famous, I'm watching you and writing witty little blurbs about how fat your ass is or who you're fucking, and in which bathroom stall you were caught with blow last week.

And I do it all from my two-bedroom apartment in Canton, OH.

God, I love the internet.

De-Illusions of Grandour

"Oh darling," she remarks, her cigarette burning a bit too close to her trout-pout. Her face is a thinly stretch canvas, without any emotional response. Her eyes are still fiery, but against the pulled skin, they seem sunken and unremarkable. Her hand waves dismissively, as she plucks the ciggy from her lips and douses it in a tumbler of gin she drained moments earlier. "I was the talk of the town," she continues. "I was the IT girl. On the cover of Vogue, Elle and any muber of other equally fabulous mags. They all wanted me. Chase, Heston...even Scooney wanted to be close to me." She sinks a bit deeper into the plush sofa, her body looking frail now, engulfed in frilly pillows and fur throws. "It was Sundance that really started me out you know," she says. "I was fantastic as the paraplegic hooker Romanoa in the inde movie Burning Bush."

I nod in agreement. She doesn't allow me to comment.

"Darling." Another cigarette appears and with a quick strike of a match, she conjures a wall of snaking smoke between us. "I didn't plan on acting. Originally I was only interested in modeling, but the industry makes decisions for you. At least that was how it happened in those days. I was so young then anyhow, barely nineteen. They called me the next Hepburned, and what can I say?" she smiled. "I was a natural. But," her smile fades. "The industry eats you, devours you, plays games with the left overs."

I open my mouth to retort. She waves her hand again mostly to clear the smoke, but partly she wants me to keep quiet.

"I know what you are going to say. And yes, there were plenty of orgies. Mary-Mary and Ashley Folsom, Colin Ferial, Britney Pikes...it was a smorgasbord of flesh. Parties completely devoted to swapping...or take-out as we referred to it. It was sinful!" She cackles with glee, and sighs reminiscently. "Good times, good times."

"Don't you believe behaviour such as that lead to your downfall? It is quite scandalous."

She squints her eyes, but aside from that, nothing else registers on her face. "Are you serious, my dear? It was that type of behaviour that kept me in the headlines for years. Well, that and my glue-sniffing addiction. I must admit, I was a wreck at that time in my life. Modeling gave me the foot in the door, but it was the film industry that blew me into orbit. Or maybe it was me doing the blowing." She breaks into another round of cackles. After a moment, she douses her cigarette in the tumbler and points a finger at me. "I was fabulous! You know it, otherwise you wouldn't have search me out for this exclusive. I'm still talked about, and I'm sure Scooney still yearns for the chance to have all of this." She gestures to her frail body and winks at me.

"I'm actually here to ask you..."

"Ask me about my brilliant stardom! I know I know, my dear. And it was brilliant. I stared with Sean Conneries, and I even passed on the elven queen Galaprill in the spoof of LOTR." She shakes her head. "Still wish I would have snatched that role up. I know you want me to tell you it all, but I simply don't have all the time in the world."

I shake my head. "Miss, I really have to stop you."

She looks at me startled, as if I have just offended her. "Stop me, darling! Stop me! That's what they all want to do. Stop me from being fabulous. Stop me from taking all the parts from them. Those little twatlets, those two-bit hangers with boobs. They all want to be real actresses."

"NO!" I shout, finally fed up. "I just wanted to ask you if you have accepted Jesus Christ as your saviour!"

"Jesus Christ? What the hell?" She lifts herself off the couch. "Aren't you from the National Buttinski? Aren't you here to document my thrilling life?"

"Uh, no," I reply. "I tried to tell you that at first. I'm with the local Jehovah's Witness Chapter."

She takes a sharp intake of breath. "The what! You are a what!"

"I'm a.."

"I know who you are. What the fuck are you doing in my living room?"

"You invited me in."

"I sure as hell did not! I'm a famous actress, not some commoner who needs to waste time with the likes of you." She reaches over and gestures me up out of my seat and literally pushes me towards the door. "Out. Out!" She shoves me roughly out the front door.

I'm dazed and confused as she slams the door shut in my face. I collect myself and reach into my bag retrieving a couple pamphlets, slipping them into the crack of the door frame. As I turn to leave, I hear her talking to herself on the other side of the entrance.

"They all want me. What can I say, they all want me."

I shake my head again and move towards the front gates. I meet up with a couple other fellow Witnesses. "What happened?" they ask, noticing my face.

"We are never coming to this retirement home again," I respond, and then stalk away, leaving them looking after me in confusion.

The Harder They Fall

His resume reads like a rap sheet; started off with some small-time commercials, little deals, fluff pieces and walk-ons. Equate those to the kid who tries his hand at shoplifting or joyriding. And then one big shot - BAM! - he's suddenly somebody. Maybe we can equate that movie to his first felony offense. It was the one that took him out of the minors and into the big leagues. Sure, he's still a d-lister, but at least he's on the list.


And then come the string of hits - BAMbamBAM! - he's getting acclaim from critics and peers. Like a thug getting his first kill, maybe, or orchestrating something big. He's hot. He's the one that both sides are chasing now.


Who gets him first? The ones that want him to fail - and they give it to him hard. Prison time. Don't drop the soap, kid. Showbusiness ain't for lightweights. Its a rougher world than any gangland warzone and the casualties are just as real.


But wait - what's this? He did his time, he slunk off to the shadows to lick his wounds, he took a little vay-cay. But there was someone lurking and they made him an offer he wouldn't dare refuse. Next thing he knows, he's at the top again. People fear him, people lick his boots, people want to be him and people want to see him fall.


Its inevitable, even for a come-back star like him. The brighter their star, the hotter it burns and the faster it twinks out. The bigger they are, cliché or not, the harder they fuckin' fall.


At least the paparazzi will be there to chronicle it all.

Behind Every Host

And were out for five!

I can't tell you what a joy it is to hear those words. Frankly, I should be thrilled to be where I am. Daytime talk shows are the 'in' place, they are dancing and joking and asking stupid questions. They are easy and a steady paycheck I might add.

And yet I'm still not interested in this day-to-day grind.

I fondly remember my sitcom days. The Fellen Degeneres show. How I played that escaped convict to a tee, goofy, but with heart. No one even batted an eyelash at the idea that I should own a book store, or be in love with my fellow escapee Page (played brilliantly by Lola Fischer). It seemed to work wonderfully, until I actually came out...and admitted that I was really an escaped convict. Then the FBI got involved, and the tabloids. I still have that issue of TIME magazine with -- Yep, I'm Guilty-- on the cover.

It took years to clear my name, and several weak stand-up routines in which I poked fun at my debacle by dancing on stage in a orange track suit, while several large women named Marg slapped my ass. At the time it was a hard life, a lonely life (even my relationship with Anne Heche Plutersmith fell apart). I somehow survived though, and after hosting the Emmy awards, I was back on top. Then came my next stab at sitcom life. Ellen Does It Right Show.

It was completely wrong though. Casting was horrible. My mother was played by Cloris Leaches, and my father was none other then Perry Sienfield Plutersmith – Lola's brother). We were cancelled after three episodes. And that was kind.

Anyway, I digress. Frankly, landing a gig on daytime seemed to be the perfect marriage of my need to get a laugh, and the industries need to put me somewhere with an audience...a sober audience.

And thus, through much dance and a few DJs later, I became the hit of the talk show circuit.

So, you would think I would be thrilled. The Fellen's and Friends Talk Show, gave me every opportunity to be liked...even loved by the public. I got a chance to interview Patrick Stewart about his sister Martha's time in jail (which I found hit so close to home). And, I saved a puppy from a nasty pound...oh, wait...that didn't turn out well did it?

Anyway, I should be happy. I've got a new babe, Porche De Flossy (she's Swedish) and a fantastic house on Mull-holla Drive, and several million in the bank. None of this satisfies me, though, because every night as I look in the mirror at myself, I still see the woman who would rather rob a bank then talk to Britney freakin' Pikes.

I would rather rob a bank...with guns and masks and tight black leotards, then do this crap talk show day in and day out.

But this, ironically, is the card I've been dealt.

We're back in five four three two one.

Que Applause.

Lunch with a Troll

She is sitting there so demure and fully clothed that you would never guess she was on the cover of every tabloid all summer last year - half-naked and drugged out of her gourd. Her eyes are clear, her make-up understated, and instead of a beer or ciggarettes, she's drinking sparkling water with a wedge of lime and I can just see the hint of a patch on her shoulder. I'd wager good money its a nicotine-quitting device.

Ugh. Such drivel. I've been informed (repeatedly) by her publicist that this is supposed to be a piece giving her good publicity and there is a laundry list a mile long of topics I cannot broach with the little troll.

"So Honey," I ask her and she bats those thick black lashes at me,"How has it been, working on this new film with Ang Fay?" And she smiles, wetting her lips and pausing for a dramatic moment before replying. "Oh its fantastic, Ang is truly such a talented director! There's no one like him in Hollywood - he cares about the craft, about the Art. Not just about the money."

Oh God. Its going to be one of those interviews. The newly reformed starlet thinks one good role in an actual 'film' (not just a "movie") is going to propel her into the stratosphere, earn her an Oscar, and make us all forget about the famous series of photos her ex-bodyguard published. You know, the ones that involved, her, a banana, two friendly acquaintences and revealed to America that she doesn't believe in panties or fucking on the first date.

I ask her if she feels that this film has stretched her as an actress and unexpectedly, she breaks into tears. "Playing Sadie in this film...I was transformed, truly. Ang was able to help guide me into a higher level of acting. I want people to know that I respect the craft and that I've come so far. This role is different than anything I've ever done, not just because she's a brunette, but because Sadie is such a complex, incredible character and I had to really alter myself at a basic level to reflect her nature. Its been a life-changing experience. I had to really delve deep into myself and dredge up all kinds of hidden motivations and memories to fuel my portrayal. Its just... it was beautiful."

Its a good thing our food hasn't arrived yet, because I know I'd have vomited my cucumber salad and choco-tini all over this fake blond, fake tan, fake boob-bimbette. Note to self : you should have taken the small-town reporter gig. Writing about tipped cows and redneck crimewaves can't be any worse than this shit.

Director's Cutting Edge

Cut!

It's the word, the only word that they seem to understand. Some are idiots, and I ask myself how they could have possibly been cast in my movie. My movie! I don't make dollar store crap, I don't direct flouncey boob movies...you know the kind where the heroine is always running up the stairs when she should be tearing out the front door while calling 911 on her sparkly pink Razr. I leave those two-bit productions to the lower class. I direct drama. Large budget, epic concoctions of grand perportion. Yet, in order to access the money, the industry wants a name. A name! As if I am not enough to sell a feature. I've won Emmys, People's Choice and SAG awards. Julia Foberts, they say. We must have Julia Foberts. And I daresay, I almost replied with a firm no. Who wants to see that smile with hair anyway? An Oscar award winner. Maybe ten years ago! If I put her in my movie it may appeal to the older crowd, but what about the younger generation? Give me a Red Johansen any day...or a Hillary Stanke. But they want Julia freakin' Foberts.

So, I get Julia. But she won't do it unless George Scoony is on board, and he won't commit without twenty million large. Then there are the make-up, gaffers, the Foley producers and a thousand writers. Just to make my movie. It's my movie!

What do they think they can do that could possibly enhance what I've already envisioned. In today's market it really isn't the actors that sell a film, but the effects. And I have plenty. I only wish I could write Julia Foberts getting nuked, but they tell me it wouldn't make the audience happy. I beg to differ.

And so here we all are, the blind and dumb. They race through the script like ducks quacking for food. I find it offensive. But I tolerate it all in order to preserve the art, in order to express the art. My art!

Action!

Irony is a Cold-Hearted Bitch

I bet that when you look at me, you think "Damn, I know I know him. Where have I seen that classically good-looking, rugged-yet-sensitive profile before?". Okay, maybe not exactly that - but you know I look familiar.

I'm the guy the hero shot while protecting national security and saving the girl at the very same time. Well, I'm one of them anyway. You catch a glimpse of me going down to the sidewalk with blood spraying from three perfect taps right to the heart. It hurts more than you'd think too, when good ol' Mark Herman blasts away with his fake service weapon. They always shoot to kill on that procedural - no chance for repeat appearances or future guest spots.

I was also the probie cop chasing down the bad guys with that lady librarian-turned-detective. You know you saw the movie. I got beaten to death with baseball bats and my death changed the lady librarian-turned-dectective's life. I bet you even felt a little sad when you saw how great a job the make-up chick did making me look dead.

Oh! I always in an episode of Vanished - you know, the one about the people on the plane that went down? I was in a flashback, but my line was cut and I ended up on the floor in the cutting room. Same thing with my appearances on According to Tim and How I Met Your Aunt. Them's the breaks though.

You know you know me though. You've seen me a dozen times or more. I've been in move feature films than Kirsten Drunkst or Orlando Blossom. I've done bits for fifty television shows and more than half of them actually aired.

I drive a 1998 Chevy Cavalier, share a cramped apartment on Vine with four people, work two jobs and still have to make time for auditions and guest spot performances. My Mom is in Arkansas and she's always begging me to come home.

Sometimes I think about it, but I can't leave yet - my agent just called and I'm up for a real part - second lead in a Jessica Pimpsome movie! Hot damn, my star is gonna RISE!

Stylists and the Rich 15 minute Bimbet

I want the brown extensions! Blonde is out, brown is in.

And you thought just running a comb through your hair in the morning would work.

Not in this town.

They come in, always on their cell-phones, always followed by an assistant holding a thousand bags. There is always a dog; a yipping little demon, nipping at my heels, always to the excited glee of the control-freak demanding MORE HIGHLIGHTS sitting in my chair.

Stylists, I say, unite, because if any one of us are caught out here on our own, these fifteen minute bimbets will chain us to our stations, casting one demand after another in our faces.

They all want the Jessica Pimpsome hair extensions, or the J-Ho scissor bob. They want caramel highlights. They want perfect hair. Perfect hair.

And I always deliver. Despite the whining, the sobbing, the begging or just plain demands; I pull through.

The catch is (besides the residual fame and loads of cash) much like a therapist, the stylist's chair is a haven for unloading all the day's heavy burdens. The stories I hear. The gossip that drips from the mouths of these silly little hens is enough to fill any great tell-all expose.

And, as all stylist understand. You do the hair to perfection, and always keep notes.

Yip Yip...

Neither Rain, Nor Snow, Nor Driving Rain...

Honey, pop out and get me a tall skinny macchiato and a non-fat, low-carb muffin with carob sprinkles, would you?

That's on a good day. Close to a "please" and definitely not a command. She can call me Honey if she likes, I don't mind. But God, I hate it when she makes me order those pathetic muffins with the carob dust sprinkled on top. Why? Because when she orders this in front of people it really means - bring a full-calorie Frappachino and a genuine Dakata Patisserie chocolate-filled croissant to her trailer on the downlow. Yeah... I'll be the one stuck eating that dried-out lump of sugar-free turd.

Sweetie, be a dear and take Harley & Chubbs to the groomers on West Third? They don't like the way that icky-wicky latina on San Fernando Road crops the little foofies around their eyes.

God. The dogs. She has this pair of frou-frou Chinese Crested monsters with big mops on their heads, tails and paws, but no where else. They're yappy and almost enough to make me hate the whole canine species. She gets that little baby-talk voice going whenever she stops to check-in on Harley & Chubbs (after the motorcycles and the Miami Vice character, yes). Its way worse than it looks, I promise, with those pursed up restalyne-filled troutlips of hers its like a giant hemmaroid going "oochy-oochy-coo". Ugh. At least she had the dogs professionally trained so we don't come home to doggie treasures every evening. Yeah, cuz guess who had to pick that shit up? Not the housekeeper, that's for sure. No speaka Englais my butt!

Bring me a shot of Jack and that bastard's cell number. Now!

Definitely an order this time; no cute petnames, no pretty-pleases. By this time of the evening her speech is slurred and even though she made me vow on my mother's grave that I would never let her drunk-dial Vince Vonn (surely you read about the nasty break-up in the Tabs?) again, if I don't bring the Jack and the number, I'll be out of work come 8 am. You know, when she surfaces from the hangover. At least she sticks to alcohol and not pills or coke.

Damn it, Nicki, I don't care if its 3 a.m. and you have to fucking wake Wolfgang-fucking-Puck himself, I want my Waldorf and I fucking want it NOW!!!

At least she almost got my name right this time. Nicki is way closer to Vicki than Lucy - which is what she called me the whole first week I worked for her. Being an assistant is way harder than I thought it would be. Sure, there are perks - I mean, I got to meet Vince Vonn pre-bloat and Courtney & David Ark stopped in one night too.

But this sure ain't no 40-hour a week gig. I'm her personal gopher, a professional slave. I'm an on-call dog-walker, grocery-shopper, pap-fender-offer, cell-phone carrier, umbrella-holder, door-opener, sorry-no-autographs-strong-armer, gas-pumping, salad-procuring... assistant.

In short - I'm her bitch for 500 bucks a week.

Paps day out

Click click click Pop click. Music, or what might be as close to music to my ears. The mechanics of an old-fashioned camera. Shutters and all. I preferred to snap a few shots with my little Wynona (that's what I call my early 90s Konica Minolta NP-200). Wynona never disappointed. She was reliable and dependable, unlike the profession in which I choose to use her.

Across the street, in between the branches of a cedar tree I can just make out Fusha and her new husband Barey Hart eating some over-priced bird food. They still have that wedded-bliss shit dripping off them like last nights....errr..Nice wedding anyway. Some great photos, but now everyone wants to be on the dl. Sadly, that's not how my job rolls.

They throw up their hands. "Hey we're eating here," they say. They're craving to fill themselves up with other's adoration. Their mouths say no, but their publicist says yes. And I learned a long time ago to always listen to the PR rep. Happy to see their next story on page 6, I was always will to oblige, but seeing these vacant faces, wearing their best smiles, their tightest foreheads and $375 manicures, drove home the fact that no one here was immune to the cancer, we in the business call fame.

Fame is quite the temptress. Nasty thing too. Get you all tied up inside, hoping for someone like me to 'catch' you in the most candid way. Wynona has trapped a few of those so-called starlets in many a compromising situations, starlets that hop fame will infect them. The pictures are always priceless to me. Brit-Brit with dip running down her face. Chris-Tina Sepulria's water breaking in Juicy Couture. Barbra Smathers of the View not wearing panties (eeww). Wynona was not bias. And even though one might think fame was bias, she wasn't. It was a world here, unlike anywhere else. We normal mortals brushed elbows with the gods and goddesses, and somehow made it out alive. But Fame devoured those that remained.

Click Click Flash Pop. Wynona snagged Fusha dipping in for a smooch from her new man. Cha-ching. That's what this business is all about. Another dollar shot.

After all Fame is a bitch who doesn't rest on her laurels, and me and Wynona...we're just paps out her keeping the bitch up all night long.

Or at least until she calls the cops.

Like Lambs to the Slaughter

They never look me in the eye on the way out.

Oh sure, they come up to the desk all haughty, all high-and-mighty, all look-at-me-I'm-a-published-writer, woo! But after the Butcher Queen is done with them, hah. They're all downcast and slumped over. She breaks their spirits like a bull breaks china in an antiques store.

No one calls her the Butcher Queen to her face, or to my face because they know what that would get them. But I hear everyword, one way or another. Its a talent. A useful talent that means I'm the highest paid secretary/assistant in the biz. And I like it thay way.

One-by-one they stalk up to my little oasis like their shit doesn't stink and flounce around waiting for the Butcher Queen to see them. They're always sure this story is the one that will make her cream. That this story is the one that will make their puny little career.

And they're always wrong.

Its Thursday afternoon and we put the issue to bed by Friday at 10 a.m. - There's a cue forming. Its my favorite time of the week. So what do I see before my pristine oak desk with the exotic teal orchids on it?

Lambs lining up for the slaughter. Delicious!

What the lions want

“This is shit!” She threw the page unceremoniously, down on the desktop. “You expect me to send this off to print? Do you?”

Frankly I didn’t. It was shit, she was right, but I couldn’t find any appropriate inspiration. “How do you make someone like Kara Reid look good? She hasn’t had a good film since grudge was a fashion statement. She is ghostly thin, pregnant and, I’m assuming, still addicted to some narcotic.”

“Find it then!”

“Excuse me?”

“The narcotic. If it’s crack, I want to see her smoking it. If it’s cocaine, I want to hear the snorting. If all she is doing is walking in to public restrooms barefoot, I want to hear the goddamn intake of disgust from our readers. We live for train wrecks. We exist on one Whitney Wack story after another, one Courtney Beev flashing her milky white whatever they are at patrons in KFC. That is what is our milk and honey. This Kara Reid story is just basic facts.” Her hand hits the desktop, adding insult to injury. “I don’t want to know if she is loving her goddamn baby bump, or decorating the house in Lara Ash’s pink posies. I want to hear that she is contemplating a clothes hanger and taping condom wrappers on her ceiling.”

“That’s extreme.”

She shakes her head. “You know what I mean. This,” she points at my meager page on the desktop. “This is silly childish yearbook crap. ‘Oh my womb. Oh my life is grand. Oh bad tabloids...bad tabloids. Bullshit.” She grabs her hair, whipping it back in a pony-tail. “I want you to go back and edit this down to sound bites and expletives. I want a goddamn fart and Kara screaming screw you at her Puerto-Rican maid Hasta. Got it?”

I just nodded, and she ushered me out. I didn’t look at anyone on the way out, but I could feel their laser targets of pity on my back.

I didn’t want to edit. But this way my job. I didn’t want bullshit. But that was the industry.

Bullshit sold copies. And what did I think this business was going to be like? After all, Kara Reid wasn’t the Madonna. But then again, Madonna was Kara Reid at one time. It went around like that all the time.

That’s Hollywood for you.

Musings of the Fluff Writer's Mind

Who do I work for again? Hah! As if she doesn't know. She's not in such demand these days. Even with her pale, icy womb magically filling with baby juice, no one's pounding down her door.

Its funny, really. How the tables turn, I mean. A decade ago, the paps followed every move she and her baby-faced hunk of a hollywood hubby made. Then a nasty divorce and a string of horrifically awful, stinking box-office bombs killed the public's interest in her.

Now she's desperate for the spotlight again and playing all modest and demure. As if she wouldn't throttle a score of young, boobalicious starlets for half the publicity their drunken upskirt-shots earn them. Her face on the cover of the weekly rags? As if! Maybe, if she's lucky (or wearing something particularily vile) she'll get a mention in the weekly fashion page. Maybe.

More likely, she's relegated to some blurb in the quickies column or a blind item on some drama queen's ridiculous (and primarily false) website. This fluff piece I'm stuck writing - its the best publicity she'll get until she pops out that little rugrat and one of the glossies gives her a few grand for so-called exclusive pics.

Assuming Brit-Brit Pikes or Lindsay Loonhan hasn't had another breakdown before the issue is put to bed.

Hmm... I wonder if its too late to ask her how she intends to make it through seven more months without a little nip from Mister Botulinum-Toxin. Afterall, he is her true paramour, new husband or not!

Interview #1

"I read those tattle-tale magazines and it makes me sick. Sick! Why am I suppose to be interested in that? Tell me? Do you know?" She shakes her head. "I didn't think so. And, it isn't as if I wanted all the attention, but now that I have it, I can't imagine why stuff like this..." She holds up a current copy of BlahBlah Weekly, showing a certain young starlet getting out of a fancy car, legs askew. "Ends up plaster all over page six." She sighs heavily, tossing the magazine on the floor. "I'm through with it...through with it!"

"How old is your daughter again?"

Her face changes direction, showing her awarding winning smile, as I mention her newborn.

"Light of my life." She nods. "That's right. Light of my life. She came out of my womb and I felt complete for once in my life. Fully and utterly complete!"

Who uses the word 'womb' anymore? "Why did you choose the name Messiah Ray?"

Her face changes into what might be considered thoughtfulness, but after twenty or so injections, one can't be sure. She shakes her head. "I can't talk anymore about my sweet child. I told you, my private life is not up for nabs."

"Is that why you promised an exclusive on your delivery room moments to BlahBlah Weekly?"

We both look down at the floor, where the magazine mocks us.

She looks up at me, and her lips purse. "Who do you work for again?"

Off The Record

"Ya know, if there's one thing I hate worse'n the Paps, its the so-called real journalist reporter-types who think that they're too foo-foo, too 'legit' to be Paps. Cuz they're really just as bad. Sure, they ain't the ones followin' me 'round and snapping photos and takin' vids while I get my [Expletive Deleted] Fraps or buy some new boots or what-the-[Expletive Deleted]-ever I do. But they're the ones payin' the Paps to do what they do. They're the ones shovin' the vids down people's throats."

She pauses, takes a long drag on a thin, red cigarillo and then sighs.

"Real people don't care about Hollywood. They don't give a [Expletive Deleted] if Angie an' Brad are knockin' boots in the trailer or if some starlet is up the duff with her married producer's baby. Sure, a few thousand fat housefraus with nothing but FoodTV and the internet might be droolin' as they wait to watch Brit-Brit Pike being dragged to the loony-bin. But real people? They don't [Expletive Deleted] care. I mean, they got real stuff to worry about, right? Bills and taxes and whatnot. I mean, they make like 10.00 an hour or like, what? Fifty-grand a year? [Expletive Deleted] me! I make more than that just sitting here talking to you.

I mean, don't get me wrong, okay? Like - I know its unfair for them. I mean, I got paid about eight million bucks for filming that last movie, you know? Five weeks of work, eight big ones. I mean, for walking around in designer outfits and stillettos and crying on cue, they give me eight million smackers. [Expletive Deleted], dude. It just ain't a fair world, right? But [Expletive Deleted], if the dumbasses of America wanna keep paying 11 bucks to watch my [Expletive Deleted]-ass movies, then I'll keep cranking them out. Right?"

She laughs and then stops again. She takes a sip from her Vivaldi Purified Crystalline Glacier Water (which retails at $9.50 per bottle) and frowns.

"Er... That last part is off-the-record, right?"

Deadlines are a Bitch

"So, it's Tuesday again? Not as if I"m really all that interested. Frankly I have a deadline to meet, which I won't, and a boss who can't seem to get it through her head that once I clock-off I'm no longer at her behest. I'm leaking time like a punctured water-balloon, and I don't think that what I have to say about Ms. Lark Bedfellow is really worth even two lines, let alone a whole page. Arrgghhh.

Now if I could just manage to get a good scoop on that tits and ass doll named Pammy Snatch, I'd be in good company (the type of company that makes money, as if there really is any other kind). Oh, I'm sure there are some more 'respected' columnist out there, those that work really hard for truth, integrity and the American way, but that stuff just doesn't sell. Candid-Celebrity sells...seeing your Angelina Follie face-down in a sleazy twat-club toilet, or watching your rugged types like Tommy Holmes cruise a local gay bar while his loving wife watches the baby and bows sixteen times to the star ship shaped like a cucumber out their east window. Now, that's got cache. And that is what sells.

But I digress. After all, I have a deadline, and if that phone rings one more time, I will throw it through the window. I hate my boss.