Jamie Dimon v. Wonderhussy


I *FINALLY* figured out the one person who can still help me save my house……Jamie Dimon, CEO of JPMorganChase. He’s the greedy asshole sitting atop the pile of crooked and ill-begotten mortgages in Chase’s coffers… after three years of dealing with powerless underlings who “can’t” help me, I finally found the one who can.


All I’m asking is for you to let me short-refi my house for the amount that it is currently short selling for. It is currently appraised at $105,000. *PLEASE* let me buy it back from you guys for that amount! PLEASE! 🙂

If I don’t hear back from Jamie Dimon, then it’s time to go to Plan B. Alpha Male douchebags like this are what keep Vegas afloat…I’m sure it’s just a matter of time before Jamie Dimon comes to town for some kind of corporate-sponsored debauchery. I’m asking allllll my local readers who are strippers, prostitutes and drug dealers to MEMORIZE HIS FEATURES! He’s BOUND to show up one of these days, and when he does….


Also, I’m sure a stuffed-shirt Type-A power player like Jamie Dimon has SOME kinda weird fetish. Likely he’s into being abused, dominated, pissed on or having his balls tortured. If anyone knows of his having such a fetish…


I’ll be happy to accommodate 🙂 I won’t even charge him — Jamie, if you’re reading this and you’re turned on by any of this…


I won’t even charge you! I’m sure we could work out a trade. I’ll humiliate you however you like…and in exchange, you could just give me… say….my house.


I’m waiiiiiiting…..







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The Foot-Sucking Robot Meets Bunny and the Quadruple Bypass Burger

Talk about kicking a girl when she’s down!! Look what they made me do at Footmode.com last week…






Picking up where I left off last time: I was on my way to my monthly shoot for Footmode — but since I was no longer a starry-eyed newbie (this being my third shoot with them), they took off the gloves. Whereas last time they let me be the Domme in all the shoots, sticking my feet in the face of the other girls and making them sniff ’em… this time I had to take a turn as a sub, and let the other girls kick MY ass and otherwise humiliate me (the first pic shows my evil scientist nemesis using a remote control to turn me into a toe-sucking robot). It was all in good fun, but it was still slightly degrading…but also weirdly therapeutic. I’ve spent the last month or so alternating between fits of bawling and rage, so it was kinda fun to express my pain and misery on camera.






It wasn’t ALL bad, though; I still got to put on a cheerleading uniform and act like a bitch for a good half of the shoot…which was ALSO extremely therapeutic! (I always wanted to be a cheerleader in school, but we were always too poor to afford the uniforms and training camp and stuff….plus I am a klutz and a terrible dancer; so this is as close as it gets, for me.)






Anyhoo, this went on for eight hours over two days, and was a welcome distraction from the lameness my life has become. Aside from this, all I’ve been doing is collecting boxes, packing up my shit, and getting ready to move. My house was finally listed on the MLS the day before Thanksgiving, and I got around 10 calls from prospective buyers in the first few hours. Some asshole is gonna get a bangin’ deal on my place, sooner than later! Which I guess is good for me…but it’s still lame, depressing and tiring. Now I gotta find a new place to live :-/ Bah, humbug! It’s a good thing I’m an atheist, or I’d be really pissed to be spending my Christmas in this fashion!!!

Aaaaanyhoo, another welcome distraction was Girls’ Night Out with my friend Bunny, a cross-dressing misanthropist and incorrigible cynic I met back in the day at Ye Olde Photo Lab. Listen to how fucked up the company we work for is: because of her “condition” (pre-op transsexual who works in full drag), they would only let her work the Cher show (figuring Cher fans to be a bunch of cross-dressing homos and weirdos who wouldn’t be offended by her). Personally, I don’t know what they were so worried about; clueless straight men used to hit on her ALL THE TIME… but the photo company insisted on hiding her away up in the balcony (in the cheap seats), so she never made any money, got discouraged, quit, and finally moved to Seattle, where she was apparently held in indentured servitude at a lodge in the mountains until finally escaping back to Vegas. Being desperate, she went straight back to the photo company to ask for her job back…but they never liked her on account of her cynicism (they all drink The Secret on a regular basis, and if you’re not with ’em, you’re a second-class citizen). At first they told her they weren’t hiring….a lie, since they have super-high turnover due to the shittiness of working conditions. Finally they got desperate enough to hire her back, but hid her away over at this drag show in one of the dumpy old hotels, where she was languishing until I plucked her out and whisked her away to Fremont Street for a night of fun!

Our first stop was the Heart Attack Grill — after my spaghetti and ice cream pigouts of the week before, and prior to the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday, I was working on a short piece for Las Vegas City Life (one of our local alt-weeklies) on my adventures in gluttony. Since I failed at the spaghetti challenge, I hoped to redeem myself at the Heart Attack Grill by polishing off one of their Quadruple Bypass Burgers — 2 pounds of beef smothered in Velveeta, onions and bacon, on a lard-toasted bun, accompanied by lard-bathed French fries and a 2,000-calorie Butterfat milkshake with vanilla vodka in it. YUM!

Bunny is always watching her figure, so she just had a shake while I went balls-out. I was REALLY hungry that day, having eaten nothing and done all those Footmode shoots, so I thought I stood a good chance. I should have listened to the bartender, Mike, who warned me that these burgers are like the Hydra of Greek mythology — take a bite, and it just gets bigger. And it was true! After only about 1/3 to 1/2 the burger, I was stuffed. Maybe if I hadn’t guzzled 2000 calories’ worth of butterfat & booze while waiting for my food, I would have made more of a dent in it…but as it happened, I was sadly vanquished again 🙁 And I didn’t even have bacon on it! (Bacon and most porkly products weird me out, so I asked them to hold the bacon.) I am pleased to report, however, that the burger itself tasted excellent! The fries were OK, but only if I held my breath while eating — otherwise the lardy smell was too much for my delicate stomach. But the shake was the BEST part — I will definitely be stopping in again for one of these!

After conceding defeat, Dr. Jon came over and made sure I was OK with a brief post-pigout checkup — which I passed with flying colors! I tried to stick around and have a drink at the bar, but I started to feel pretty sick from all the meat and lard (I generally eat a fairly meat-free, low-fat diet) and figured I’d better walk it off. So Bunny and I went for a stroll down Fremont Street, heading over to check out the new Plaza Hotel, which was just renovated/remodeled and has generated a lot of buzz.

The old Plaza was one of my fave downtown hangouts because of its state of genteel, smoke-drenched decay…and its proximity to the downtown Vegas Greyhound Bus depot, which is right next door and makes for a GREAT influx of crackheads and weirdos. They used to have this amazingly crappy little lounge off the main casino where this crazy stoned Eskimo named Dusty Barron used to play guitar/sing/ramble on incoherently…but alas, due to the new renovations, Dusty and the lounge are gone with the wind. Boo! Apparently, the owners of the Plaza were able to score a bunch of swanky new furnishings for cheap from the unfinished ruins of the half-built-but-never-opened Fontainebleau, so the new Plaza looks (and smells) amazing. You’d never know it was the same joint! Aside from the furnishings, there’s also a new cupcake place, a swanky new salon where the stylists wear lingerie, and a lounge/miniature golf course run by Anthony Cools called The Swingers’ Club (that’s me by the 18th hole, a/k/a the Haunted Hole… hahaha. Plenty o’cobwebs in my hole, too).

They are also FINALLY re-opening the fabulous steakhouse that used to sit up under that glass dome on the second floor, looking down at the circus of the Fremont Street Experience. Now THAT was a swanky place to eat! It was one of those old-school Vegas steakhouses with caricatures of local celebrities on the walls and a grand piano in the lounge, but it was at the Plaza so it was cheap and unassuming. They closed it down a few years ago to put in a pretentious tapas place, but it didn’t do well because its suburbanite following were too big of pussies to venture downtown (this was the pre-gentrification period, before the hipster zealots at Zappos.com bought up everything).

Aaaaaanyhoo, in keeping with the “let’s spruce up downtown” spirit, the Plaza re-branded the steakhouse Oscar’s, after Oscar Goodman, our lovable gin-blossomed ex-mobster ex-mayor (his wife is now mayor, so he’s more like the Mayor’s Consort these days…although word is that he’s getting his own “People’s Court”-type show, to be filmed in the theater at the Hilton!). Apparently, Oscar’s is going to be one of those old-school swanky Vegas steakhouses, and what’s more they are going to hire a bunch of “broads” to work as sort of atmosphere models — i.e. sit at the bar and impart Vegas lore and tourism info to interested diners. Sounds like the PERFECT job for Wonderhussy, eh?! Alas, their job fair was between 9-11am the next morning, and I was too hung over to get over there in time 🙁

Anyway, Bunny and I sneaked into Oscar’s and had a look around before it officially opened…and I can report with assurance that THIS PLACE WILL BE AWESOME! Anyone want to go to dinner??? 😀  Then a security guard kicked us out, so we meandered back down Fremont Street to this piano bar called “Don’t Tell Mama,” a place I have long avoided because it just looks like one of those lame-ass places where yuppies and homos get drunk and sing Billy Joel songs. After going in for a bit, and sipping on ginger ale (Bunny doesn’t drink, and my stomach was still wrestling with 2 pounds of beef-n-lard), I can say that my prejudicial assessment was correct. No, THANKS! Although I do have to give mad props to one of the bartenders, an unassuming-looking tomboy type who has an amazing voice and belted out a bunch of really challenging songs while I was there. Go, tomboy bartender!

After that, I bid Bunny adieu and went home for my usual nightly ritual of crying, drinking wine and eating magic cookies. But before I left, Bunny asked how the Mullet McWartface show was going. You may recall that the headliner in the showroom where I work recently changed from Captain Fantastic to this washed-up, raspy-voiced ex-coxswain with a spiky blonde mullet and an army of slavering cougar devotees — and you may remember as well that times have been reeeeeeally tough, photo-sales-wise. But all Bunny wanted to know was if I had a way to pass along a message to Mullet McWartface, who is well known to be a model railroad enthusiast! You see, Bunny’s hobby is wandering around the hinterlands photographing train tracks in the mist, and she wanted to see about maybe selling some of her prints to Mullet. I had to regretfully inform her that alas, I have no contact with Mullet himself…although I had been carrying on a sort of low-key flirtation with his bass player, unbeknownst to me. I would see him every night in the employee dining room, and I knew he had something to do with the show, but I assumed he was a roadie or stagehand or something, since he was eating slop in the EDR with all the other peons. Then I went in to watch the show on the last night of Mullet’s engagement, just to see what all the cougars were so fired up about, and I saw that he was actually the bass player. Either way, I had no way to pass along Bunny’s message…and now Mullet and his entourage are gone, not to return for their next engagement until March 2012.

Sooooo, after my big night out with Bunny, I wrote this scintillating article about my food adventures, and then it was time to pack up for the trip home to California for Thanksgiving. I always go home for the holidays — it seems suuuper-depressing to stay in Vegas at that time of year, although I have heard from friends that it’s actually awesome (in particular, the youth hostel downtown has a potluck dinner with all the backpacking Euro kids, and that sounds INCREDIBLE!). This year was somewhat inconvenient for me, however, since as mentioned my house was listed on the MLS the day before the holiday, so all day Wednesday and even on Thanksgiving itself I was deluged with phone calls. But whatever! I still had a good time with my nutty family.

A word about my family: they are not as transparent as I am, and don’t like having their photos posted online. So I have no pics to share — just like the time I went to that Wiccan jamboree at the Sekhmet Temple, you’ll have to use your imagination! Anyhoo, we’re pretty close-knit and for the holidays we all meet up at my mom’s house in San Jose, CA (not really her house; she’s been renting forever and plans to try and buy a house up farther north, in real hippie-dippy NorCal country, soon). Everyone was there: my oldest sis and her Israeli hubby (with whom I camped at Burning Man), my little sis (a recent college grad with a psychology degree, living at home while working as a office temp), and my bro (a recent engineering grad who just got his first “real” job as a programmer at some company in Sacramento) and his girlfriend (a student at “casually-pepper-spraying-cop-land a/k/a UC Davis). We spent all weekend eating, boozing, smoking and drumming — gooooooood times 🙂

One day we all got dressed and took a drive up north a ways to the little town where my mom and dad grew up and met, and where my dad lived most of his life before ending it all in a fit of depression earlier this year by stepping in front of an Amtrak train on Tax Day. We had heard of a little memorial someone had erected in his memory near the train tracks, so we went down to check it out and pay our respects…all while making many tasteless gallows-humor jokes about trains, which passed by at intervals. Weird, but fun! I forgot to stop in and have a shot of Rumpleminze at the local bar, as was my dad’s tradition in life (he usually had a beer and a shot of Rumpleminze…but on the day he killed himself, he had FIVE shots)…but from now on, I vow that whenever I’m in the town of Martinez, CA, I will have a shot of Rumpleminze in his honor! As Dog is my witness!!!

But now the holiday is over and everyone had to go back to the real world…which for me means facing down a week of unmitigated hell. I have no fewer than 8 different Realtors bringing prospective buyers over tomorrow, and in between all that I still have to pack up more stuff, lift weights and look for a new place to live. NOT very much fun, I’m afraid. Better put on my Big Girl panties, like they say…

I’ll leave you with some photos from my shoot with Cam Attree earlier this month — the one where I froze my ASS off running around the desert in inclement weather. They came out awesome, despite my mental and physical misery throughout the entire shoot, and he even wrote a blog about it:










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The Silver Slurper Gets Eaten by a Giant Frog


Boring part first, fun part later. Although the boring part is so fucked-up and Byzantine, it might interest you despite its being about (what else) my mortgage mess.

Most of my week was taken up with bawling and gut-churning indecision over this fiasco. Those who have been following along know that I was approved for an extremely ill-advised loan back in 2007, and despite the fact that I never earn more than $35,00 per year, was somehow offered a $340,000 mortgage…which, despite the fact that I’ve already paid $125,000 toward it, has now ballooned to $375,000 thanks to interest, late fees and penalties). Meanwhile, the house is now worth $90k. Go figure!

For the last few years I’ve been doggedly pursuing a loan modification. Over the three years, many people told me I was being foolish, and that it would never work out and I might as well just “walk away” (let the bank foreclose and take my house). Well, for once in my life I was actually OPTIMISTIC, and wrote off those people as negative haters. I figured if I just stuck to my guns, and faxed, scanned & emailed endless reams of documents as per the bank’s demands…in the end, it would pay off and they would work with me. I figured I was doing the right thing by not just abandoning the house and thus creating more residential blight…but BOY, was I ever wrong!

I stuck to my guns for 3 years, finally getting a trial loan modification and then a mediation hearing, where my bank was supposed to offer me a workable deal. But the deal they offered me was terrible: all they would do was extend the term of my loan from 30 to 40 years, and bring my interest rate down from 6.25% to 5%. BIG FRIGGIN’ DEAL! They flat-out refused to reduce my principal… so I finally had to give up and admit defeat 🙁

After three years of struggling, it is a bitter pill to swallow…but after crying for around 30 hours, I figured that finally coming to this realization would actually be liberating; for the past 3 years I’ve been stressed, miserable, confused and have suffered debilitating depression and insomnia. I figured finally just letting go, giving in, letting them win and take my house back would initially suck, but…I’d get over it in time, and would actually be better off. WRONG AGAIN!

Listen up, all of who say I should “just walk away.” They always say “just” walk away…like it’s the easy answer; a walk in the park. I’m here to tell you: IT ISN’T!

These fuckers make it NEXT TO IMPOSSIBLE to ever be free. They’re not satisfied with taking my house back — they want to pursue me into the ground and get every last drop of my blood. I’m serious! I already offered to give ’em the house back if they would just write off my debt (what’s called a Deed in Lieu of Foreclosure)…but of course they wouldn’t take it. They want me to try and short sell it first, which is fine and I don’t mind doing it…except for the fact that EVEN if I’m able to find a short sale buyer, I’m still not guaranteed that they’ll sign a waiver releasing me from the rest of the debt. And in a short sale, they have SIX YEARS to come after you for the money you owe them!

I’m also afraid those greedy fucking bloodsuckers won’t even accept a short sale in the first place — they look at your financials and then decide if they should “let” you short sell. I would think that looking at my own financials (I make around $2000 per month, and my mortgage payment is $2300), that it would be a no-brainer. But you’d be surprised…especially considering the fact that I’ve just spent THREE YEARS trying to convince them I’m in good enough financial health to make a loan modification worthwhile to them. It’s a fucking nightmare!

Another thing hampering my case is the fact that my foreclosure proceedings actually started back on March 29…so I’m pretty far along in the process. My attorney thinks I have about 3 months before they sell my house at auction, so I’m in a race against the clock to find a buyer in time. If I don’t, they take my house (which is fine with me)…but then they have 6 months to come after me for the money I owe them! And according to my attorney, they really are starting to come after people — and not just the big fish. Regular pissant peasants, like me, are now being sued by multi-billion-dollar banks for their mortgage debt — they want their pound of flesh, and by God they’ll get it! Even if they have to drive you into the poorhouse/insane asylum/off a bridge to try and get it.

Soooooo….I’m basically panicking, and in a state of constant agony. My eyes are a puffy, swollen mess, my stomach feels like it’s eating itself alive, and I’ve been drinking myself into a stupor every night just to try and sleep to forget about it for a few hours. I just want to be free. ATTN CHASE BANK: you can HAVE the $125,000 I’ve already given you — and you can have the house back, in perfect condition! DO YOU REALLY NEED MORE? Do you really need to hunt me down and ruin my life over this? Are you that fuckin’ greedy, assholes? Apparently, yes!

My best-case scenario is if I can find a short sale buyer ASAP. Sooooooo…. with that in mind, I present you the Deal of a Lifetime: Who Wants to Buy My House?! If interested, click on the link below to see photos and specs of the property. I expect it to be appraised at between $90k-$110…so someone will be getting a REAL STEAL on a badass historical house that’s oooooozing with character. Look for yourself:

Who Wants to Buy My House?

The worst part of all this is, I have at least one friend and a few family members who have offered to buy the house for me, then sell or simply gift it back to me. Unfortunately, this is illegal — as part of a short sale, you have to sign an “Arm’s Length Affidavit,” which basically affirms that the buyer is not a family member or a business associate, and that you will never, ever buy the house back from them or from anyone else, EVER. Even 50 years from now! They want to make sure they’re fucking you good and hard, tearing your perineum as badly as possible. If you dare lie on this affidavit, they can come after you for the very serious offense of mortgage fraud.


You wanna talk about mortgage fraud? I bought my house in 2008, when comparable properties in the area were going for around $250,000. I paid $380,000! Why? Because the appraiser assured me it was really worth $380,000! And why did he do that? Let’s speculate: the woman I bought the house from was a Realtor herself, and she owed $500,000 on the house…so she was trying to short sell it for $400,000. We offered $320k, she came back with $380k. And conveniently, she had an appraiser all lined up and ready to go “if” we needed one. Of course, they were probably in cahoots, and he deliberately over-appraised the house so that she could get the bank off her back…meanwhile leaving me on the hook to pay for it for the rest of my miserable life. THANKS A LOT, BITCH! Then some crookedy-ass fucker at the bank approved my no-doc loan, undoubtedly knowing full well I’d end up foreclosing…and they still got $125,000 out of me plus a huge write-off for the foreclosure. THAT’S MORTGAGE FRAUD!

It makes me so mad I can hardly breathe…but what really makes me mad is the fact that THERE IS NOWHERE I CAN TURN! NO ONE CARES that I was a victim of mortgage fraud — but God forbid I try to sell the fuckin’ place to a family member. They can perpetrate all the fraud they want…but the minute I try and do it, forget about it. I could sue Chase, but I ask you….how far would I get with that?!?! I’m a fucking peon peasant — I can’t afford to sue the King. They’d grind me into the dirt. So…all I can do is sit here and seethe, and pray that someone comes along with cash to buy my house tomorrow. It’s a nightmare!

I did come up with one idea to get back at ’em, though. If they refuse to approve the short sale, or if they refuse to waive my deficiency in the event of a short sale, I AM GOING DOWN TO THE #OCCUPYLASVEGAS ENCAMPMENT (which is in a shitty little parking lot across from the airport) AND INVITING THEM ALL TO CAMP IN MY YARD!!! As mentioned I have a huge lot — plenty of room for all those tents and bullhorns. We’ll occupy the FUCK out of my house, and make it next to impossible for those fuckers at Chase to take it back! LOLZ!!!!! My neighbors will hate me…but guess what? They ain’t gonna be my neighbors for very much longer, anyway.

Anyhoo, ENOUGH mortgage talk. Now for the fun half of my blog. I was so miserable about all of this all week that it was extremely difficult to have a good time — but somehow, I still managed! No thanks to work, though –the headliner in the showroom where I do my souvenir photo job has rotated again, and this fucking Mullet McWartface has been playing all month. It’s terrible! The problem stems from the fact that his fanbase consists of crinkly old cougars, most of them from down South, all of them with big blonde hair and too many crow’s feet to ever want to buy a souvenir photo. All they wanna do is jump onstage and rape Mullet McWarftface — seriously! Even at his advanced age (67), the women are crawling at his feet. It’s hilarious!

Not so hilarious is the fact that I’ve been making piss-poor money as a result of these miserable hags — only $30-60 a night! Thankfully I don’t count on that job to support me anymore, and was able to scare up some other work to make ends meet. One day I went over and filmed new videos for my medical/breath-holding fetish website — we did the usual heartbeat stuff, including a clip of me underwater in the bathtub having my heartbeat recorded (?!?!???), and then did some belly-noise clips. For these videos, the fans like it when you have lots of growling and churning noises in your belly, so usually I’ll eat something weird and fucked-up before filming one. Well, this time I didn’t need to worry about it — all the worry and stress has made my belly a permanently roiling bog of terror and acid reflux…and it went bananas on camera! Talk about making lemonade…I’ve already sold several of these clips! The fans love it!

Then I did a shoot for the awesomest website in the world, GirlsGoneRude.com, in which I did the usual burping, farting, sneezing and overeating shtick. It was great, especially the overeating part because it was ice cream (!!!!!Yay!!!!!) — and the director, this awesome young chick named Claire, told me to fart or whatever as needed while eating. So….I farted — a pretty loud one, too, but because I’m lactose intolerant it was soooooo foul that Claire almost dropped the camera! And she’s one to talk — she does the grossest stuff on that site (look it up if you don’t believe me).

But the best video we filmed that day was this custom request from a fan who wanted to see a girl get eaten by a giant frog! Claire brought over this frog-shaped clothes hamper, and we filmed a mini-epic in which I get undressed to get in the shower, leaving my clothes on the counter next to the frog. After I get in the shower, the frog sticks out his tongue and eats all my clothes, gobbling them up with relish (Claire was hiding in the hamper, with a long pink sock covering her arm to look like a tongue, LOL). I get out of the shower and look around for my clothes: “What the fuck?! I just put them down right here!” I eyeball the hamper suspiciously…then open it up and reach my arm in to get my clothes back out — at which time the “frog” sucks me down and gobbles me up! I scream and struggle around for ten minutes as the frog eats more and more of me (this was achieved through many cuts and many creative camera angles), and then finally, after the tips of my toes disappear into the frog’s mouth, the frog licks his lips and burps out my panties. LOLZ!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

As far as trying to understand the psychology behind this particular request…the best I could figure is that it’s basically a form of vore. Vore is a fetish in which the guy dreams of being eated and digested by a giant woman — apparently reverse vore is when a guy dreams of a WOMAN being eaten and digested by a monster or frog (one popular vore model just covers her boyfriend with a blanket and calls him a “monster…” Talk about shitty production values!). Well, Claire and the good people at GirlsGoneRude will not settle for shitty production values, so she is working on building a full-size monster that can actually “eat” women whole. LMFAO!!!!! I can’t wait to see it! And shoot with it!!

Now aside from fetish, I also did a couple regular old-fashioned photo shoots this week. One was with this traveling Bohemian art nude model I know (the one from my hot lesbo photos a few months back, the ones that got me deleted from Google+) who had arranged a shoot with a photographer in a room at Harrahs. Never the most exciting place to shoot…but interestingly, this was the same location and same photographer I shot with for my very first paid nude shoot! Ah, memories… that was back in November 2008. I’ve come a long way, baby!


My other shoot was a creative funfest with Randy Fosth a/k/a Shutterbug Studio. I havethis long black wig I bought for $3 at a thrift store (a real steal, considering it was originally TEN DOLLARS at WalMart)…so you can imagine what a shitty-quality wig it is. Still, I used it for those Dia de Los Muertos photos I did back around Halloween, and it looked pretty good on camera. So I decided we should do a Cher photoshoot in it!

First, I put out the call on Facebook: “Does anyone have an Indian headdress I can borrow for a photo shoot?” Out of alllllllll my 1,000+ “friends,” most of whom are artsy costume-type people…NOT ONE PERSON responded 🙁 So I went to my favorite costume store, HalloweenMart, but all they had was a deluxe $35 model…and I didn’t want to spend $35 for a one-off photo. But I checked all over town, and that was the only thing I could find…so I just went ahead and bought it. Fuck it, I’m losing my house anyway…might as well spend a few bucks and have some fun.

I looked up some drag queen tutorials on YouTube, to see how professional female impersonators make their features look like Cher. Thanks to a couple of extremely fabulous videos (shout out to Misty Valley Paramount and Breathless in Wonderland), I was able to recreate Cher’s hooded eyelids, loooooong face and high cheekbones….sort of. Well enough, anyway!

Then I figured, since I had the wig on anyway, might as well do some Toke-a-hontas shtick with it (at right). Alas, I didn’t have a real peace pipe with me….just my friend J.R.’s regular glass pipe.

Then I went from one kind of Indian to the other, doing a look I’ve always wanted to recreate: Bollywood!!! I find everything about Bollywood fabulous (well, except for this one time in Fed. 2010 when I was an extra in a Bollywood movie filming out at Lake Las Vegas, for which I STILL haven’t been paid for), and I’ve always wanted to dress up like a Bollywood starlet. I put on this Nepalese wedding jewelry my mom gave me for my birthday one year, and went to town. Randy’s idea was to make it look like I was enslaved in a Calcutta brothel, so he wanted me to cry…but unfortunately, my tear ducts were exhausted from having been sobbing allllll week long, so I remained dry-eyed. D’oh!

Anyway, after all that the wig was basically trashed…but I still hung onto it. Because… you never know 🙂

Now meanwhile, through all this my friend J.R. was in town, having a mental breakdown of his own. He says he’s under a lot of stress because of all his money, and everyone wanting a piece of him, and a bunch of other stuff going on in his life (including a severe midlife crisis), so he ended up staying in Vegas WAY past his original departure date. He delayed his departure date twice, the second time after I had already dropped him off at the airport! He ended up taking a cab to a “shitty dive” motel near the airport, which I’m sure couldn’t have been that bad (although he made it sound like the worst fleabag dump in Mogadishu)…but apparently it was bad enough that he ended up moving to the Luxor, where he ran into some trouble with a Lady of the Night.

Apparently, he was hanging around the casino at Planet Hollywood (why on Earth anyone would do that, I have no idea…I despise that facility) when he ran into this tall, beautiful big-titted blonde. Just his type — although as mentioned many times, he has a weakness for all hot girls, no matter the specs. Anyway, after negotiating a “party” fee, she drove him to the Luxor in her shitty old beater car, and proceeded to blow him and then rob him of $2000! He sent me some pics of her, in case I ever run into her (I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do…kick her ass? Puncture her implants?)…and I found them faaaaaascinatingly depressing and evocative of Diane Arbus. Lesson learned, J.R….although you’d think he would have already learned his lesson, since this has already happened to him once!!! LOLZ! Even now, he’s in Miami with that fake blonde bitch Bobbi Jo (one of the mean whores he brought to dinner with me one night in Vegas)…better watch yourself, J.R.!

After J.R. left, I busied myself with more mortgage-related hell….but took one short break to participate in the Sons of Italy’s heralded Spaghetti-Eating Contest down at the South Point casino. I was driving home from my medical fetish shoot earlier in the week when I saw the contest advertised on their marquee…and knew I had to enter! I’ve dabbled in competitive eating for a few years now, having beat my ex-brother-in-law at an ice-cream eating contest once, but I’ve had mixed results. I failed miserably in the Nathan’s Hot Dog qualifying round here in Vegas (I placed 6th out of 12, but they were all men), and then another time my friend Boris and I tried to complete the pizza challenge at MoonDoggie’s (a local bar), but we failed at that too — and now our photo is up forever on their Wall of Shame 🙁

Anyway, for this spaghetti contest, the prize was $1,000 for whoever could eat the most 1-pound plates of spaghetti in seven minutes. I didn’t really expect to win, but I figured you never know….all the big-time competitive eaters might not enter because of the piddly prize money, so I might have a chance. With that in mind, I created a persona, dressed all in glittering silver: The Silver Slurper. At the Nathan’s hot dog contest (and all other competitive eating events sponsored by the IFOCE — International Federation of Competitive Eaters), the participants all had funny names and backstories and entrance music and stuff, so I figured I’d join in. Alas, this contest wasn’t an officially IFOCE-sanctioned event….so the emcee just looked at me like I was weird. (The IFOCE’s emcee is an AMAZING silver-tongued, garrulous carny with a straw boater and a seersucker suit…he is a GENIUS! See pic at left.) This spaghetti contest emcee was just some local goombah, though…and he didn’t know what to make of me.

There were sooo many people at this contest (apparently $1,000 IS a good prize amount for this type of thing…d’oh) that they broke it down into 3 heats. After watching the first two heats, I knew I had no chance: in the first round, this little old man named Rich “the Locust” LeFevre crammed 10 POUNDS of spaghetti down his gullet! This man is nothing short of amazing: at the age of 67, this wizened little sprite is a full-time pro competitive eater who can put away ASTONISHING amounts of food…without gaining an ounce. He trains for this stuff very methodically, and the best part is that his wife is ALSO a competitive eater! I don’t remember her name, but she’s one of those slim, perfectly-coiffed glamorous grandma types with oversized sunglasses and pearls and stuff. TOO COOL! She comes to all his eating matches to cheer him on (when she’s not doing her own eating, at which she is also amazingly good). Anyway, I remember her well because back in the day at that hot dog contest, as I was the only female contestant, she cheered for me very lustily. Sweet!

Anyway, once I saw the Locust was in the game, I knew it was all over. Then, ANOTHER contestant — one of the amateurs, no less — ate ELEVEN pounds! So at that point, I settled on just being the top female eater. But even THAT goal was demolished when this little tiny gal in round 2 ate TWELVE POUNDS of spaghetti!! Come to find out, she is actually a pro as well…oh well.

Anyway, by Round 3 I knew I had zero chance of setting ANY sort of record…so I settled for just not getting sick. I ended up eating 3 pounds, 4 ounces of spaghetti (which I don’t even LIKE)…and then later that night, I went home and ate a bunch of leftover P.F. Chang’s and half a carton of ice cream 🙁 (I was depressed, dammit!)


Anyhoo, thanks to my friends Guy and Jen for coming along and taking these awesome photos. My face was stained bright orange for the rest of the day from the grease in that nasty-ass sauce (now I know why I hate spaghetti!).







OK, now I gotta go get ready for my foot fetish photo shoot with Footmode.com….time to kick some more ass, yay!!! And after that, I have a hot date with my drag queen friend, Jennifer (a/k/a Jenny Bunny)! We’re going to the Heart Attack Grill so I can FINALLY indulge in one of their Quadruple Bypass Burgers (plus of course fries and a butterfat shake). All this overeating is good preparation for Thanksgiving, ya know!

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Let Them Eat Cock!






Here’s a few pics from my shoot with footmode.com last week…so you can see why I had such a good time shooting with those crazy fuckers! It was verrrry therapeutic to KICK the SHIT (or at least pretend to kick the shit) out of various assholes… I just pretended they were the jagoffs from my bank, who this week refused to write down the principal on my house at my state-ordered mediation hearing (more on that later). Anyhoo, it was a blast and I can’t wait to shoot with them again later this month…meanwhile, if you have a foot fetish and want to see some smokin’ hot pics of chicks beating each other’s asses and then sucking each other’s toes, check it out! Footmode.com…one more time, that’s FOOTmode.com!

Now here’s a pic from the crazy Batman group shoot I did a couple weeks back, at the Lady Silvia bar in downtown Vegas. Good times! I used a can of red hairspray from Sally’s Beauty Supply, and it really worked…I even considered dyeing my hair red after that, because I got so many compliments. But then I remembered the time back in hi skool, when I dyed my hair red with a package of cherry Kool-Aid. That shit lasted forever — I mean FOREVER! It was soooo red that this crazy shiftless crackhead named Smurf who lived in our neighborhood back then used to yell at me “Hey, Red!” when I walked home from school. I was so sick of having red hair, that when it FINALLY washed out, I swore I’d never go red again. And I meant it!

So anyhoo, I had an extremely busy week. It all started after I updated last time, when I mentioned I was getting ready for a date with this kook who used to work in the MGM photo lab with me, back in the day. As mentioned, he’s one of those people who always has a crazy cockamamie story — that then turns out to be TRUE! Like he told me he was a concert violinist who earned a scholarship to Julliard…and that his mom was a famous ballerina…and that he has a genius level I.Q…and that nowadays he’s a professional video poker player and writer. Well, however improbable…it’s ALL TRUE! (At least the stuff I was able to verify.)

That’s not to say that this guy isn’t a real WEIRDO — he totally IS! He kinda looks like Steve Buscemi after a three-week coke-and-ham binge, if that makes any sense. But as you all know, I only like weirdos and freaks, so he was right up my alley. We had a great time catching up over dinner at NOVE (ah, how I hate these pretentious all-caps restaurant names) at the Palms, where supposedly he is a big wheel video poker player. I can’t vouch as to the size of his wheel (or anything else, for that matter), but he did get everything comped by his genial, obsequious casino host, who hovered attentively by our side throughout the evening…so who knows.

Anyhoo, after dinner and catch-up we went down to the lounge to see the Frankie Moreno band play. I wan’t expecting much…but thanks to copious amounts of Baileys, in addition to the impressive talents of the band…I was pleasantly surprised! Not your average Vegas lounge schlock. I’d recommend you go check them out, but I think they just moved to the Stratosphere. Anyhoo, my kooky Steve Buscemi friend had such a good time with me that he invited me back the following weekend to some Halloween party they were throwing for all their high rollers, held up in the Hardwood Suite (a themed suite that has a full basketball court inside). I’ve always wanted to check that shit out!

Before the party, I had to work a shift at the lamest-ass of all lame-ass shows — taking souvenir photos at America’s Got Talent Live! Srsly?!? It’s not even a real show, but they made us go in, anyway. Shockingly, it wasn’t as bad as expected — those people actually acted like they were going to a real show; they were dressed up in date-night clothes and weren’t afraid to spend a buck on photos. Apparently, some people have even worse taste than *I* do! Anyhoo, I still made shitty money because it wasn’t that good — just better than expected. I didn’t care either way — I just wanted to get the fuck out of there and put on my zombie showgirl costume and get to this basketball suite party!!!

Anyhoo, the party was OK but I got there after all the cool stuff went down, so most people had already left 🙁 We hung out awhile boozing and whatnot, and my kooky Steve Buscemi friend’s host became enamored with my infectious spirit and insisted that I come to all future Palms player parties…so now I’m in with the Palms crowd! I also met a few of kooky Steve Buscemi’s professional gambler pals, and boy what a crowd of characters. That’s usually the way it is with pro gamblers…they’re nutty. Anyhoo, after a couple hours we headed out to the nightclub for awhile, but it was so crowded with sloppy sluts in stupid half-assed sexy Halloween costumes that we got the hell out of there pretty quick. By then it was around 3am, so we went over to the coffee shop for a late-nite bite — and guess what?! I ordered steamed vegetables and tofu!!! At 3am!!! No pancakes and shit for me…I’m hardcore.

Speaking of Halloween, I didn’t want to overdo it this year. Last year, I had a job writing for the paper and I felt obligated to go out 6 nights in a row…and got sick as a result. This year, I had no bogus obligations. so I only went out 3 or 4 nights…much more sensible! The first party was at the studio of a well-known local photographer with whom I’ve been wanting to shoot — he’s really good, but he mostly shoots professional shit like hardcore pro whores for magazine covers and stuff. Out of my league! But I figured if I went to this party, I might get to know him, and who knows?!

The party was pretty cool. The local Vegas tradition is that every year, comedy magician The Amazing Johnathan throws a HUGE bash out at this warehouse he owns over by the airport. For years people have talked about his sick-ass parties, and I always wanted to go but never had an invite. Last year I finally went, and it was sick — booze everywhere, a really twisted homemade haunted house/maze, and the SwingShiftSideShow onstage stabbing spears through their labia and whatnot. CRAZY! I like to froze my tits off in my zombie Sarah Palin costume (at right), and as mentioned I got sick as a result…but soooo totally worth it! Unfortunately, that was the last year The Amazing Johnathan hosted a party…so starting this year, he passed the torch to local photographer Shane O’Neal, who has a badass studio right across from the Orleans Hotel.

Also unfortunately, this year my Sarah Palin costume was no longer topical (actually, maybe that isn’t so unfortunate)…so I had to figure out something else. I went into the depths of my closet and emerged with this quasi-Marie Antoinette getup, which I gave a topical spin to by adding a little “I am the 1%” sign — a nod to the #OccupyWallStreet protesters. If anyone was ever a greedy fucking fat cat, it was Marie Antoinette! She’d be right up there with those Wall Street bankers, stomping her little silver toes on my fingers as I cling to the ledge of my house, dangling above a yawning chasm of financial apocalypse. Fuckers!!! LET THEM EAT COCK, I say!

Aaaaaaanyhoo, my costume turned out pretty cool for being constructed out of odds-n-ends already in my closet, and Shane O’Neal expressed interest in shooting me in it sometime! So if he doesn’t flake, I might have some extremely badass new photos to share with you soon. I have a great idea for this shoot, so I hope he doesn’t welsh on this.

Now the parties I’ve already mentioned were all well and good, but it was really all about the big Second Annual Las Vegas Halloween Parade, which is held downtown. I wasn’t able to attend last year (because of stupid work, what else), but this year I was DETERMINED to participate. And it was even badder-ass than I expected!

First of all, let me just say how far Vegas has come since I moved here back in 2000. Back then, I laughed snarkily at the pathetic early attempts at creating an “arts” district…but I gotta say, I STAND CORRECTED. Over the last decade, tons of really cool, artsy, creative people have taken over Vegas — so much so that one needn’t even bother with the douchebaggery of the Strip and the suburbs, ever. You can find alllllll the fun you need downtown. It’s amazing, and I’m actually kinda proud of Vegas for it. I was a pretty big Vegas hater for many years, but I’m glad I stuck it out. I really like living here!

The Halloween Parade is a good example. This young go-getter chick who moved here from New York started it all up from scratch last year, and it really took off — people I talked to came from as far away as Vancouver and Michigan just to take part! It was sort of half Gay Pride, half Burning Man — in fact, many Burners live in Vegas nowadays, and many of them brought their art cars as Parade floats! This one group of Burners even came all the way down from Santa Cruz in their spaceship, built on a flatbed truck chassis with a cherry picker scissor lift on the back that raises a giant neon spaceship into the night sky, while electronic music blares and booms from the giant sound system inside. They’re called the Dancetronauts, and it’s a bunch of hot-ass young guys in white NASA flight suits and a few scantily-clad Sparkle Bunny go-go dancers for good measure. Their impressive glowing spaceship brought up the rear of the parade as it wound its way downtown, and then they set up in the parking lot of the Gold Spike for a big ol’ good old-fashioned rave, right in the heart of downtown Vegas. Gooooooooooooooood times!

The rest of the parade was pretty badass, too: it started with ex-Mayor Oscar Goodman and his wife (the current Mayor) and a bunch of showgirls, followed by this amazing group of musical Towncars called the Car-i-llon — like a carillon, but each car cruises along and plays one note, and they all play together to create music. REALLY neat! Then there were some lame commercial floats sponsored by Dos Equis and Zappos.com (I despise Zappos, despite their being heralded as the saviors of downtown Vegas since they are moving their company headquarters there from Henderson…I worked a charity Halloween golf tournament for them last year, as a sexy caddy, and none of the teams bid on me. Not one! Could it have been my zombie Sarah Palin costume? I’ll never know…but I can hold a grudge like nobody’s business…and to this day I refuse to buy anything from zappos.com. Shoes.com all the way, baby!!!).

Anyhoo, next in the parade was a marching procession of fire spinners and drummers, and I marched with them for awhile until I was able to hitch a ride on the most fabulous float of them all — this 8-person bar/bicycle belonging to the geniuses at camp Kosmik Dust. Some mad scientist/boozer devised this awesome contraption that is basically a long rectangular bar, with four seats on each side, facing inward toward the “bar.” Each barstool is a bicycle seat, with pedals, and the 8 passengers pedal the bike! REALLY cool. At Burning Man, they had a bartender in the middle serving drinks and steering…but even Vegas has some liquor laws, so it was dry for the parade. But it was still SO MUCH FUN!

The parade wound around downtown to Fremont Street, where my friend, local poet/gadabout/attorney Dayvid Figler, emceed the judging for Best Costume and all that shit. Then the parade continued on down to the Gold Spike, where the Dancetronauts’ rave was on in full force. I partied hard with some Burner friends, then hitched a ride back to my car on this AWESOME flying carpet art car built by one of my drum-circle friends — he basically built a wavy platform on top of a little electric car, and covered it in an Oriental carpet, and it looks totally Aladdin! It only goes 7mph though, so the ride back was long and cold and lonely without all the shenanigans of the parade to distract us. But it was still surreal and BADASS to traverse the dark, quiet backstreets of Vegas on a magic carpet, dressed like Marie Antoinette. Who says I don’t have any fun?!

What’s great about this Parade is that it’ll likely get better every year — eventually, this could be like our Mardi Gras! Imagine if all the big casinos built floats, and the parade went all the way from Mandalay Bay, down the Strip, all he way downtown to good old Fremont Street??! How sick would that be??? People would come from all over to see that shit –those big resorts could build some sick-ass floats. I can only imagine the majesty of the Caesars Palace float…not to mention O’Shea’s!!!! GET ON IT, VEGAS! This could be our big break!!!

The only bummer about the Halloween parade was that our float picked up a few kids that were hanging out downtown, and one of the little fuckers tried to steal my purse when we got off! I saw him take it and hide it under his jacket, and you better believe I grabbed that little dick with a quickness! I bitched him out, but his sister intervened and plead with me to let him go, so I just sputtered “Well–DON’T do it again, then!” He was only about 10, but still. Jeez!

The shittiness of that assy kid was redeemed the next morning, however, when I dragged my hungover ass out of bed to attend this protest against the Westboro Baptist Church. I reeeeeally didn’t feel like getting up and going, but I made myself — these are the assholes who hold up those “GOD HATES FAGS” signs at soldiers’ funerals and shit, so it was important. I planned to wear a super-slutty, scandalous outfit to really piss ’em off, but I was too hungover to make the first part of the protest, which was at UNLV (our local university). I was only able to get there in time for Part 2, which was a high school down the street from my house — and since I didn’t want to get arrested for indecent exposure in front of a high school, I toned it down a little for propriety’s sake 🙂

Anyhoo, it was pretty cool because there were quite a few people protesting the two or three Westboro bozos who showed up. I didn’t have time to make a really good sign, so I just half-assed it by flipping over my #OccupyVegas protest sign and scribbling an atheist platitude on it with a half-dead Sharpie. Good enough! I hooted and hollered for awhile, and these kids came by and asked to take my photo because they were budding atheists, too (or maybe they just wanted to jerk off to the photo, I don’t know. They said they were atheists). Anyhoo, the nascent atheist ideology and enthusiasm of those kids effectively negated the anger I felt toward kids in general after that little punk downtown tried to steal my purse.

Anyhoo, I couldn’t stay at the Westboro protest very long because this photographer from New York was on my ass — he was in town photographing and interviewing people facing foreclosure for some media company, and somehow through my aunt, he was referred to me. He and his sound guy came over one night to interview me about my housing mess, and then they wanted to come back Tuesday afternoon to do some photos of me modeling nude (I told them I started doing nudies to pay the bills…which is true, only now I actually LIKE doing them, and will continue to model even if I win 50 million dollars next week). My roommate sneaked this pic of them interviewing me, and it’s PRICELESS — look at the sound guy’s mike!!! Looks like a porn set to me!

So anyway, I left the protest and went home to pose for some weird photos for this guy. I didn’t get it — I thought he was more into an edgy, gritty photojournalist style…but he ended up posing me in my fishnet Westboro protest outfit, laying on my chaise lounge in the backyard. I have a sneaking suspicion I was just Diane Arbused! We’ll see………..

Now in the middle of all this, my friend J.R. came to town for The Big Smoke — a cigar-smokers’ convention sponsored by Cigar Aficionado magazine every year. I’m no fan of cigars, but I AM a fan of dressing up like Chita Rivera after 10 too many mojitos!! I whipped together a 1940s-Havana-inspired ensemble and went over to party it up, in between coughing fits. Bleccccch! It was a lot of fun, though, and J.R. and I made quite an impression….as we always do! Everyone wanted to take our photo, and in fact it will be in next month’s Cigar Aficionado…so look for that!


After the party, J.R. went back to his hotel room for a Big Smoke of our own…and it was like a junior high school slumber party! We bitched and moaned and gossiped late into the night, and it was therapeutic…because boy oh boy did I have stuff to bitch about. As mentioned, my mediation hearing for my mortgage was last week, and it didn’t go so well… to make a REALLY LONG, LAME story short, I told them I wasn’t interested in/couldn’t afford keeping my house unless the bank wrote down my principal. I owe $375,000 on a house worth (by the bank’s own appraisal) $105,000. I’ve already paid in $125,000….why would I want to pay in more?! It’s insanity!

The way these mediation hearings work is, the lender sends a representative, and you attend with your attorney, and there’s an impartial third-party mediator who sits in to sort of referee. In my case, no ref was needed — I made the abovementioned statement, and the lender’s rep sadly shook her head: no dice. You could tell she totally understood my point, but she was not authorized to offer any principal writedown, whatsoever. I pretty much expected it, so it didn’t faze me much — the only time a few tears leaked out was when she showed me the appraisal. All these photos of my pretty little house, which some creepy appraiser drove by and snapped…somehow it made everything more real, and I cried a few tears.

But I wasn’t surprised, so after my few tears dried I was fine. The rest of the meeting was devoted to my options, which are short selling or foreclosing. The official results of the mediation hearing were “unresolved,” so I guess I’m in a sort of limbo. My initial impulse was to short sell — I want to at least try and extricate myself from this mess as responsibly as possible, and leave less of a mess for my neighbors. But unless the bank signs a special waiver, they have SIX YEARS to come after you for the deficiency you owe (whatever the difference is between your loan amount and the short sale amount — in my case, I’d be selling for $105,000, which is $270,000 less than the $375,000 I owe them). So unless they signed this waiver, they’d have six years to come after me for more money. A lot of people think it’s 6 months…but my attorney said if you read the law exactly as written, it is six YEARS. That’s a long time!

Meanwhile, they only have six MONTHS to come after you if you just walk away. How stupid is that?! You’re basically encouraging people to abandon their homes. Plus, the foreclosure process can take years to complete…so all the while, you’re basically living rent-free in your house — until they stick a sale notice on the door, at which time you have 30 days to get out.

My attorney did bring up a third option, which involved filing for bankruptcy and is very clever — yet too convoluted for me. I’m too confused by all this, and in way over my head. I am a textbook example of why some people are NOT cut out to be homeowners! I just want OUT. J.R. and I did go visit another attorney the next day, who explained the bankruptcy plan in more detail. He ended up yelling at me for asking too many questions…but what the fuck! It’s my life and future I’m talking about — I need to be absolutely certain shit’s on the up-and-up here!

Poor J.R. had to listen to me bitch and moan all week long as I agonized back and forth about what to do. I must have changed my mind fifty times, trying to figure out what’s the best thing to do. I lost a LOT of sleep, bawled my eyes out every single day, and felt VERY haggard (and I had TWO photo shoots this week). It caused a lot of stress for him, I’m sure, but then he’s going through some tough times of his own anyway, so he was already in a bad way. I didn’t realize just how much of a bad way until the day he was supposed to leave — when he changed his mind and stayed an extra few days. He did not want to go back home and face his problems, so he stayed over a few days to look into some investment opportunities here. Then, when his second departure date arrived, I took him to the airport…….and he purposely missed his flight! He checked in all his bags and stuff, but then wandered around the airport pissing away time until it was too late, and the last flight of the day had left.

Meanwhile, I was going through hell trying to figure out my house thing. I was bawling my eyes out 24/7, while still trying to keep a sexy face for these fucking photo shoots I was doing, and I just didn’t have it in me to console him over whatever he didn’t want to go back home to. To make matters worse, he was being kinda mean to me at dinner one night —  I don’t remember what he said exactly, but he hurt my feelings so badly that I got up and hit him with my purse in the middle of P.F. Chang’s and stormed out. Seriously!

J.R. and I made up the next day, but I guess the whole scene made his depression worse — after missing his flight, he left the airport and disappeared into some shitty little dive motel near the airport — he won’t even tell me which one! Normally, he always stays someplace nice…so this is really out of character. He’s always wanted to “diasppear,” like in the movies…so this is like his dry run, I guess. As we speak, he’s holed up in some shitty hovel somewhere with nothing but the clothes on his back and his laptop. He doesn’t even have WiFi — which was a big deal to him (I hate to tell him about some of the places I’ve stayed in!). And he’s been there two days! I’m kind of worried…but I think it might actually be good for him — even though he says he was rolled by a hooker the other night to the tune of $2,000. Either way, I’m so fucking stressed about my house I can’t handle any more worries!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Anyhoo, speaking of destruction, here’s the hot new stocking stuffer this Christmas season! Here’s what it says on the back of the box:

“Wannabe showgirl Wonderhussy was rejected from the Jubilee! auditions for being too short…so in a furious rage, she takes on Vegas. Level one: destroy legions of balloon-breasted, fish-lipped, white-haired, orange-skinned whores at a Vegas pool party! Shoot ’em right in the tits, then watch their implants explode for a Goo Bonus. Level Two: hunt down hydrocephalic muscleheads at a nightclub: each dead body in a TapOut t-shirt is 50 points, Affliction shirts are 100 pts, and the elusive Ed Hardy shirt gets you 500 pts!! Level 3: Dodge and weave among porn-slappers, prostitutes, crackheads in Barney costumes and daiquiri-toting frat boys as you race the clock, Frogger-style, attempting to cross Vegas Blvd. Don’t get hit by the “Hot Girls Direct to Your Room” truck!!! Final Round: face off against the Boss, a/k/a the meathead douchebag nightclub doorman. Tip: steal his BlackBerry, and he’s powerless! Once you’ve defeated him, watch in glee as the city crumbles to dust…then get the fuck out.”



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