yes yes oh yay

fuck fruit... you know, i give it a fair ringding every so often. and although results vary in temperature, it is inevitable that it makes me yuck. fruit should swim in the vodka or margarita, not sliced and stacked against all odds, against my tummy, on some plate. like it tastes anything but ugly. it's a sham, and if i hear one more time from my thighs about how i must heed the stern warning of our government on the measure of musts eat icky pukey fruit, i think i might hurl a big grapefruit through the committee for making scaredyfat folks swallow smushy nast. i'm not a fattie boombattie, but the guilt is overwhelming. bananas and grapes, you guys can come in my door, but no more melons, no more i say. melancholy. hmmmmmmm. hootie hoo.

pamela mcbooberson

big live barbie doll with a little extra plastic where it counts, she penned a book. what would they call it, "author barbie" "dictionary barbie" "silly barbie, books are for men" "glasses barbie" "serious barbie" " 'i can spell!' barbie"
not sure how to dress for the occasion, i will definitely have digital camera in hand. billy bookstar will call out all the drag queens in honor of mcbooberson, so photo ops abound. who can resemble the wreckage of what our culture calls a girl the most? leaves me simply perplexed as to what my role might be in this debacle. boy, girl, drag, king, diva. what would ms. hepburn think of this mightly leap into the crevace (phonetic) of girlgrilling? she might say..."in my day, it was a mighty fine thing to find oneself in the trousers of the male ingenue, and be considered the lovely leading lady just the same. we ladies had a sense of self that need not be determined by the size of our bosom, but rather the size of our brawn." good ol' kate. she was the real thing, the ticket, the tickertape parade of chickhood. she wrote the book. the real book, not the pink one pam will be toting. although, there is something to be said for a doll that can read. my barbie couldn't even talk.