Funyun Crotch

Now some of you might gag a bit at the title of this post. Some of you might cry out, "This woman is too much!" But if you really and truly laugh at my shit and/or know me, you will read on. Got you curious, didn't I?

I am a fan of group fitness. What is this you ask? It is an organized class where a fitness instructor leads a group of several people in some sort of ritualistic torture which is often accompanied by booty-popping bass music. You will walk out sweaty and hearing impaired, it's a hoot! You burn a LOT of calories. (Read: you can eat those fries at Red Robin once in awhile..) Why don't I merely enjoy doing my own thing at the gym? Because I am a lazy sack of unmotivated shit, that's why. Sure, I have my new Nike Air Shox sneakers on, my Lucy suction-my-ass-like-Michael-Phelps'-lips-on-a-bong workout pants, and my double sports bras to restrict black eye induction caused by excessive jarring of my double D's. I have my freshly loaded Ipod with great club music. I have my aluminum thermal water bottle full to rehydrate me. But I also have my trashy People magazine, which will unintentionally distract me from getting much faster than a meander on a treadmill. I will be so caught up in Kate Gosselin's new hairdo or Jessica Simpson's erroneous choice of camel-toe-inducing mom jeans that I will not even break a sweat. And isn't that why we go to the gym?

So I subject myself to these perfect (bitches) instructors who could be stunt doubles for the movie 300 with their God damn 8-pack abs. Their asses are so tight if I shoved a lump of coal between their mini hamburger bun butt cheeks, I'd have a diamond in 42.7 minutes. And let's talk about the gun show!! Apparently I got the short stick when God was drawing good body parts for me. The instructors arms look like finely sculpted perfection, whereas mine resemble lumpy cans of Pillsbury fucking French loaf. Sigh. That's why I ATTEMPT to do push ups, though I often cave to the pussy-style, on-the-knees girly variety. Fuck you, push ups are HARD! We repeat various moves with dumbbells, benches, rubber yoga mats, balance balls, resistance bands, benches of varying heights, medicine balls, weighted bars, and even weighted gloves. It sounds like an S&M convention but the only thing you "get off" is the calories from those Reeses Peanut Butter Cups you inhaled last night at 11:30.I am not complaining, I NEED someone to kick my ass into gear.

There are various degrees of perspiration you create from said activities. Some people drip like they're having tantric donkey sex in the Amazon rainforest, others merely glisten. If you can imagine, this perspiration creates an odor situation in the fitness studios. Some days it is fucking rank as shit. I admit, I do sweat quite a bit when I am not reading about Lindsay Lohan's coke bender as I walk at 1.5 miles per hour on the treadmill. I may very well be a culprit in the case of the dirty foot aroma wafting from Studio 1. But there is another odor, one you sometimes need to be up close and personal to enjoy. I lovingly refer to this as Funyun Crotch. Combine 1 pair of thong panties, one pair of tight Spandex workout pants, 1 hour of intense cardio activity, and 1 shitload of sweat. Have you ever smell a bag of freshly opened Funyuns, the corn snack that is supposed to resemble onion rings? It is NASTY. Welcome to the world of post workout panties.( I hope you are either laughing or vomiting at this depiction. Admit it, it's funny.) This smelly cooch phenomenon is not solely my plight, it is one we often discuss in the locker room or at the cafe over smoothies. (Not Funyun flavor, I prefer Strawberry Mango..) Some may be shy in admitting it but we all know it's there. It's like that turd in the toilet someone won't claim and flush. ANYONE could have done it. So don't pretend your vag smells like sunshine and fucking roses after you work out. I stood behind you in class, I should know.

It's The Holidays, Cheer the Fuck Up

In my pre-children, living in the city days, I worked in retail. This is the dreaded time of your for most retail sales people because, let's face it, it gets fucking CRAZY with all those customers clamoring for the perfect gift. But I have to admit I actually ENJOYED that time of year. Lots of people were on staff for the day to commiserate with, the time flew by because you were always SO busy, Christmas is my favorite time of year so it only added to my holiday euphoria, and they were always crazy customers demanding insane things to bitch about and make fun of. What's NOT to like?

As I shopped in two different malls yesterday I noticed a theme. Crabby as fuck sales associates ringing up my wares at Macy's. Belinda Bootylicious, I am sorry you are missing your lunch break but yelling at the last person in line to "not let no more people line up behind them because it's time for your break" is not their job. Audibly sighing, "Oh my God" upon seeing said line continuing to grow is annoying, as is the shitty attitude you gave me when I asked you for a gift box. It's Christmas time, what are the chances a customer might be purchasing a fucking GIFT?? To the man working in the men's trendy department, you need a serious attitude adjustment. You are sporting that faux hawk, overly gelled hairstyle, you have your dapper skinny suit on, but your sour scowl and mopey demeanor make me realize three things: you are clearly Jewish and despise this impending Christian-based holiday, you are seriously constipated, and you haven't had a blow job in 2 years. I suggest you convert, take some Fibercon, and go to the nearest cheapo ching-chong bing-bong massage parlor and ask for "the extra happy ending". Maybe she'll lick your hairy balls for an extra ten bucks. They probably smell like matzo.

I don't understand why mindless ringing up merchandise is so taxing. Slam a venti Starbucks and just power through that shift. It's not hard labor, it's not brain surgery, you are working in the warmth of the indoors for God's sake. You are ruining my holiday spirit buzz so cheer the fuck up. Santa thinks you are a crabby fuckwad so get over yourself.

I wrapped 55 gifts last night and sadly, this didn't even dip into the presents for my kids. It's fair to say the true meaning of Christmas might get lost in the shuffle of tissue paper, bows, and gift receipts at my house. I know it's there, I know what the dealio is. I take the kids to the insanely packed children's mass on Christmas Eve. Every year we need to get there earlier to score a decent seat and avoid, God forbid, standing through the hour and a half of Catholic mass and singing bonanza. It's tradition and sort of brings things into focus, at least until the flurry of obscene gift giving ensues Christmas morning. Thanks, baby Jesus, you have made this holiday happen. We just amped it up a little bit and made it more kick-ass.

There are some things I know for sure. Alec Baldwin will never be as svelt and charming as we was in the movie, The Marrying Man. (Have you seen his puffy ass lately? So sad..) Stirrup pants will always make you look like an asshole, no matter what Vogue magazine says. And retail insanity is an essential part of my holiday experience. It is FAR AND AWAY the number one activity I enjoy (okay, well I can think of a couple more..) this time of year. So don't ruin my day with your crappy attitude. You signed up for this holiday job, so ring up my shit, offer me gift boxes, and fucking SMILE or Santa will leave a turd in your stocking, maybe shaped like a dreidel. Happy Fucking Holidays!!!!!

Pinch Me

This past weekend I got to fulfill what I hope is a small beginning of a dream many years in the making. I performed with my fellow writers from the Comedy Shrine of Naperville's writing workshop. We busted our asses writing short sketches, jokes, and black-outs. We edited and memorized our scenes. We performed to a sold-out house. Fucking-A, it was good stuff.

Was I nervous? Sure, but I didn't feel like I was going to have explosive diarrhea or anything. Our teacher, Nate Herman, used to write for Saturday Night Live back during the really funny era, with Martin Short, Billy Crystal, Eddie Murphy. I idolized the SHIT out of SNL and it's writers and cast members back then. Sure, I was probably a little young to be watching some of it but thanks to cool parents, I got to see what GOOD funny is all about. If someone would have told me I'd take a class from Nate and then write and perform at an improv theater, well THEN I might have shit myself.

I have enjoyed making people laugh with my shock value, in-your-face humor in all it's crudeness, since I was a teen. I recall a day when my dance company director called me in because a parent complained about my sense of humor. Fucking born-again douche rag.... What I say and think is hard to stifle. I guess I say what so many think but are afraid to verbalize or can't quite articulate with the proper array of "fucktards", "cocksucking stink star-lickers", or plain ol' "douche bags". I don't apologize for my humor. I will never be clean enough to perform in a family show because I think swearing is extremely funny. Really fucking funny. So gosh golly gee, saying "freakin'" or "darnit all" or "cheese and rice" doesn't happen in my house, even in front of my kids. Do I think I'm a good mom? Fuck yeah I am a good mother. Do I think swearing in front of them is good? Well, no, not really. But they are fully aware what I say is not acceptable for them to say. My oldest sometimes cringes when I go off on a bender. Then I tell her maybe I wouldn't swear so God damn much if she wasn't such a fucking smart ass...

I wrote two short sketches which I performed in and also performed in 4 more that other people wrote. I got to read two of my jokes and do two short black-out style jokes as well. Many of the writers are already improv actors who perform regularly at the Comedy Shrine. This made me slightly intimidated. I sometimes think I can hold my own but didn't know if I was just hoping for a giant fucking miracle and that when I actually ACT out what I write, I can be just as funny. That's a giant fucking crap shoot, folks. I learned when I first stepped into class, to write funny is not the same thing as readable funny. I had to figure out how to write concise, get-to-the-fucking-point jokes. Sure, my blog is funny but when read out loud it can be really looooooooooooooooooooooonnnnnggggg. So I figured it out, got a shit load of pointers and advice, and fast forward to Saturday night.

We tried as best we could to memorize lines. When you are doing a scene, it doesn't matter if you have it all memorized backwards, forwards, up your ass, what-have-you. If the person in your scene drops a line or jacks it up, you have to think on your toes and go with the flow. I believe this, in its simplest element, is IMPROV acting. So in a sense, this is what I did Saturday. It is not as hard as I thought but I highly doubt I'm anywhere ready for a "Whose Line is it Anyway?" style show just yet. Mama wants to actually take some real classes first. And welcome another element of my dream. I don't know exactly HOW my funny is going to fulfill me, but it will. I fucking LOVE writing and being clever with words. But I discovered Saturday night as I was pitting out like a guilty thief in a line-up in my black tight sweater, skirt, and hooker boots under the stage lights, I also really love performing like that. I think I CAN do it.

So for now, I'll write and maybe take some classes and figure out this funny-ass journey I am traveling on. Who knows where in the hell it will take me? All I can tell you is I am at my utmost happiest of happy when I am making you laugh. And if I offend you, well then fuck off, the family-friendly comedian doesn't reside here. I like being the funny fucking bitch. I am really good at it, too.

Reality Check

I think the nation's current obsession with reality shows is seriously fucking us up. There is hardly anything realistic about these God damn shows. Many of them are scripted or have added dramas to make things more interesting. Who wants to see boring real-life reality? Isn't it so much more fun when you throw a skinhead from the South together with a brotha' from the Bronx and give them copious amounts of BOOZE?! That's good TV, yo!!! And try as I may, I get lured in with their sneaky bullshit reality every fucking season to more and more shows. Sons of bitches....

I am proud that I have finally broken my addiction to MTV's The Real World. I used to watch religiously, even Tivo-ing the shows, admittedly sometimes back-to-back with other such meaty MTV nuggets such as Road Rules or the creme de la creme merger of BOTH shows, Real World/Road Rules Challenge. I have flipped over to MTV now and then and I find myself asking this question: Was I that much of a raging douche twat when I was 21?! I mean, really now. These idiots are all attractive, young, and really really eager to get wasted into oblivion and get laid. So the producers throw in people they fucking KNOW will fight like white trash tourists at a $5 All-You-Can-Carry sale at the local gift shop. The black dude and the Southern belle. The alcoholic stripper and the religious prude. The closeted guy who wears women's jeans and the bulimic who's addicted to pills. It makes good TV. They aren't idiots, they're betting that the majority of us reality junkies will remain loyal. Screw you, MTV. Show me some God damn videos again and maybe I'll switch back to watching your crap. Not buying right now.

As I stayed home with my sick daughter for two days, I struggled to find things to keep her feverish little self occupied. Enter the almighty television. I cannot stand the whiney pre-teen drivel of Disney Channel or Nickelodeon so I made her compromise with me. She tolerates the Food Network but will willingly watch TLC or Animal Planet, two channels I can handle. We watched hours of Say Yes to the Dress, a show based on brides shopping for wedding gowns with outlandish budgets and bitchy sorority entourages. In casual conversation, I asked my daughter what kind of wedding dress she'd like. One of the actual consultants on the show had a stunner which retails for $11,500. For ONE fucking dress. Really? Oh and she wants either the baker from Cake Boss or Ace of Cakes to make her wedding cake. Guess I need to sell a kidney. She's 9 years-old so I hope I can save up for all this in time for her wedding. Jesus H. Christ.

My younger daughter has recently become obsessed with Toddlers and Tiaras, a freaking train wreck of the pageant world. I know some young girls who are in pageants and in their defense, not all of them are so over-the-top. But the TLC reality show knows that the mamas with the drama and their mini made-up little diva daughters make the best TV. Asshole geniuses! The wee princess divas wear special kiddie dentures, known as flippers, to resembler real teeth. except there is nothing realistic about these falsies. They look like 10 pieces of Orbit gum hot-glued under their lips. Add mountains of fake curls and hair spray, really, REALLY pricey mini Barbie dresses. Some of these parents live in itty, bitty trailers but spend every ounce of their income to fund these pageants. Isabella said to me, "Mom, can I do a pageant? You can win A THOUSAND DOLLARS!!" I told her the little girl's talent dress alone cost $2500. She shut up pretty quickly.

Keeping Up With the Kardashians? The Hills? The Real Housewives of Orange County, Atlanta, and New Jersey? 18 Kids and Counting? All examples of the boundless assortment of reality tv which has completely overtaken us. If you have too much money and time, you can get your own tv show. If you have too many kids, a wholesome demeanor, and a fondness for long denim skirts and Jesus, you can have a show. Hell, even if you have a lot of kids and act like complete shitbag parents, you can get a show. Then when you cheat and get caught and inevitably divorced, you will garner the popularity of every trashy news rag in town on the front cover. Are you up for it? Sounds like a barrel of laughs if you ask me. Who wouldn't want a nice home, cameras running in your face day in and and day out, wardrobes for your children from Gap Kids.

As I partied like a rockstar this past weekend for my birthday, my own little entourage was lucky enough to see Brody Jenner hanging out. Who the fuck is he, you ask? Exactly. He is Bruce Jenner's son, who happens to be married into that Kardashian nightmare. I think he was on that fake and sort of scripted but sort-of-real show on MTV, The Hills. Basically a California socialite with money and a name and nothing to do but chase young girls, drink, and try to get laid. And when you've got that going for you you can get VIP treatment, your own security, premium booze, AND you don't even need to shave or look nice! Fuck, roll out of bed and don't shave, who cares! These dumb bitches will be on your jock like static cling, to borrow a line from Tone Loc.

My ultimate reality show addiction is So You Think You Can Dance. But hell, I can call that research for work. It is inspiring, not scripted, and not really catty. It isn't trashy, it exposes new music and choreographers as well as highlights amazing new talented dancers. When I saw Mia Michaels, Wade Robson, and Dave Scott (all choreographers on this fan-fucking-tastic show) at the club on my birthday, I creamed my pants. I acted like Molly Shannon doing Mary Catherine Gallagher. I was jumping up and down, mouthing, "I'm your biggest fan! I'm a ballet teacher! You INSPIRE me!!!" Mia Michaels gave me her surly and sour, "I just smelled a burrito fart" face. Attractive and dainty she is not. Fiercely talented and unnecessarily bitchy she IS. Fucking security in the joint treated me like I was fucking Bin Laden trying to have the Prez a nuke. To the gentleman wearing their black suits, wrist walkie talkies, and ear pieces, get the fuck over yourself. I don't give a shit that you are on security detail at a Chicago nightclub, you are not Secret Service, you aren't CIA. You get to decide which skanky pussy is acceptable for the wealthy son of a has-been Olympic athlete. And guess who these bitches DON'T want to fuck?...... YOU!!! Reality is a bitch, ain't it?

Bathroom Attendants

When you hit a bar or nightclub you will often find a helpful little lady in your restroom when you go to break the seal. As seen in posted photos, often times you might not be in your right mind (Patron)and may actually NEED some assistance in locating paper towels or even finding the door. This tends to be an increasing challenge as a particularly thirst-inducing (drunken) evening wears on. Not long ago I found myself at Martini Park in Chicago with a cluster of my girls in Chicago. We were having a riotous time (crazy shots) and soon enough I found it necessary to visit the little girls' room. Upon entering the miniscule john I noticed it was crowded with stumbling girls in too high heels, trying helplessly to reapply lipgloss that had been sucked off by various members of Tool Academy. (Oddly, there actually WERE two dudes from that actual show at the bar that night, hoping we would know they were celebrities. I thought they were Will Ferrell and Chris Kattan from the "What is Love" SNL skit... Too much hair gel, Abercrombie cologne, and shitty tribal tattoos..) I was not one of those stumbling ladies at this point. Just a casual observer with a full bladder.

I entered stall #1 and noticed they were approximately 3 1/2 sheets of TP left, just enough to wipe HOWEVER there was also a monsoon worth of piss covering my toilet seat. What the fuck?! It was like the produce department when that voice comes over the intercom, "Fresh produce misters are about to start!" and your hand gets soaked as you go to grab a head of red leaf lettuce. Except it WASN'T fresh water misters. It was stinky girl piss from someone who hadn't washed their twat since last weekend when she had a three way with Tool Academy. Smelled like a German cheese festival. Covered in piss because she tried the straddle and squat maneuver but pretty much did a simple hover piss. This is only excusable if you are paralyzed, win the lottery, or run into David Hasselhoff in a Speedo in a dark alley. Next stall please!!!! Stall #2 had a dry seat, three unfinished beverages resting on the floor, TP holder, and toilet as well as a giant puddle of water beneath my feet. Thank God for monster tranny heels. Comes in handy when you want to avoid messy ladies' rooms. Fuck what they say about mens' rooms being cesspools of piss and grime. Drunk bitches are WAY more messy.

After exiting my stall I noticed the lone lady working the john was in a bit of a frenzy as the drunken hoochies outnumbered her 10 to 1. She was flurrying about, trying to wipe down countertops, pass out paper towels, and turn off faucets. Her bowl of mints was askew and almost empty. Her array of hair sprays and perfumes were disheveled. She clearly had no time to examine the assortment of half-empty of beverages that littered the stalls, let alone squeegee up the puddles on the floor. Had she handed out a few less paper towels in hopes of a dollar tip or two she would have noticed the piss monsoon in stall #1. I am betting my tranny heels there might have been similar situations behind other doors of adventure. Later in the evening my friend stepped into a pile of vomit on the floor. Classy. A wee turd was spied on the ground begging us to ask the question, were farm animals allowed in the club or were midgets taking mini shits on the ground because the toilet was too high? Was there a day care behind the wall we weren't aware of and all the sloven behavior should have been blamed on the children running amuck? Whatever the excuse, this woman had bitten off more than she could chew that night in the Martini Park ladies' room. She needed help stat but there was no tag team action to come to her aid. Poor thing.

I have been privy to many a restroom in nightclubs, bars, and restaurants where things are under control. You can pee in a clean stall that doesn't smell like a shrimp net in August. You can wash your hands and rest your purse atop a dry counter, after which you dry your hands with a fresh paper towel handed to you by a smiling bathroom attendant. You can choose a mint or gum, spray on perfume, hell even re-flat iron your hair since some beer got spilled on your head. Taking a piss or tossing your cookies after that 4th Jaeger Bomb should be a pleasant experience, not one where you might need to don you Hazmat suit. And for this you will earn a dollar tip from me.

I'd Be Suicidal, Too

This rain is getting to me. Fuck, it has given me sinus pressure and migraines for three God damn days now. And I don't give a shit if it's the misty, fuck-up-your-hair-but-only-need-your-windshield-wipers-on-low-speed type of rain or the bullshit that has blown every leaf off my trees and knocked my beautiful potted mums over, it just sucks ass. I seriously thought I looked outside my window and saw that crazy wicked witch on her bicycle riding past my bedroom window, a la' Wizard of Oz. But then I figured it was one of those kids they pay $20 to stand on the corner near a Halloween superstore and wave hopped up on Mountain Dew Slurpees and a couple of hits of shitty acid jumping on the neighbors mini trampoline. Either way, I think some sunshine would be in order here.

We got pretty much fucked last winter with the bitter-ass cold and loads of snow. I hate winter sports. I have skied a handful of times in my life and always end up swearing and falling on my ass. I hate driving in, shoveling, or playing outside in the snow so forgive me for my winter wonderland disdain. Then came our "summer" which barely made it to 80 degrees during the day. The water at the local pool might as well have been lake Michigan in mid-May because it never fucking warmed up. I love taking my kids to a pool in the middle of summer where they swim for 15 minutes then bitch about it being too cold.
"We're bored! Can we have some ice cream?"
Kiss my ass, I pay for this membership so the kids can enjoy something besides the germ utopia daycare. When you raise my dues next time, how's about installing a heater in the fucking pool instead of shrinking the field greens salad size, adding imported pesto jiz sauce to my black bean burger, treating my family like Nazi Germany for eating fucking Goldfish crackers in your cafe, and doubling the prices of your mediocre meals. Okay? Praise the Lord for my dear friend who has a heated pool and ALCOHOL so we can really enjoy summer. And our group is a load of fun, hot bitches, so who's missing out NOW? See if I ever order your holistic, honey-based organic orange banana smoothie poolside again. Whose turn was it to jerk off in that mix this week? Give me regular, high fructose corn syrup-based, unnatural food coloring slushies that make my kids smile and not gag, then maybe I'll revisit your pool. And put some fucking tequila in in next time.

Fall lasted all of about two days. Where the fuck was my "Indian summer"? We had TWO days of nice, maybe 70 degree weather and then BAM!!!! A giant "fuck you!" worth of cold and rain and rain and rain.... Guess what, it's STILL fucking raining? I am beyond pissy about this. There's nothing I can do, don't blame God, blah blah, blah... Fuck all you freaks who wake up with your "Praise the Lord it's a NEW DAY!" t-shirts and bumper stickers and always see the bright side of things. How the hell can you see the bright side when it's always fucking dark and gloomy?!!! All I see now is soggy shit-land of leaves. I would rake if it ever dries out for more than 2 hours. By the time this shit stops I will either have leaf gravy sloshing through my entire lawn as if Boston market yacked on my property or it will freeze over and I will have a brownish orange tie dyed skating rink to skitter over and probably slip and break my hip over. Never in my life has weather made me such a raging bitch. I feel like a 80 year-old bitty living in Boca, complaining about the early bird special being raised to $10.95.

Is it so much to ask for my kids to actually wear their fucking Halloween costumes for one simple lap around the school? Can it stop mother fucking POURING for those 15 minutes? Why do you have to fuck up my KIDS' day? That's when I get all ghetto mom apeshit. Fuck this bullshit. As I am typing it is actually raining HARDER. Fuck you, Mother nature, you dirty weather whore cunt. You are a usless hag who needs to be replaced by someone who is not bitter and takes out her frustration by giving the fucking clouds dysentery for weeks on end. if I wanted to live in this shit I would have moved to Seattle by now. If the weather is anything like this I bet they sell fucking straight razors with their Starbucks lattes.

Tape and Tuck Tina Turner

Have you ever been to The Baton Club in Chicago? It is a musical revue show where drag queens impersonate famous singers and lip sync their songs in gaudy outfits, St. Tropez tan pantyhose, and one hell of a bikini wax. These "ladies" have breasts, some better than the others. Many of the man titties enhanced by a daily estrogen smoothie or two are apparently still very male. Just because your chest is hairless, greased up like a pig at the county fair, and glamorized by a little gold lame, I still see your pecs--your flabby, pushed up pecs. Victoria's Secret called and would like to remind you that that one-size-fits-all lace thong has lost the wrestling match with your schlong. Either buck up and buy some bikini briefs or super glue that trouser snake a little better when you sashay down the stage.

There were "ladies" of all shapes and sizes. The anorexic black girl who had implants that looked like PB&J Crustables under her translucent skin was scarier than the thought of Jon Gosselin getting a reality show with Michael Lohan. I could play her clavicle and ribs like a xylophone. A skinny, black, glittery xylophone. She really wasn't very good, had terrible rhythm and dance moves, and I think was very fucking hungry. Do they lock her in the naughty drag queen dressing room with only Tic Tacs to eat? Is she rationed 1/2 a crust of stale bread until her hip sways and step ball changes are on tempo? My friend and I each gave her some singles out of pity. Not because she deserved them, but maybe she could slam those Tic Tacs and use the energy to drag her skin and bones to McDonald's for a little dollar menu value after the show. Poor thing.

The grand dame of the show was a robust,....... oh fuck it, she was a God damn HEFFER. At least pushing three FITTY (Not a typo, like FITTY CENT..), this lady came out in a animal print caftan that very well could have displayed a true-to-scale map of the fucking Serengeti. Lions and tigers and fat rolls, OH MY! Her intro but wasn't even the worst of it. Remember "If I Could Turn Back Time" when Cher sang in that semi-sheer black mesh unitard on that giant air freighter with all the soldiers? Well Porkarella Deville apparently ATE the soldiers, fuck, maybe even the ship, and had the balls (though they were magically hidden) to come out in the same size 28 unitard and wig. Fucking Christ, I didn't know whether to laugh, vomit, cry, or take a Xanax. If I could turn back time I wouldn't have gone fucking BLIND from this routine. Clearly done for shock value, this bitch was sporting a FUPA like none I have ever seen. For those of you who have never heard of a FUPA, it means Fat Upper Pussy Area, in which said victim has a mound of fleshy flab that protrudes below the belly, hanging over the cooch like a dough curtain. But now that I look back to this unitard-clad, man FUPA, I wonder if it is really considered a FUDA (Fat Upper Dick Area)? Are perhaps a FUWPA (Fat Upper Wannabe Pussy Area)? This chick with a dick I will dub FAFUWPA (Fat As Fuck Upper Wannabe Pussy Area). It was something to behold.

"Chili Pepper" was as spicy as ketchup. This bitch had more makeup than Tammy Faye Baker. From 8 tables away I could count her individually caked eyelashes. She looked like Joan Rivers hocking her line of Jewtastic Jewels on QVC. White pantsuit, fur stole, white pumps, hair reminiscent of Linda Evans on Dynasty. She came out initially in a leather mini skirt and fringy jacket, thrashing around and attempting to dance. Here's a tip. If you are a dude who really, really likes to wear women's clothes and makeup and can moves in heels, TAKE SOME FUCKING DANCE LESSONS. Arthur Murray studios could maybe at least give you a sense of rhythm. Maybe she was ugly AND deaf because bitch done looked like she was vacillating between having a grand mal seizure and trying not to let loose her explosive diarrhea. Frantic and clueless. Her last number was an homage to the fucking Golden Girls because she looked like Bea Arthur. And that bitch probably had a dick, too.

The Beyonce "Single Ladies" was excellent. Great moves, no exposed cock, energy. The one "lady" from Hawaii was beautiful. The blonde bombshell had us all dropping our jaws in disbelief that she was a dude. Boobs, hips, tiny nose, female facial features, no man hands. Crazy. Tape and Tuck Tina Turner rocked it in her Oprah-style wig. But then we surmised maybe it WAS Oprah up there. 'Tis an unsolvable mystery. The waiters were hustling our two drink minimums about while simultaneously blocking our view as they shimmied in between wasted bachelorette parties. These ladies took turns depositing single dollar bills into the "cleavage" of the performers. They all had fucked up penis headbands, penis wands, feather boas, and/or super wasted friends who thought it was funny to grind up against anyone who they passed. I myself never had the joy of having a bachelorette party but I sure as fuck can tell you I would not be sporting any cock accessories on a night on the town with my girlfriends. Your drunken, stumbling stupor and shot-slamming cronies are enough of a give-away that you are about to be married. Put the dick jewelry away. Take a tip from the Single Ladies onstage, sometimes hiding it enhances the mystery. Mantra for the night? Put those dicks away.