Totally Random...

Has anyone ever called you "random?" God, I get called random all the time. Especially on days like this when it's a Friday afternoon, I'm just sitting around the house, called in sick to work because I woke up drunk, sitting around the house looking for foot fetish videos on YouTube and I randomly make a blog post out of the blue. I'm down to like, one post a year now you know. I guess that today I was just feeling, well, random. Random enough that I may have a few glasses of wine and go vadge-flashing around the neighborhood. Haven't heard of vadge-flashing? You sneak up on a person and flash your vadge. It's totally original , totally the newest craze, totally fabulous. Okay, it's not the newest craze but I am getting the ball rolling. Or at least I will once the local law enforcement gets off my back. How was I supposed to know they were kids? It was dark and I thought they were midgets. Anyway, haven't you noticed that over the last few years, "random" has become the adjective of choice among so many people? "Like, oh my gosh, that is so random." If I hear "that is so random" one more time I'm going to quit my job and go work as a Wal-Mart greeter and instead of just sitting there like those old people, I will do interpretive dances of each customer that walks in the door. It would be random wouldn't it? Or for instance, when you tell someone you did something really weird, like fart on the computer keyboard of your enemy at work, and they say, "You are so random!" In case you didn't know, that's someone's nice way of telling you that you's a weird motha' fucka girlfriend! (Note: Always follow up "you are so random" with "And you are so Raven, and by Raven I mean you are an ugly teenage black girl with weight issues who reached her peak of cuteness as a child and it's all downhill from here.") I can put money on the fact that those people are afraid to hang out with you after the sunset, and they should be as all you do at night is frolic in the woods with Edward Cullen eating small wood creatures. They fear the random things you might do. Like your fetish for making out with homeless guys and licking dollar bills becaus you want to "be near to George." Whatever random really means, I think it's great. In fact, I take it as a compliment when called random. I'd much rather be called random than a Farty McFartfacenstein. And trust me, I am a Farty McFartfacenstein of the worst kind.

Random also has other uses. Like when you make out with a total Barney (Holla Cher! No Baldwins for this lady) and you don't want to go into details and your friends ask who you made out with you can just be like, "Oh, some random." No questions asked. They know that it was a bad situation. They know that you were stank-faced drunk and the only guy that would have you was the bus boy that had baby teeth, body odor, and a possible meth problem. Another use of the word random is one of my favorites...."Randomness." For instance, you're in the mall and you see a Mexican take a crap in one of the potted plants, and you are at a loss for words so you just look at your friend and say...."Randomness." Point. Taken. Or when you see something totally awesome like those crackheads that dress up in the Statue of Liberty costumes during tax season and stand out on the street dancing around in a crack stuper. They deserve one word and one word only, and that word is randomness. Random is good. Random is the fabric of America. That's why we're great. Because we are random. And if someone calls you random, then they are not American, my friend. They are Russian Taliban Super-Korean William Hung Spylords. They should be considered very dangerous. And the next time someone calls you random, you need to promise me that you'll do one thing.......

Get your Raven on.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1K6srdivTOI&feature=related


In honor of randomness, I wanted to share some oh-so-random thoughts I've been
having lately....

I think Victoria's Secret was that she had skid marks in her underwear.

I want to write an anti-inspirational book titled Chicken Poop for the Soul.

Dear Purse Snatcher: Please enjoy the crumpled up receipts, broken cigarettes, maxed out credit cards, empty lipstick tubes, and business cards that I leave for you, good sir.
Sincerely, A Fan.

U.S. Men's Olympic Ice Skating Team: Oh the things I would do to you.

"Ew that is totally disgusting, ga-rossssss! Do we look like we want cooties?" - U.S. Men's Olympic Ice Skating Team when questioned about the possibility of hooking up with me.

If a tree falls in the woods and a deaf bear shits on it, can you still hear Jennifer Aniston cry herself to sleep at night?

If I was on The Bachelor, and it came time to jump in the pool with all of the svelte ladies, and I had to put on a bathing suit, America would cry. And so would I.

Zooey Deschanel and Scarlett Johannson: Quit singing please.

Aaron Neville: Keep on singing brotha' man.

Linda Rondstadt: Are you jealous that I asked Aaron Neville to keep singing and not you even though you did the famous duet "I Don't Know Much" together? That's because you suck Linda. You reeeeeeallly suck.

You know how people get registered as a CPA? I want to get registered as a CBA: Certified Bad Ass. And then I'm going to put it on my resume and I'll get hired as fuck.

When I'm bored, I like to think about all of the fat people I've made fun of.

When they're bored, all of the fat people I've made fun of like to think of me. Dead.

And then I like to think back at the fat people "yeah, well, you're so fat you'd probably eat my dead body, fatsos!"

And the fat people are all like, "ehhh, you're probably right."

If you were Kate Gosselin or Lady Gaga for Halloween this year, way to go. You're original.

If you were Amy Winehouse for Halloween this year, you're so 2000 and late.

And you were a cute little black kitty-cat for Halloween this year, I just want you to know that you are smart, beautiful, and a person of character and substance and don't ever let anyone tell you any different because they're wrong. Dead wrong. You may have not made the best grades in school but you tried. You really tried. And don't feel bad when they make fun of you for farting in the middle of an office meeting because it was not your fault. You couldn't help it that you had to go pick up your birth control subscription during your lunch break and there was a long line at the pharmacy and you only had 5 minutes to stop at Taco Bell for a quick bite. They're just jealous of you because their lives have no meaning and yours is so full of meaning it may blow up. Don't listen to all the stupid haters out there because your life is fabulous, okay? It's freaking fabulous, and I don't care what anyone else says, because I'm proud of myself and I am a good human being despite of what all of those stupid whores in college said. So what, you blow a few girls' boyfriends, steal people's clothes and have a dorm room drug business on the side, and everyone gets their little panties in a big fat wad about it. Why is it any of their business anyway? I have changed and I am a good person so just back off. Back the mother-eff off. I mean, for the love of God, WHY CAN'T YOU PEOPLE JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!!!!!!!????????
Wait, did I reveal to much?

Dear Recycling Collector: Sorry sir, we don't use any plastic, glass or cans in this household.

Dear Trash Man: It'll be our little secret...

Dear Earth: I just fucked you up, son!

Where does Spike Lee get off thinking he can call all of his films "Joints"? When I make my movie, I'm going to call it a "Poo Poo Doo Doo Farty McFartfacenstein."

Dear girl with curly cue font initials on the back of your car window: Would you kindly forward me your address so I can come to your house and bitch slap you?

The 5 whispered words on the radio that tell me I need to change the channel: "Let me be your hero"

The 11 spoken words on the radio that tell me I need to crank that shit up: "I wonder if she can tell I'm hard right now? Hmm."

If a rolling stone gathers no moss and birds of a feather flock together, will Angelina Jolie still fuck your husband?

Sometimes I get out of the shower in the morning and walk in front of the mirror naked, and I think I hear the mirror whistling the Baby Elephant Walk song.

I'm going to start using Sting lyrics as insults: "A doo doo doo, da da da, is all I want to say to you."

When I watch Dancing With the Stars, I like to play a drinking game where I take a drink every time they do something gay.

Speaking of gay, Men's U.S. Ice Skating team, I'm still here if you want to experiment with the "other side"

I feel sorry for dogs because they don't get to party.

Lilly Pullitzer: Like eating a gay flamingo, shitting it out, and wearing it as a dress.


Got anything random on your mind?
Be a holla back girl in the comments section.

Is it just me?

Or does this guy really suck at life? His name is Max Hodges, he is a "reporter" for TMZ, and he puts the D in Douche. And he's got "failed modeling career" written all over him. Note the bitter nerd in the background thinking, "Oh you, and your cool surfer looks and your long blonde hair and your front row seat. Vengeance will be mine, Max. Vengeance will be mine."

Celebrity Head Transplant of the Day

Who: Madonna
What: Her head has been transplanted to a beautiful horse, ridden by a spritely young Hispanic boy.
Why: Because she deserves it, but also because Jesus and A-Rod aren't the only latinos that deserve to mount Madonna. Give an ese' a chance....

Slap it baby...

Pure Awesomeness.

Hello Darlin'.....

....nice to see ya', it's been a long time, you're just as lovely, as youuuuu used to be. Well actually, you're still pretty heinous. And despite the fact that you have a hatchet face, personality of a wet rag and cottage cheese thighs, my life hasn't been the same without you. Truly, I adore you. It's been forever, and I've decided that it's time for a comeback. Inspired by the fiery phoenix that is Lindsay Lohan, I will pour myself into my patent leather leggings, rock some bulimia, cover my body in spray tan, and rise out of the ashes as if I too had been dumped by my trollish lesbian love. But alas, I haven't, so we will just pretend won't we? Let's pretend her name is Christine, but she goes by Chris. So where have I been hiding out for so long, you ask? Well, like The Linds, I too have been in rehab all of this time. "Gettin' my rehab on," that's what we call it back in L.A. Two long years was all it took. Meth's a real bitch to get rid of. And then after I got better and had all of that cosmetic surgery to hide my track marks and the "Chris Forever" tatoo I got when I was on one of my Meth/Speed combo benders, I decided it was time to become a public figure again. So here I am. Just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to love her. Oh Julia, you alway put things into perspective.


Of course none of that's true (well not all of it). I've just been too busy and selfish and uninteresting so I went into a self-imposed hibernation. And lucky for yall, I decided it was time for me to finally come out of hiding (Who's laughing now you Nazi cows? The old fake library bookcase gets em' every time). You need me now more than ever. I am back in the hope that my foul-mouthed ramblings will take your mind off of life's horrible truths: The recession, war, death, The Snuggie, poverty, and whatever is under Brett Michael's doo-rag (my guess is some advanced air-borne strain of Chlamydia that thrives in the human hair follicle. Or a fat asian guy). And let's be honest, I need yall, my beloved, devoted, and sometimes obsessive fans too (I'll cherish that vial of blood you sent me forever - you know who you are). Otherwise, I'm just a crazy girl french kissing her computer screen, who thinks she's really a soap-opera star, who writes stories for the magical talking squirrel that lives in the bathroom sink and demands that she write stories or people will have to die.


Besides denying all the trash that Chris has been spreading about me in the media, I've been keeping very busy since last we spoke. Here are a few things I've been up to: Just read Like a Lampshade in a Whorehouse the autobiography of Phyllis Diller; I opened up a cat grooming salon named Pussies; I penned a bestselling children's book titled The Hairy Blood-Sucking Monster That's Hiding Under Your Bed, Yes, Your Bed Little Child-Reading-This-Book-Right-Now; I've been using the term "Sham-Wow" as an interjection and implementing it into my daily vocabulary "Duuude, I saw the hottest hottie the other day and I was like Sham-Wow he is so foiiiiine!!!!" By the way, am I the only one who thinks the Sham-Wow guy is strangely sexy? Not in his prostitute-beating mugshot, of course, but on the commercials? He's like a bizzaro Leo DiCaprio with a Brooklyn accent, bulging eyes, and a yeah-I-don't-give-a-fuck-I'm-on-an-infomercial-attitude. I know, he's got everything against him but, I think there's something there. Not to mention he wipes up spills and chops food at a rapid pace. And his name is Vince Shlomi. It may be the similarity to the word shlong, but I swear that last name screams "Big Penis" to me. What's not to love? But it makes you wonder. This guy seemed so normal on the commercials, and then he goes ballistic on that poor sweetheart of a Russian-scum looking hooker. It just goes to show you can never really know a person. For instance, the now infamous Craigslist Killer that picked up prostitutes and murdered them via Craigslist. He looks like All-American Joe-boyfriend, engaged to a cute girl, in medical school, and, who'da thunk it, was out killing prostitutes in hotels. It should be a warning to suspicious girlfriends everywhere. It was certainly a wakeup call for me, as I had been scrupulously advertising my "Taint Massage" services on Craigslist. Guess I'll just have to stick with the "Missed Connections" -

You: Blue shirt, Fubu jeans, fly New York Yankees hat on. You were sucking a Dum Dum at the BP station down on Highway 8. I saw you pickin' your nose but it's totally cool, yo. Brotha's gotta clean shit out. Me: Lookin all kinds of sexy with my daisy dukes and a green halter top on. I was lickin' my lips at you from behind the Doritos. Holla' back shorty.

But in all seriousness, do you ever really know the person you're with? Everybody has their secrets. And some secrets will never be revealed, whether it be a penchant for punching hookers, a love of stalking and murdering victims on Craigslist, or even an anal obsession involving squeeze cheese. The moral of the story is, everyone needs to be careful out there. It's a crazy world full of even crazier people. Just make sure you truly know the person you're with. Worst case scenario? You could be sleeping next to a monster. Or Chris.


Worried about whether your man is secretly a Norman Bates incarnate? Here are some important signs that you may need to look out for:


- His nickname among close friends is Dr. Murder


- He takes notes during Law & Order and CSI


- He uses BTK as a verb: "I swear if that dog poops on the carpet again I'm going to BTK his ass"

- (to the tune of Winter Wonderland) "Walkin' round in women's underweearrrr"


- Speaking of underwear, three words: Blood Stained Panties (that aren't yours)


- His AOL screenname is Likestokillabitch187


- You find a credit card receipt from "The Dead Hooker Motel"


- When he read a book about the Zodiac Killer he laughed incessantly the whole time yelling, "Fools, you'll never find him!"


- You notice a stank smell coming from his basement office. Unless of course he just likes to take the occasional dump in his office, then it's all good.


- He kills squirrels in the backyard and his reasoning for it is "Because those stupid sluts had to die."


- He likes to beat off to the Saw movies.


- His last 5 girlfriends died under "mysterious circumstances" - a.k.a - He axed them hoes.


- His favorite song is "Goodbye Earl" by the Dixie Chicks, and and when he sings the part "'cause Earl had to DIE" he replaces Earl's name with yours.


- When he goes to the grocery store, instead of writing out a list on paper he carves it into his skin.


- He writes you love letters borrowing the lyrics from creepy love songs: "Baby, it's all I know, that you're half of the flesh and blood makes me whole."


- Frequently receives suspicious packages from Rapist.com


- You find a cutesy scrapbook titled "Brag Book" with newspaper clippings from a recent local murder spree.


- When reciting your wedding vows, he snickers at "Till death do us part"


- You catch him doing it with a corpse. Always a buzzkill.


- When you take showers together he says "It puts the lotion in the basket or it gets the hose again."


Has your man ever done anything that made you go hmmmmmmm? Ever had a creepy ex boyfriend that would make the guys on death row look like Danny Tanner? You betta' tell a sista in the comments section.

Lifestyles of the Rich & the Heinous

So, it's Friday today, and like sands through the hourglass, the week has finally come to a close(camera - cut to John Black's furrowed brow). I suppose it's no different than any other Friday except for the fact that I'm pantless instead of topless (they changed it to "Topless Fridays"), and I'm feeling raaahhh-thahh witty and charming. So charming, in fact, that I felt compelled to write another one of my little posts. Don't I sound so very motherly? "It's one of her little posts, she'll grow out of it soon enough." As I sit down to write today, I do so with a naked mind (and ass), not knowing what I'm going to write (or contract) about except for the mundane activities of my day, which include, in no particular order: Woke up at 7:01, ate a bag of dry cheerios for breakfast...found a hair-ewww!, read the 'opinion' section of the New York Times, called my mom to find out what an 'opinion' section was, put on a bangin' work outfit, flicked off a fat guy in a BMW on the way to work, purposefully swerved so that the BMW guy collides face first with an oncoming 18-wheeler, gleefully left the scene as I chanted "Death to fatties! Death to fatties!", went to Subway for lunch and lost my appetite after seeing the facial hair on my female "Sandwich Artist", ate my Ham & Turkey Sandwich anyway. Okay, so that's done. Now I will give you a sneak preview of the new Rap Song I wrote during our 8:00 meeting this morning, "Got a skank in a headlock"..... Okay, okay, I'm just kidding. I don't have a rap song, I'm just running out of things to talk about, plus, my illustrious rap career ended years ago (R.I.P. Jigga-Woman). Let's see what else. Oh! Why don't I tell you all about my split personality- devil worshipper and former Miss Nebraska 83' winner, Sandra DiAntonio? (Holla back Sandy!) Oh nevermind, she just told me she insists on leading a private life and it just wouldn't be fair if I blabbed all of her secrets. You know what else isn't fair? People with money. As I check the sad state of affairs that is my online BB&T Checking account, I can't help but think that when it comes to money, I have somehow been cursed, shafted, dissed n' dismissed, given the ole' boot, slipped the rubber banana, slapped in the face, called a whore and kicked out of bed, dropkicked, sent to sleep with the chickens, well, you get my drift.... But SERIOUSLY, why not me? Why not any of us? The worst part is that it is rubbed in my, excuse me, our faces on a daily basis (assuming you're all poor like me, if not, hook a bitch up!). I live in a city where rich kids come to waste away their trust funds doing nothing with their lives. With the exception of my heart and soul, Cleveland, isn't that true to every city? Rich kids blowin' big bucks? And to put the cherry on the rich ass sundae, there is also a lot of old money here, ready and waiting for someone to kick the bucket so that the next generation can cash in. And the next generation wants to make sure that you know it.

Shop girl. No, she's not the utterly delightful Claire Danes character from the movie of the same name that you want to buy some pretty gloves and send out on a date with your grandpa. Think more along the lines of the bitchy store owners in Pretty Woman - "I don't think it would fit you" - but a lot less vocal. No, she never says anything rude, but you can see it in her eyes. She's watching and judging. She's wondering if that top you're wearing was $12.99, $15.99, or $24.99 at TJ Maxx. She's looking at your shoes and wondering why you're wearing Target Mossimo's instead of a pair of this season's Christian Louboutins. She's looking in horror at the string hanging from your skirt as if it were a used tampon dangling from your body. She's wondering if you can really afford anything in her store or if you are just coming to look and dream (you pathetic street rat whore, you). She dares to cower in disgust as you try to buy a Marc Jacobs top with Monopoly money. Her daddy probably runs his own investment firm or something else that rich people do (What do they do?). She probably has a scratchy voice and lives in a great loft apartment in the "cool" section of downtown, and dates a banker named Hampton with a tan, a black lab and a sailboat. These things I don't know for sure. She might run a homeless shelter, or play Skip-Bo with the old folks at the senior center, or rescue puppies on the weekend, but it's a safe bet that she doesn't have to work very hard to make it in this cruel world. And therefore, she is someone I hate. End of story.

But maybe it's not the end of the story. The more I write, the more I sound like what I think she is: Judgemental. She's not the one who cares about my TJ Maxx Shirt, lack of Christian Louboutin pumps, and tampon string. I am. And even worse, I come to the stark realization of what I truly am: A nasty jealous bitch. I'm so extremely jealous of shop girl because she's living the life I want to live. She's probably sweet as friggin' pie, but I'm jealous because I want the clothes and the job. I want the loft and the guy with the sailboat. And the black lab. Sparky, I think his name is. Yes, Sparky. I want all of that. Then again, the more I think about it, maybe I don't? Maybe Sparky bites small children, severely injuring one, resulting in a lawsuit banning all dogs named Sparky from existence. Maybe Hampton has a drug problem, a girlfriend on the side, weekend romps with male prostitutes and an incurable STD.......Or maybe he's perfect? Either way, the lesson that I just taught myself is that what I have is what I'm meant to have, and so for shop girl. And who knows? Maybe she's more like me than I think. Maybe she struggles to pay her power bill each month too. Maybe she can't afford to get that hair cut she wants every 6-8 weeks. Maybe she doesn't get weekly mani/pedis and drink martinis. Maybe she gives out sexual favors in order to make an extra dollar every once in a while too. Maybe, just maybe, out there in the real world, we could be friends....

Later that night: You're out at the bar. It's late night and the ladies bathroom is crowded, elbow to elbow. You're squeezing your way through in an attempt to snag a rock-star spot in front of the mirror. As you wash your hands, you look over and there she is, shop girl. She's fabulously dressed and amazingly wasted, attempting to apply her lip gloss, but to no avail. You smile and just as you're about to say "Don't you work at...?" she looks at you and says "What the hell are you, hiccup, staring at?"

Sic em' Sparky, Sic em!!!!!


I often ask myself the age-old question, where is all the money and why don't I have any? What did I do to deserve the life of a poor begger girl selling flowers on the cold, wet streets of London in the early 1900's? "Oh wouldn't it, be loverly!" Here's what I would do if I had all the money in the world.


- Find the "Death to Fatties!" guy and buy him gastric bypass surgery. Then yell "Death to Skinnies!" (Muah-ha-ha! It never ends!)

- Change my name to Princess Spectacular

- Hire a personal maid and change her name to "The God Damn Help"

- Open my own chocolate factory. Instead of Oompah-Loompahs, I'd have a bunch of black midget men called the Humpty-Humps (I would demand that they all hump each other)

- Buy a yacht and cruise around Myrtle Beach

- Hire a barbershop quartet to follow me everywhere I go and sing the song "hello my honey, hello my sweetie, hello my ragtime gal!" as I dance the Charleston

- Resurrect my rap career as Jigga-Woman with a comback album: "30 Seconds to Nasty"

- Buy pretty jewelry and MAC lipstick for all of the sick and starving children around the world

- Hire Ty Pennington to wake me up every morning: "GOOOOOOD MORNING ROBERTSON FAMILY!!!!!!"

- Start my own breakfast-all-day restaurant chain - Pancakes. Same idea as Hooters but served by hot flatties. Eat your hearts out, double d's of the world!

- Amputate one of Lindsay Lohan's legs and make her my "stump" double.

- Buy out ABC and produce a Grey's Anatomy spinoff, Gay's Anatomy - "Dr. McWeenie, I'll need that butt plug, stat!"

- After Gay's Anatomy becomes an instant success, change Dancing With The Stars to just Dancing With The Star

- Hire David Lee Roth to host the ABC Nightly News - "The president met with the Prime Minister of France today to negotiate foreign policy...Bibbedy-BOP!"

- Make myself the spokeswoman for JIF peanut butter...change the sloogan to "Floozy whores choose JIF!"

- When I die, request to have my ashes spread on a peanut butter & jelly sandwich.

- Pay off legislators to pass a law for the legalization of my new Meth/Alcohol hybrid, Meth Light.

- Start multiple national ad campaigns promoting teen abstinence, safe sex, and Meth Light.

- My first order of business as President of the United States: Bedazzle the White House.

- (singing like JT) I'm Bringing Members-Only Ba-ack....Yeah!

- Work with the National Weather Service to create Skittle rain showers like they do in the commercials.

- Start my own homeless shelter then kick everyone out and yell "Suckaz!"

- Pay off a henchman to murder the kids that made fun of me in high school: Who you callin' stinky-crotch now?

- Destroy all the cubicles on the face of the earth. (shaking my clenched fist at the heavens) "Never again Cubicle Gods, Never again!"

- Wear a ghetto hair weave. Why? Because I'm rich nigga!

- Pay off the black people that try to kick my ass for saying "Because I'm rich nigga!"

Another One Bites the Dust-AH!

I've been thinking a lot about death lately. I don't know if it's just "my cycle" or that Discovery Health special I watched about the morbidly obese, but I've been like, totally bummed out. These past few days, I have posed to myself and the almighty powers that be, many of the typical questions one might ask when pondering the great unknown: (cue the violin music) What does this life really mean?........ Where do we go when we die? .........Will I see my family there? ........Will God forgive me for that meth lab I started and shortly thereafter closed back in '01? .........Will I still have a bangin' bod, lustrous locks, killer personality and all-you-can-eat buffet of men at my disposal when I cross over to the "other side"? It may sound like the opening dialogue to an anti-depression medication commercial, (Zoloft blob, I'm talkin' to you little guy!) but these are the burning questions that I need to know in order to make the changes that my life so greatly needs. Okay, I'm already perfect but what-ev's... And what about those deeply unfortunate and less genetically blessed ones that I leave behind? Will anything be left unsaid? Will Jane my coworker ever know what I really thought about her unibrow and Cool Ranch Doritos smelling body odor? Will my Uncle Jerry know that I have forgiven him for getting busted by NBC's "To Catch a Predator" and then continuing to drink his margarita and blatantly lie to one Mr. Chris Hanson? Will my third-grade homeroom teacher, Mrs. Walker, ever know that I was really the one behind the infamous "Brown Spot Scandal" of 1989? I guess I can't waste what time I do have on this beautiful planet pondering away life's unanswered questions, but it never hurts to ask.

Speaking of questions and death .... What the fuck? And by that statement, I am referring to the retardedness that is the whole Anna Nicole Smith debacle. For those of you who aren't in the loop let me fill you in really quick. I will do so using only seven words: Boobs. Playboy. Geezer. Billionaire. Drugs. Dead. Babydaddy. Now that we're all caught up, I've got to say, this thing has gotten out of hand. The media outlets are obsessed with this story and I regret to inform you that I too have been sucked in. The soap opera that is Boobgate continues to spiral out of control and I love every minute of it. Even in her passing, "Anna, Anna, Anna, Anna, Anna Nicole, she's so outrageous!" They're finally placing Anna's lifeless, plastic, collagen and silicone filled body in the ground today. I can just see the funeral now: "Ladies and gentleman, please remain quiet as we all join together in a moment of "Do Ya Like My Body?". I wonder if The Birkmeister will attend? Will they sprinkle TrimSpa tablets and pink glitter over the grave? Oh what I wouldn't give to be a fly on that casket. Vomiting every time I land.

In all seriousness, I hope the afterlife is all it's cracked up to be. I envision a wonderful place where I do the deed with Elvis & James Dean on a nightly basis and drugs are free and legal with no negative long-term effects. A place where Fred Astaire gives me dance lessons and "She's A Maniac" plays whenever I want it to. A place where I get to see what happened to all the bad kids in Charlie & the Chocolate Factory. A place where I no longer have an allergic reaction to KY and retarded people aren't retarded anymore . A place where my breasts are forever perky and my days are spent eating cheese and watching Lifetime Movies atop a rainbow colored unicorn named Trudy. A place where.....

What? Sounds too good to be true?

Just you wait and see, just you wait and see....


The whole controversy of "What Anna Nicole Would Have Wanted" and even the whole Terri Schiavo case from 2005 made me look deep into my soul about what I would want should I become comatose, a veggie, or worse, dead. I have contacted my attorney (The Shaggy D.A.) and put it in a bulleted list for all to see, that way, no one can say otherwise. Consider this my living will:


- Sneak some processed pizza-flavored Combos and Kraft Macaroni & Cheese down my feeding tube. You know how hospital food is......

- Come to my bedside and read raunchy Harlequin novels to me. Only read the sex scenes: "Her hand touched his member and it trembled with pleasure under her sweaty grasp"

- Do stuff with my hair that I never would have done, like a purple weave with a birds nest and butterflies on top.

- Roll me around the hospital making me look like I'm conscious, a la "Weekend at Bernie's"

- Sneak in my room and strategically place a bunch of beer cans, liquor bottles, and ashtrays of cigarette butts around the room so that the staff thinks I had an all night rager.

- Start a web page honoring my memory: www.thewhoreisfinallydead.com.

- DVR Grey's Anatomy & Lost for me. If I ain't dead, I'm coming back and I'm gonna want to watch my shows, bitch.

- Keep what personal belongings of mine that you want and then auction off the rest. Use the money from that to pay off my cell phone bill... Giiiirrrl, I be talkin' all the damn time.

- Two words: Spray Tan.

- Three words: I'm watching you.

- Shave my legs & armpits. I don't want to be known as "'Hippie bitch' in Room #101" by all of the hospital staff.

- Wax my bikini line. I don't want to be known as "'Bush Light' in Room #101" by all of the hospital staff. Plus I won't feel a thing.

- Have the nurse spray me with Calgon from time to time. Take me away!!!!!

- Have dance-off's with me. I'll still win sucka!

- Use me as an experiment to see what happens when a vegetable gets high.

- I don't want to miss out on anything. Cart my limp-ass to parties and use my armpits as coozies.

- Make my funeral themed like a college sorority party: "80's Prom Nite" Don't forget to dress me up like Pretty in Pink!

- Make sure to turn on "The Young & The Restless" every day at 12:30 on CBS. Nothing says "Wake up from a coma" like the mumbling voice of Victor Newman.

- If my doctor is hot, leave a note by my bed that says "See you when I wake up, hot stuff!" and forge my signature beside it.

- Host a fundraiser in my name, then pocket the cash, I insist. See? Holding back someone's hair when they puke really is worth it.

- Throw baloney at my face and see if it sticks.

- Give me drag-queen style makeup and a sequins dress for my wake. Hire a lounge singer to do a live version of "Wind Beneath My Wings" as my visitors walk through.

- Keep my deepest darkest secret from being revealed: My Ashlee Simpson fan club membership card.

- Wait until the waiting room is full of people and then carry my unconscious body out there crying, "She's dead, she's dead! God why have you forsaken me?" Then yell out "PSYCH!" and run away.


What do you want when you die? Bring on the gothnicity, skanks.

It's me again Margaret....

I'm baaaaa-aaaaack.

Yes, I have heard your prayers and I am proud to announce that my hiatus (or high-anus as I like to call it, although mine is pretty low) is finally over. I have slowly emerged from my darkened, sin-filled cocoon to spread my legs, err... wings and face a world that was much more decent after I left. Now I'm back to filthy up your lily-white lives once again. Get ready bitches.........Muahh-ha-ha!

So, a lot has changed since last we spoke. A lot. Well nothing has changed except that I live in a different city now, I had my Boy George tattoo removed from my upper thigh and finally got rid of that stinkin' bastard Tony that used to slap me around. P'toey!! (that's me spitting on Tony's dead body). Tattoo's & domestic violence aside, I truly think Charleston is one of the most beautiful cities in the world, full of culture, class and history. These are all things which I am drawn to, especially class, seeing that I am one classy be-otch. As I drive home every night, exhausted from my day, I ride over the statuesque Ravenel Bridge and watch the beautiful sun setting over the Charleston Harbor and think to myself, I'm so lucky. I also watch the homeless people fucking under the bridge as I near the bottom and I think to myself, I'm still so lucky. I've got a great new job. And a great new boyfriend. And a new roomate. And I've been a little irregular but I'm taking Metamucil to fix that. And I just bought a new hair dryer. And I have a teeth cleaning next week that I'm going to have to reschedule because that's the only day my hairdresser could fit me in. And my neighbors have loud sex and it bumps against my wall and wakes me up at night. And I stole the stapler off my cubicle mate's desk at work yesterday, put a booger on it and placed it back. And I've started wetting the bed again. And that's me in a nutshell.

Speaking of nuts, lots of DILF's in Charleston. What's a DILF you ask? Oh you know a DILF. Think, Brad Pitt toting that little asian kid on his shoulders. Or Ben Affleck pushing the stroller down the street in his dad sweats. Or Jude Law playing soccer in the park with his children and sneaking away to pinch the nanny on the ass. Ladies and gentleman, introducing: The "Dad I'd Like to Fuck". Not to be confused with the DILFO, The "Dad I'd Like to Fart On". Hot mom's are so two years ago. "Stacy's Mom" entered rehab after a major painkiller addiction and no longer has it "going on". Britney Spears is a raunchy whore and pretty much ruined it for the rest of the hot moms, which has made way for the dad's to make their biggest comeback since the 80's: Dr. Jason Seaver (show me that smile again, oh show me that smi-ile!), My Two Dads, Tony Micelli, Michael Hogan, Papa Smurf, Wha-wha wha-what? I'd totally hit that! Yes, the DILF's are back with a vengeance and they are most certainly thriving here in beautiful Charleston. Everywhere I look there's a naughty DILF looking right back. Grocery store, DILF! Laying out on the beach, DILF! Shopping at the mall, DILF! Driving down the road, DILF! Watching the neighbor mow the lawn next door, DILF! Staring into the neighbor's window at night as he sleeps, DILF! Getting hauled off by the cops for trespassing and voyeurism, DILF! Awaiting trial in court as DILF and his wife testify against me, DILF! Receiving the restraining order that DILF has placed against me, ........... no more dilf :-(

If you truly want to dive head first into the world of DILF stalking, then head to the grocery store. That's right! DILF's can be found en masse at your local market with a laundry list of food to-do's written out by their wives, (in Wisconsin accent)"Pick me up some tampons, why don't ya honey!" The grocery store is a great place to see them on display and witness their DILFness in a natural habitat, sans their homebody honeys. Like wild animals grazing upon the African plain, they move in herds around the store according to their omnivorous preferences. Lazy DILF's can be found in the freezer section choosing which Hungry Jack meal will be that night's dinner, picking up a few Kid Cuisine's for the youngins. Meat & three baby! Meanwhile, hottie health nut DILFs roam the produce section, picking up sexy mystery vegetables like arugala and rhubarb. Hippie DILF's head straight for the organic isle to find the latest and most Zen tofu creation. You are what you eat dude! GrandDILF's (father's of DILF's) can be seen scoping out the bran or the depends aisle, while the new DILF's can be found picking out diapers too, baby diapers that is. On a rare occasion, they can be found shopping with their wives/children but these are usually the dorkier variety of DILFs. The true hotties go it alone. A DILF will always check you out, whether his wife is around or not (Mexicans not included). Say you are perusing the salsa, a DILF might find a reason to look at the Taco Shells even though his wife clearly pointed out that it is not on the list. Then as the wife walks away, he gives you the head-to-toe scope out and then walks away himself. And there you have it. DILFtacular. Taco night anyone? Don't mind if I do......

Many more posts to come! Prepare to be amazed (by my retardedness) in 2007!

Love yall,
Tallulah

Keep The Change You Filthy Animal

I've said it once and I'll say it again, times they are a changin'. Change is good, right? The reason I ask is because my life, in particular, is about to change in a major way. No, I am not "with child", nor am I going on a summer tour with my indie-goth band The Tampon's Revenge (although we will be playing at a feminist poetry reading at the local coffeehouse). I am currently in preparation to leave the only place, the only home, that I have ever known or loved. Are you happy now?

I have always belonged to the school of thought that change is imminent and therefore necessary. So tell me, why am I freaked out about something as simple as moving an hour & 45 minutes away? If proverbial wisdom is to be believed, then the saying "If we do not change our direction, we are likely to end up where we are headed" might provide me with solace during this confusing time in my life. However, I choose to seek comfort through other ingenious forms of enlightenment such as Nirvana Songs: "I feel stupid and contagious, here we are now, entertain us, a mulatto, an albino, a mosquito, my libido, yeah."; The sweet Jewish man that always eats lunch at my favorite sandwich shop: "Quit staring at me and pass the sauerkraut you beady-eyed bitch"; and even commercial ditties: (singing)"At Shumaker Homes, we don't build houses, we build homes." It is these things along with a steady flow of bourbon & Newport Lights that is helping me through this difficult period. Okay, so it hasn't been that bad. I'm being dramatic as usual, but if I don't make a big deal about uprooting my life, then who will? Certainly not sweet, sauerkraut loving Mr. Morgenstein. I will be living in a town that is new, with a job that is new, a roommate that is new, making friends that are new, and crying boo-hoo, while sitting on a pew, listening to a cat go mew, wearing a pink tu-tu, while a dog takes a doo, chillin' with my crew, mad cows going moo .... oh sorry, what was I talking about? I got caught up in the rhyme. Anyway, these are the facts. Not to mention I haven't lived with a roommate in two years. I imagine the transition from living solo to waking up to another person every day isn't an easy one. Will it annoy her that I don't like to speak to people before 9:00 a.m.? Or that I sing really loud in the shower? Will she get upset when my My Little Pony dolls get cold and scared at night and want to come sleep in her bed? Or when the "ghost" comes and eats all of her Jel-lo Pudding Packs and Hot Pockets? These are questions that will inevitably be answered upon my arrival. But there is this thought in the back of my mind that maybe I shouldn't move at all. Maybe I should stay where I am and keep things the way they are. Maybe I secretly don't want change. And all of these questions lead up to the ultimate question, am I doing the right thing?

I have always been so independent. Never one to shy away from doing something on my own. Never one to lean on another. Always insisting on doing everything by myself, mainly as a matter of pride. I was the girl in college when you had the group project that did all the work. Remember her? You thought she was a control freak but you made nice so the stupid bitch would get the shit done. It wasn't because I liked doing the work, or even that I was responsible at the time, but it was because I didn't like the way anyone else did the work. Even if it involved me getting drunk, accidentally puking on the project, fixing it later and turning it in the day after it was due because I was too hungover to come to class, it would be done my way or the highway. Over the years I have slowly but surely learned how to let others help, but I am still a work in progress. So why all of the self-doubt about taking off on my own to a new city? It's just another project that I have to complete. However, on a scale of empowering pop-singers, I should feel like a Cher but I'm totally a Hilary Duff right now. Maybe it's because I still have two weeks left and it hasn't hit me? Or maybe because I'm really not as independent as I thought? Or maybe it's because I keep asking myself so many damn questions? Maybe what I should really be asking myself is, are you ready to say goodbye? I don't know the answer. I fear leaving and I fear staying. Regardless of my fears, I will miss the life I have known for the past 24 years. I will miss my family. I will miss my funny, irreplaceable friends. I will miss this shitty but loveable town that I live in, and the filthy dives that I return to every weekend. I will miss going home on Sundays for dinner, and hot sweltering summers which will be replaced by even hotter ones. I will miss the familiar faces that will soon be substituted by the faces of strangers. Strangers who will eventually become friends. Most of all, I will miss every single memory of this place. Every single one. No matter how treasured or terrible they may have been, it is the priceless memories that I will miss the most. This brings to mind a proverb I once heard: "In memory's telephoto lens, far objects are magnified......."

.........It also brings to mind something that sweet Mr. Morgenstein always says, "I swear to God if I find another piece of hair in my fucking Reuben I'm never coming to this fucking piece of shit sandwich shop again, you hear me?"

--------------------------------------------------

Yes, things will certainly be different for me once I have a roommate. The carefree days of solidarity are over, my friend. The following are things that I did when I lived alone that I won't be able to do anymore:

- Bite my toenails, watch Oprah, and talk to Megan simultaneously.

- Hang my animal corpses in the closet to dry out.

- Proudly display my collection of Golden Girls memorabilia

- Listen to my Ray Stevens album collection on full blast

- Continue my illicit affair with Timothy the lawn guy

- Host my own American Idol: We're down to the final three, my washing machine, my hair dryer & my tea kettle. Maytag stole the show with her rendition of Patti Labelle's "On My Own" last night. Will she be voted off? America, only you can decide.

- Put on my doo-rag, sag my pants, use tin foil to make grillz, and have a rap-off with the Crepe Myrtle in the backyard:

"You nuttin' but a piece of wood - tryin' to act like you from da' hood - squirrels makin' babies on ya leaves - You rap so bad I call you Feder-Tree - Birds peckin' all up on ya, don't it hurt? - homey you need to get yo ass back in tha dirt... Awww yeee-ahhhh......"

- Pee in my kitchen sink

- Invite my support group over to the house, and cheer (and cry) whenever a member has had a "breakthrough"

- Do dramatic reenactments of US Magazine paparazzi shots

- Pay a neighborhood kid to come to my window at night and yell out, "Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!"

- Check out the message boards at www.barrymanilow.com. Yup, I'm a Fanilow

- Stare out of my peephole and pretend that I am the captain of a mighty submarine

- Photoshop myself into celebrity pics & hang them on the fridge. When visitors come over talk very matter-of-fact about them: “Oh yeah, Reese and I were like, trying to shop at Versace, but we were like, so totally bummed out by the paparazzi following us everywhere, and then Reese like, totally screamed at them, she can really be a bitch sometimes. So..... enough about me, how is grad school going?”

- Continue to keep Rodriguez, my Chilean man-slave/personal trainer/nutritionist, chained up in the basement.

- Hang the nude portrait of myself above the dining room table

- Lather myself in Tabasco and do my ritual "hot sauce mating dance"

- Scream bloody murder to see if anyone would have come had I really been beaten, bound, tortured, cannibalized & fed my own flesh

- Roll myself up in an area rug to create the "Human Burrito"

- Watch the neighbors have sex through my binoculars

- Yell at the neighbors for putting a restraining order on me for watching them have sex through my binoculars

- Pretend that I am shipwrecked on my coffee table and there is no escape in sight except for a piece of driftwood (a sock)

- Work on my autobiography: "The Toilet Affair: My Life With an Overactive Bladder"

- Buy a Seventeen magazine and read it with pride

- Feed my nail clippings to squirrels in the backyard

- Hurl my body down the stairs in an attempt to create grounds for a lawsuit, but fail desperately

- Work like I don't need money, love like I've never been hurt, and dance like no one's watching. This is what I do at home alone, but you might know it better as “The Gayest Quote Ever”

- Suck my fumb and cwy out for my mommy after a scawy dweam

- Shoot the school-children with my bb gun in the morning as they wait for the school bus, targeting the extremely dorky/ugly kids

- Crawl out my window and slide down the drainpipe to see if it really does work like in the movies

- Spend my days & nights in online chatrooms:

vaginagoddess245: hi there. i'm all alone
wangchungtonite: what r u wearing?
vaginagoddess245: the new nightie I just bought at Cato Fashion
wangchungtonite: come over and bring Scattergories, i'm feeling lucky

- Invite Annie the Trannie, a.k.a. my neighbor Greg, over for lasagna and girl talk

- Record songs onto a cassette tape using just my jam box and a Casio keyboard. In case you're wondering, my new album drops June 15th

- Practice what I would say to my baby-daddy should he ever leave me

- Hump my life sized teddy bear

- Create a shrine to my deceased Shi Tzu, Coco, complete with photos, a lock of her hair, recordings of her barking, her collar, her favorite chew toy, and a dried up turd

- Reenact Jack & Rose's final scene from Titanic in my living room. In this evening's performance, my couch will serve as the wooden door upon which Rose, played by me, lays cold and desperate in the icy Atlantic waters. Jack will be portrayed by my favorite Pier 1 throw pillow ... and cut to scene.... "I'll never let go Jack, I'll never let go"


What do you do when left to your own devices? Ever been home alone? If you did something more exciting than thwarting Joe Pesci's efforts to enter your home, tell me about it.

Mad Props

So my new Motorola Razr phone arrived promptly and with a smile by my friendly neighborhood FedEx delivery man yesterday (I just plugged your company, now gimmie yo' money FedEx). Can I just say how excited I am? This might sound completely redneck of me, but I believe it to be the most wondrous and amazing piece of technology that I or this world has ever seen apart from the Bedazzler and the Hoveround (grannies in unison yell across the Grand Canyon...."Hoveround...Hoveround...Hoveround"). So I decided to go online and read what the rest of the world was saying about the Razr. Surely the whole technology industry is abuzz about this great new invention? To my chagrin, I found that there were a lot of people talking smack about my fabulous, pint-sized, defenseless little phone. That's when I realized that the only people who write bad reviews on the internet are anal retentive assholes (TripAdvisor reviewers: you know who you are). So I say to hell with them. While it is true that the Razr can't compete with the Blackberry's and Palm Pilot's of the world, I find that for a simple soul such as myself, it is just the thing. So like a desperate gal-pal trying to clear the name of a slutty friend, I'm here to set the record straight. The Razr is awesome! However, I was disappointed upon the realization that they call it the Razr because of its slim physique, not because you can shave your legs, armpits and the occasional bikini line with it. In that case, I'll just use my Venus for personal hygiene and leave the calls, texts, drunken dials, and cracking open of my housekeeper's skull to my Razr. I might talk on it even when no one is on the other line. I'll go out in public and scream important sounding things into the mouthpiece like "Sell all of the shares, pronto!!" and "Whatever you do Doctor Harper, you must save the hand!!! Those hands are worth millions. For the love of God please save the haaaaand!!!!!" I might even get portable earphones and a mouthpiece so that I can join the rest of the world in looking like a total Schizophrenic freak who talks and laughs to myself. Yes, I've only had it for a day, but my Razr is my new favorite prop. Not only does it make me look cool, but it will undoubtedly make me the most popular girl in Mrs. Dellberger's third grade class (eat your heart out Suzy Williams). In all seriousness, what is it about a prop that empowers us and allows us to take on a new persona? A cool phone, a cowboy hat, fake lashes, a cigar, a wig, funky sunglasses. The addition of just one of these elements not only changes us, but also changes the way others perceive us. I think that's why there is this obsession with Halloween and any other occasion where you get to dress in costume. You get to become someone else. You step outside of your boundaries and do things differently. And the funny thing is, it doesn't even take a head-to-toe costume. One simple prop, and all of a sudden, you're workin' a whole new attitude.

I have a friend. I know it's hard to believe, but I do. This friend of mine, I'll call her Lady Chablis. Though she is from Savannah, she is not an African-American drag queen, but she is, however, a lady, and a lady who may or may not drink Chablis at that, so the title works, got it? A few months back Lady Chablis revealed her magical new prop during a night out on the town in Charleston (I repeat, I am talking about a girl, not a drag queen. Keep your mind out of the gutter). Her prop of choice was a kickass red fedora. Now Lady Chablis (LC) could easily be considered the whitest of all white girls. But once she placed the red fedora (with a complimentary sexy outfit of course) atop that bright blonde head of hers, she transformed into a full-fledged divalicious femme fatale that could easily rival any nubian princess or trust fund baby we might see out that night. As she entered the club, we were but minions trailing in her golden-laden footsteps. Once she took her rightful position in a center banquette, we gathered around her. It was as if the entire place was possessed, including us. The patrons were drunk and bedeviled, not by the drinks in their hands, but by the sultry vibes that were radiating off the mysterious lady in the red hat. Suddenly, a bumpin' song came on that suited LC's liking and she retreated to the dance floor. The entire place got "crunk", the ladiez wuz givin' shout-outs on her killa' hat, tha fellaz wuz buyin' shots tryin' they best to get a bump n' grind on with Mrs. Chablis. The deejay even flagged down one of the minions to find out who "ya shorty in the red hat" was. Everyone was mesmerized. For a moment I thought I heard Madonna's "Who's That Girl" playing faintly in the background. As for the rest of us, there was no hope. We were but common folk. Mere pheasants of style and class all put to shame by LC and her infamous red fedora. And so that is how it went. But the night lives on. Forever encased in the tombs of infamy and all because of that fabulous chapeau rouge. The last I heard that fedora was seen somewhere up in Chicago.

Unfortunately, not everyone knows how to use their props properly. On the exact same night, just as the red fedora witnessed its heyday, another prop was going terribly wrong. Enter, Goggle Boy. You guessed it, an otherwise cute boy decided it would be a good idea to show up at a bar wearing goggles. At first we thought it was an ode to the Olympic skiing events going on at the time, but to our horror, we realized the unthinkable. You got it! Dude just wanted to wear his goggles and by God if he didn't wear them the entire evening! Why? I don't know. Did he truly love his goggles that much? Or was he just channeling the omnipresent spirit of Greg Louganis that lives inside all of us? We'll never know. I do recall a story about trying to take the attention away from himself so that his "not-so-fortunate" buddy (a total hottie who needed no help) could score some chicks. Did it work? Not really. Unless you consider six girls laughing at you and screaming "Goggle Boy" not getting attention. However, it was negative attention and we did give his friend a lap dance, so fundamentally, his plan worked. Still, for future reference to all you potential propsters, stay away from the goggles! Stick to unique yet fabulous props.

Speaking of fabulous, it just so happens that I will be attending a bachelorette party this weekend. I know I am rambling on and on, but since I am going to a bachelorette party, I feel it is my prop-triotic duty to salute one of our finest. A prop that deserves some major respect. No I'm not talking about Old Glory or the Crucifix. I'm talking about the prop of all props: the condom encrusted bachelorette wedding veil. The bachelorette veil is one of the most highly regarded multi-tasking props known to man, erhh, woman. It scores free drinks and shots for the bride-to-be and her friends. It snags attention and kisses from cute and not-so-cute boys. It pays the cover charges at most bars except for the ones where total jack-f*cks work the door. It also allows you to act like a crazy untouchable whore yet it gives you the essence of having a virginal mysticism about you. It is for these reasons that it has always been and shall remain the ultimate prop. Now don't be upset if you don't have a special occasion to rock your prop. The beauty of props is that they are best suited for life's unexpected occasions. So be a rebel. Wear that pink boa to your grandma's funeral. Put on your chaps for church next Sunday. Take that pimp cane and your best gangsta limp when you go to get that wart lanced off. But most importantly, remember these words: Life is but a stage full of props. Use them to your advantage.

Oh yeah, did I mention that Blackberry's are sluts?

So you're ready to "get your prop on" are you? Well here are a few props that you may or may not want to try out. That just depends on how you feel about wrapping a dead skunk around your neck. (Make sure to click on the pink links for details)

- A fake cubic zirconia engagement ring with "Always & Forever, Tookie" inscribed on it.

- Drug store sunglasses you bought from a drunk hooker for $2.00.

- A happy meal box as your purse. Attempt to use McFries as currency.

- The Bedazzler.

- A can of air freshener that you strategically spray at your ass every so often.

- A test tube full of your own urine (or someone else's) in case anyone needs "samples."

- A Spongebob Squarepants temporary tattoo.

- A cross-your-heart bra worn outside of your shirt. Every time you tell someone anything, you have to end the story with "Cross my heart!"

- A Monopoly "Get out of jail free" card along with the "top hat" gamepiece (Extra points if you actually wear the top hat).

- Your best Paula Abdul impersonation - "Ahh do-do ya love me, do-do ya love me? Now tell me baby......."

- A copy of the book "Women Without Sex: The truth about female impotence and other sexual problems."

- Fossilized turtle poop.

- An outfit from the new Janet Reno Collection at Kohl's.

- Fake man-hands (to be worn with J. Reno outfit).

- Zahara Jolie-Pitt a.k.a. Arm Candy.

- A sexually confused dog named Baxter that wears a Kate Spade rain slicker.

- A posse of angry gay male dancers.

- A Skip-Bo card set.

- Socks stuffed in your bra (can be substituted with big fake plastic boobies given to you by a Liza Minelli lookalike).

- A bow and arrow with a matching Robin Hood cap.

- An eighties boombox you carry on your shoulder that plays Eddie Murphy's "Party All The Time" on repeat.

- Jazz hands.

- Turd on a string to keep the spirits away (Did you hear that Greg Louganis?)

- A vial of Billy Bob Thornton's blood and an antique chest of drawers to scare him off.

- A Fe-mullet (to be worn with the following).

- A WWF Championship belt from 1986 and a shirt that says, "Hulk Hogan is my bitch."

- Chuck Norris.

- A dollop of Daisy.

- Old Powerball tickets and unanswered prayers.

- A Janet Jackson Rhythm Nation Tour concert tee.

- 2 pricks of spider legs, the eyeballs of a troll, a pint of vampire's blood, a dash of witch's dandruff, a hand full of moth's wings and a lock of a virgin's hair.

- Girl Scout patches. Proudly tell your mom and dad, "I've gotten one for every guy I nailed!"

- Lance Snack Crackers. Preferably Van-O-Lunch or Cheese on Wheat.

- A carton of American Spirit Cigarettes, dirty fingernails, a five o'clock shadow, and a headache the size of Texas.

- A raging herd of My Little Ponies and a rope to "lasso em' in."

- A portable karaoke machine with a fat woman on the mike singing "Total Eclipse of the Heart."

- An empty bottle of liquor in one hand, your car keys in the other.

- A full bottle of liquor in one hand, 35 pain killers in the other.

- A tisket, A tasket, a green and yellow basket.

- Louis Vuitton. No not the handbag, I'm talking about ole' Louie Vuitton that lives two houses down.

- A killer pas de bourre- one step, two, and turn - patada, patada- shimmy and turn and pas de bourre.

And when you're done pas de bourre'ing, you can put to good use the plethora of other props out there in the universe. So tell me about some funny props you've used lately, or in other words, (ghetto voice) Gimmie some props bitches.