For all of you kind, loving souls out there who are planning to buy me a fantastic-o stupendous-io present, let me make it easy for you. I have compiled a loose list (loose, like a New Orleans whore!!!) in which for one to follow if one is so inclined...
I want a pink coat. I want a big pink wool coat. I want a big pink wool coat and a little dog. I want a big pink wool coat and a little dog and a Louis Vuitton roll bag. And Louis Vuitton shoes. And the big pink wool coat must be vintage Christian Dior. And the dog will be Scottie, please. And a Burberry umbrella - but in the pink plaid in which to match the pink coat. The big pink wool vintage Christian Dior (1940's?) coat. And long cigarettes and a Guerlain compact. And some gum, for those times when one runs into someone unexpectantly and has been sipping cappuccino. Did I mention the cappuccino? One, please. And some Gucci Rush, in which to smell like sex and chocolate, and big fatty boom-batty Chanel sunglasses. And a gold tooth. (Ha ha haaaaa - I would look sooo funny with a gold tooth) I would also like a movie career in which I only choose the "good" roles - either too campy or too lusty is fine, fine, fine. I want to be the next Julianne Moore. We have the same profile, you know. Uh... let's see, the pink coat, the bag, the dog, the shoes.... oh yes! I will be needing an all-expense paid trip to Paris, and I will be needing casual clothing for the plane ride - so we'll divulge into trends (eegads) and go for the Juicy Couture sweats... maybe some pumas at the bottom there... Oh Yes! The most important addition of all: a, ratty-tat-tatty bad attitude and a famous mother & father. Wham! That's all I want for Christmas!
On a lighter and more serious note, I think it's high time we think about our dear friend Ludie. Poor Ludie. Ludie has gone home for Christmas - to Stockholm. And I don't think she'd much appreciate me nicknaming her "Ludie," but there is really not a whole hell of a lot she can do about it, can she. Poor Ludie. Away, in her native land, having a fantastically Swedish Christmas. I honestly do feel bad for her. Poor girl. No chile on her food, no fatass customer service ladies gettin 2 bags for the price of 1... ARGH! Ok, time to change the subject....
Through the grapevine, I have heard that my new nickname is Eva Braun. I think this is smashing - Hitler's last mistress and whatnot... but, dear sir who generated this comment, doesn't that make your brother, the big i, Hitler? I mean, I got no quams with bein ol' Eva... except I do NOT partake in golden showers. But it's kind of harsh to call the big i Hitler - the massacre-man of the world, the generator of the golden shower.... Ahhh well. To each his own, to each his own.
Today is my boss's (boss'?) final day before retirement hits him like a ton of bricks. There will be eating & dancing - wining & dining - cartootling & bamboozling! tonight, and I just cannot see an end to these goddamn celebrations.
The grand finale! The grand finale! Stay in your seats - it's the grand finale! Big i - I hate to be the one to tell you this, but if you heard it from someone else, you would be even more crushed. I put some junk on my hair that smells like coconut. I know we discussed the nature of coconut hair to be kind of trashy - a little bit country as opposed to the proverbial rock and/or roll - but I saw no way out of it, and that's where she lies. You will have to love me as I am, for I am flawed and very, very tropical.