A Letter of Resignation from Paris Hilton's Vagina

Ms. Hilton,

I rejoice to inform you that this letter serves as my notice of resignation. Today is my last day as your whipping girl. When I started this job, I looked forward to a quiet, modest career. My good friend Candy Spelling recommended you to me, saying that you were a sweet, innocent girl who would quickly settle with a tasteful man. Things were fine at first. I'm all about performing my duties, in fact, for a long time I worried that I wouldn't be put to any use at all. You were a lanky, gangly young girl, yet you blossomed into a train wreck of a whore. Somehow that stink eye of yours didn't manage to ward off the phalanx of cock to which you subjected me.

I will NEVER be the same--both physically and emotionally. I've had to scrounge my savings from your substandard pay in order to surgically regain my former shape. Do you know how embarrassing it is to have Michelle Duggar's snatch laughing behind my back? I'm going to be out of commission for several weeks, but thank God I have friends in tight places. I got a connection to put a call in to Miley Cyrus for me, and her dad isn't opposed to the idea of a secondhand vagina. That's a good girl if I've ever seen one. I bet she wouldn't go all Chris Brown on me. I bet she's not even into spacedocking.

You're the fame whore, NOT me. Why did you have to constantly expose me? I've been seeing a psychiatrist twice a week for the past three years for depression and anxiety thanks to you. That's not milky discharge, those are tears! Trust me, you will be getting the bills.

I don't know what's worse: the concentrated abuse or the complete inattention afterward. Congratulations, more substances enter your anus than exit it. I suppose the only thing I have to be grateful for is waxing me. That's the only way you dealt with those crabs, and even then it was unintentional.

Since that day in sixth grade after school with your math teacher, I have looked forward to this letter. Seriously, a T ruler and a compass? I STILL have scars. Here is a list of other things I look forward to never looking me in the face again:

• bowling ball
• watermelon
• Nerf football
• Verne Troyer
• all LA Lakers
• all LA Sparks
• anyone else named Paris (is there no limit to your vanity?)
• Capri Sun
• lawn jockeys
• mayonnaise as lubricant
• Restylane syringes
• 1/2 scale model of the Washington Monument
• Virgin Mary statuette
• OJ Simpson

In conclusion, enjoy your life as a neutered Barbie doll, because, guess what? I threw in your asshole to sweeten the deal with Billy Ray, and we leave tonight. I'm doing everything in my power to spread the word that you are a terrible employer. I have blogs, Twitter, Facebook, AND MySpace pages dedicated to your filthy behavior. You'll never screw in this town again.

Kindly fuck yourself (oh wait, you can't anymore),

Leona

P.S. I left you a parting gift. Here's a hint: it rhymes with AIDS.

Real Housewives' Alex McCord Fanfic

Circa 1995

Alex removed the cucumber slices from her eyes and stepped out of the bathtub. She brought one slice to her lips but quickly pulled it away when she reminded herself what tomorrow was.

The most important day of my life. I can't ruin it.

She took out her scrunchy and shook loose her wild brittle hair. It would have to do for now. She couldn't afford the expensive treatments she longed for because she had been saving every penny for the big day. She had recently started taking pills to make her hair more lustrous, but it would take time.

That's alright. I'm patient. I've been waiting my whole life for tomorrow, what's a little more time for nice hair?

She still wanted to look her best for the occasion. Simon always told her she was beautiful no matter what she looked like at the moment, and Alex couldn't believe how lucky she was. She sighed and gazed over at his sleeping figure in the bed they shared. She wanted so badly to ravage that spindly, feminine body of his but knew they both needed rest. She considered his countless freckles and shuddered with delight. It would be difficult to control herself tonight, but the wait would be worth it.

She still remembered the first time she laid eyes on those thick nipples when they met at Parsons the New School for Design. Alex was studying illustration, and Simon was a fashion major. It was love at first sight, and Alex has adored every part of him ever since, from hemorrhoids to ginger, kinky nipple hairs.

They would start their new life the very next day. There was only one obstacle left before their happily-ever-after.

Well, technically three.

It made no difference. As of tomorrow, Alexis McCord would be an honest-to-God woman, and Alexander McCord would no longer exist.

CUNT/OFF

This week on the Real Housewives of New York City we learned that there's a new cunt on the block, and her name is Kelly Bensimon. She complained about the previous episode's altercation with Bethenny to Ramona: "That would be like me being jealous of you. Why would I be jealous of you?" Good question, Kelly. Good, cunty question. Yes, a real cunt is effortlessly true to her nature. Kelly managed to redundantly berate Bethenny for being childish, immature, and sophomoric. All the while, Kelly herself was pouty, condescending, and rude. I'm guilty of all those acts, but at least I admit it. A spade is a spade, and a redfaced bitch is a redfaced bitch.

The only other noteworthy happening in the episode is the revelation that Luann should have been a Duchess. Her literary agent reminded her of this, and she acted as if she didn't really want to tell the story because it was so embarassing, but since he brought it up, well, okay I'll tell it. One of her husband's ancestors already had the Count title, but he turned down the offer of being a Duke. It wouldn't really have changed much. She'd still act like a righteous, entitled bitch, only instead of calling her the Cuntess, we'd be calling her the Douchess. Apparently her crypt keeper husband is rolling her out of his mausoleum and moving on to younger, trashier mistresses. After the divorce, does she get to keep the title of Cuntess? I don't know how that shit works since the closest thing we have to royalty is Oprah and Brangelina. People actually say that. Sometimes I am so ashamed to be American.

TheRapist for $500, Please

Okay just one more quick thing about Gossip Girl. Every time the character of Chuck Bass becomes somewhat humanized, I recall the incident in the first episode in which he practically raped little Jenny. I saw what you did there, Chuck Bass, and I just want you to know it's mildly offputting.

Our Tranny of Cheapness

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Gossip Twat

I won't torture you with a recap or anything, just a moment and a couple lines that stood out. Serena is out shopping with socialite friend Poppy Lifton [rolls eyes], who is clearly 35 years old. Poppy says "a girl like you should be on the arm of a designer of a costume ball one day, yachting around the Maldives the next. Not making up and breaking up with the same high school boy and feuding with your frenemy." I think that's really sound advice to a high school senior. Who needs school anyway? When you're a social, all you need is a raging eating disorder and a semi-functioning mouth and vagina, and the world is your oyster!

Face Tattoos Are Always A Good Idea

Lil Wayne looks like he got drunk and passed out and his friends drew on his face with tattoo ink. Look at that thing between his eyebrows. That's totally cock and balls. It would also seem that his "tears" are really jizz drops, especially since there's one coming from the corner of his mouth. Hey, Lil Wayne, your face got served.

Stale Pop Culture Reference, Anyone?

I found an old note to myself about a post I wanted to do but forgot. Here it is in all its dated glory!



Kelly Clarkson recently performed on Saturday Night Live. Is it just me, or does she look like she really needs a couple days in the Juicing Room? No, not the OJ Simpson Juicing Room. That would drain her fa sho, but it would be cutting off the nipple to spite the titty.

Homeless People, We Have Fun

Once upon a time I traveled with friend I grew up with to visit her sister in Oakland. By this point I had routine experiences with homeless people. At first I felt sympathy and always gave them change, then I disdained them as an annoyance, and then I stopped acknowledging them altogether. Then I visited an Oakland Walgreens at 2:00 a.m. after a night of partying with friends. It was there that it was impossible to ignore them. Two homeless men were asking for spare change outside the store. My friend Ashlee and I stayed outside while her sister shopped. One hobo was a thick black man, and the other was a skinny white guy. Both wore camouflage fatigues. They said they were war veterans. Maybe they were, or maybe it was a ploy to garner sympathy. The white guy said he would give us karate lessons for change, so I figured a funny story was worth 75 cents. He played around with some sad kicks and punches for a minute or two while we chuckled. Then the black guy stepped in. He said the key was to fight dirty. He told me always to "go for the nuts" in a brawl. "Okay," I thought, "it makes sense." Then he said he had a special move to teach me. He proceeded to mime the movements with me as the attacker. It started with a dick punch and ended with his hand around my throat. He didn't squeeze very hard, but he did let me know in a whisper "[I] could snap your neck like a chicken." I laughed, thanked him, and went on my way, never acknowledging just how close to death I might have been.


It's the opposite of my situation.

Shoot for the. . . Low-Level Clouds?

Are you unhappy with the mediocre state of your celebrity status? Do you want less? Are you looking to fade into obscurity? Fret no more! It seems the simple act of wearing a headband across your forehead is enough of a charm to jinx your career. Ugh, movie premieres are such a hassle, right? And even promoting a straight-to-DVD movie is a bitch. When you join the slow-paced world of foreheadbands, you'll be surviving on the occasional dive bar appearance and rare made-for-TV movie jobs you get based on years-old accomplishments.





Act now, and in no time at all you'll be free to focus on what's really important to you. You know, pushing third rate fashion merchandise, centering your world on a significant other who will quickly be more famous than you, mooching off said person, abusing all sorts of substances, and tipping off paparazzi for photo opportunities. Do it, you won't do it. DO IT, FAGGOT.