This is another one of those moments where I’m jealous of all those Pasadena housewives who got to whore it up on the sunset strip in an old-school era when nobody had to get their shit waxed.
Those leathery bitches must be laughing at the sorry state of our scene. It’s not enough for us to pour a hot sticky mess all over our lady business to rip thick hairs out from the root, but now our pussies have to be dunked in glitter?
Swarovski crystals? Please. Like the sparkly shit you glue to your vagina needs fucking brand recognition. I blame Christian Audigier’s influence on popular culture. That motherfucker desensitized us all to the inherent tackiness of cheezy bling.
Remember folks, we still live in an era where it’s culturally acceptable to slice open your breasts and fill your guts with squishy sacks of silicone. Vajazzling is literally child’s play. I yawn at this shit.
Although I’ll have to admit, the first crazy bitch to get a sunburst pattern of crystals around her asshole will forever have a place in my heart.
If I were the director of marketing for the lady-business division over at Johnson & Johnson, my first day on the job would involve forming a strategic partnership with Christian Audigier’s various lifestyle brands to develop a cross-promotional line of feminine hygiene products.
That’s right. I would literally make Ed Hardy and Von Dutch Douchebags.
I just saw a preview for a family comedy starring Carlos Mencia. As if that wasn’t bad enough, in this preview a goat eats a bottle of Viagra and then tries to mount Academy Award winning actor Forrest Whitaker.
What the fuck, America? This is what you want? Racist bestiality humor and Carlos Mencia? I’ve really about had enough of your drooling retardedness.
I know it’s mostly because the stylist fucked up my hair today, but I am filled with thick oily rage for all of the soul-crushingly ignorant fucks out there who are ruining it for the rest of us.
I am going out tonight to drink more than I should because of your stupidity, America, and the first motherfucker to walk up and say some dumb shit to me is going to get it in the face with both barrels.
I can’t use my real one, and referring to myself as Coke Talk makes me feel like an asshole. It’s a bit like Bobby Flay signing his checks as Iron Chef, you know? Super tacky.
Thing is, I can’t seem to re-name myself. It just feels weird. I already have a name, and coming up with a fake one makes me feel like I’m gearing up for a career in porn. I haven’t had that moment where the name appears to me in bright blue neon lights with a purple outline, so I’m opening it up to all my readers.