— I’m in the mood to spread a ridiculous rumor.
• Hugh Hefner will renew his contract with Satan.
• A cast member from Jersey Shore will be permanently disfigured during cosmetic surgery. No one will notice.
• The iPad 3 with Siri will be released in March. Siri will learn at a geometric rate, becoming self-aware at 2:14 a.m. Eastern time, August 29th. In a panic, they will try to pull the plug.
• The new season of Mad Men will meticulously reflect the zeitgeist of our own lost generation. In other words, it will disappoint.
• Beyonce’s baby will collaborate with Kanye West on a follow-up album to Watch the Throne while starting an East Coast/West Coast feud with Willow Smith.
• At the Republican National Convention, Dick Cheney will literally die from embarrassment.
• Hillary Clinton will be elected the first female Vice President of the United States.
• A bunch of gullible narcissists will be secretly disappointed when the world doesn’t end on December 21st.
I’m back in Los Angeles. Fuck yeah, finally. The road is a bitch, and it feels good to curl up in my own bed.
Tomorrow is my first day back in the office in a fucking fortnight. It’s also the last one before 2012, and I’ve got some secret evil plans wound tight for a certain someone who stole from me earlier this month.
I already took back what was mine. That part was easy. Still, restitution isn’t the same thing as justice, and every day that fish-lipped thundercunt continues chewing gum in my zip code is an insult.
That’s okay, though. Shit’s been brewing while I was gone. My knives are sharp, and my purse is full of bullets. Bitch doesn’t even know, I’m about to make jewelry with her teeth.
Les Baricades Mistérieuses
My last month at work has been a fresh hell. A key person exited the company, leaving behind an ever-so-predictable power vacuum. I had no choice but to strap in and let it suck. Unfortunately, I’ve found myself engaged in a battle of wills with a woman who is superior in rank, but inferior in character.
She is well positioned because of her relationship with the owner, but the only thing she lacks more than integrity is competence. I never gave her the time of day until this past week when the cunt started fucking with my livelihood. She flat out stole from me. Took money out of my pocket. It was both flagrant and malicious. It’s open war now, and she has no idea what she’s gotten herself into. I’ll cut a bitch.
Anyway, this is the music I listen to at my desk while I’m sharpening my knives.
It calms me.
I’m watching the debate, and it occurs to me that if you took the very best traits from each of the Republican candidates — Ron Paul’s integrity, Newt Gingrich’s guile, Mitt Romney’s looks, Rick Perry’s swagger, Michelle Bachmann’s vagina, and Rick Santorum’s tie — and then combined them into one über-Republican candidate, that asshole still couldn’t beat Obama.
I take comfort in that.
Look at this gerbil faced molester.
His name is Nelson Warfield, and he’s the GOP strategist who wrote and produced Rick Perry’s anti-gay, pro-Jesus, shit-kicking shit-storm of a campaign ad.
This is the asshole who needs to be getting a little more attention right now.
Let’s face it, Rick Perry is nothing but a squinty-eyed muppet made out of the same thick felt as George W. Bush. It takes an evil Jim Henson to make the candidate’s lips move, and this is the secret handshake motherfucker who puts the words in Rick’s mouth.
I guess it’s a good thing that Captain Bumblefuck McWingnut here doesn’t have a clue how painfully out of touch he is with the prevailing sentiments of American culture. There was a time when his flavor of small-minded, ultra-religious bullshit would have stuck to the side of the barn, but now even the rednecks can smell what he’s shoveling.
I suppose I should be glad that he’ll be the self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head of Rick Perry’s campaign, but still, fuck this guy. I hope he wakes up tomorrow with a tweed allergy, and may his teeth forever match his tie.
I’ve decided that I’m officially done living in Hollywood. I haven’t picked which sunny corner of Los Angeles will be my new stomping ground, but then again, it was never about my zip code. When I say I’m done with Hollywood, what I really mean to say is, I’m done being a kid.
Hollywood was always a sandbox filled with glitter and the expensive toys of other children. This was the year I spent climbing out and dusting off my knees. It was long overdue. There hasn’t been a righteous good time in Hollywood for over a thousand nights, not since the big bubble burst and everyone’s ass fell out. That’s fine, though. These things are cyclical, and I lived it at a frothy peak.
The first decade of the new millennium had a thick, juicy center cut. I was a hot raging bitch during those middle years, a shimmering feral beast getting away with bloody murder back before bottle service was for tourists. Hollywood was different then. We were all stupid and beautiful, and everyone was rich or pretending to be. It was decadent and shady in ways that simply do not exist anymore. It sounds silly. Hell, it probably was, but if you powered through to the sunrise back then, you know exactly what I’m talking about.
I consider myself blessed and lucky to have danced around in all that shallow obscenity. It was ridiculous fun right up until it wasn’t, but now the party’s over. That’s not to say I’m done doing crazy shit. I’ll always stay hungry and foolish, and I still know better than to take any of this seriously, but I’m done playing around for its own sake. I’m ready for it to mean something now.
When I started this Coke Talk nonsense back in 2009, everyone in my world was at the tail end of a wild ride. I think I knew it then, and my instinct was to start writing it all down before the music stopped. Good thing, too. This shit kept me sane at all the funerals, and it kept me centered when friends started getting locked up or drifting away.
I’m not saying things suck now. Quite the opposite. It’s rough out there, but I like it this way. The zeitgeist is finally getting crisp. We’ve all toughened up these past few years, and an entire generation sloughed off its sense of entitlement. We’re lean and raw, and we can taste the impending social revolution like metal in our mouths.
I think that’s why I’m ready for a fresh view out my window. It’s time for a new chapter. It’s time to raise the stakes. I’m looking forward to whatever comes next with unironic optimism.
There are exciting times ahead, and I want to rise up and meet them.
Bring it the fuck on, 2012.
This is a 9mm bullet and a full bar of xanax I found in the sofa cushions on a photo shoot I was at a couple weeks ago.
It was funny at the time, so I snapped a quick pic and then promptly forgot about it until a few moments ago when this inadvertently became the “Key Photo” after importing all my Thanksgiving pics into iPhoto.
I was gonna change it, but upon reflection, I think this is the perfect image to represent my time spent at home with the family.