Let’s Talk About SEX!
Dear Diary,
Today was a BIG day for me. I finally graduated from a training bra to a full 36 D! Quick progression? Not really. I got a boob job. Yep, I saved up $3.75 and flew down to Mexico for Dr. Sanchez’s discount. It was well worth it. What a wild experience! One minute you’re talking to the Doc right before he puts you under, and the next minute you wake up with D cups, bruises on your ass, and a “thank you” letter. I don’t know why he was thanking me… Oh wait! That’s not good… No wonder he was sprawled out naked on the lobby floor smoking a cigarette. I feel violated. –Chris’ made up excerpt from Pamela Anderson’s diary.

Granted, it’s a fake entry, but hey, it would explain the Hepatitis C. Aha! No, not the 80s hair band, I’m talking about the joyous exclamation Aha! Let’s try again. Aha! Thanks to my own random thoughts, I have found a new Hip-Hop name. How does Heppy C sound? Kinda like Heavy D, but much better. I think the name stays. The first single to be released under this name will be a parody of Sean Paul’s “We Make It Clap” entitled “She Got the Clap.” If that one doesn’t hit #1 on the Japanese Top 40 Chart then I’ll retire indefinitely. The Japanese will listen to anything, esp. if it sucks. If it hits #1, I will continue to make hits. The follow up album will be Tejano if I can pronounce the Spanish correctly. I can bet I won’t pronounce it correctly because I’m what the “tan” like to call a “gringo who can’t roll his ‘R’s’ properly.” If the Tejano album makes the cut, I’ll release it under the name Honké Suave. You better not be laughing. These ideas are golden. Jus’ messin’, they’re pretty bad. The poor quality of my “Tejano” idea can be likened to a recent poor choice on the part of California residents. Of what choice speaketh I? Oh, electing an Austrian retard as governor. Arnold was probably running as a joke, but ya’ll up and elected him. I wonder what he said when he won. “Ah chit, I vwas keeding. I dun’t vwunt to be gyee-ooo-BER-NAYT-OR. D-ahm-eet!” I doubt I’m far off on that one. I’m still waiting for Ashton Kutcher to fly over California screaming, “You’ve all been punked!”

Now, “Let’s Talk About SEX!” I had to put that in quotes, for if I didn’t, three pudgy, light-skinned, mocha mamas would knock on my door asking for royalties. Sorry gals, I gots no dollas fo’ ya! Now go back to the sandbox and play with En Vogue like nice girls. End digression-HERE- Today, I attended “Sexual Harassment and Cultural Diversity Training.” That’s pretty much it. I learned a little bit about what not to say, grab, pinch, and smack. I also learned that it’s against policy for a fat girl to run up, lick your face, and shout, “I knew I smelled chicken.” I had a fat girl do that to me at my old job. I felt that it was grounds for termination, but I guess networks won’t fire a host. Back to this training thing… Apparently, workers can’t give gifts, compliments, massages, kisses, or unwanted sexual advances to fellow employees. So after Diversity Training ended, I walked up to the teacher, smacked her ass, gave her a rose, kissed her on the cheek, and said, “Tonight, 11:00 o’clock, my apartment, you and me, no clothes, some candles, and a few cams. Do this and I’ll make sure you climb the corporate ladder.” I’m out… I gotta shower, buy some candles, and acquire a camcorder. Daddy’s got a date tonight… at 11:00!

I've been a pimp ever since I can remember.

Here in the study of Jimmy Flashdance, good friend and post extraordinaire,
I can’t help but feel dwarfed by all his trophies that lay strewn about the room like underoos at a Michael Jackson "Boys Only" sleepover. Hand modeling championship
cups tower over me. I type in their shadows. Who knew that Uncle Flashdance was
once an acclaimed digital model? Not I… That came from left field, I know this.

Today, we’ve been dabbling in the world of HTML in hopes that we’ll learn how to color text pink and upload our very own pictures. We have the text coloring down, but this image-uploading thing is a biatch. (It’s actually pretty simple. I’ve been erring the text to throw “you know who” off. If Flashdizzle figures it out, they’ll be more pictures here of me streaking then I’ll be able to handle… seriously. Well, the secret is out now! Learn on your own… Meat gazer.) I’m still hurt by the Billy Bob Thornton dig… not really. I kinda just wanted to bring “meat gazer” out of the archives because I haven’t used it in a while. I smell a tangent coming on.

… And here it ‘tis

Yeah, so these streaking pictures-- All I know is that roommates pull some underhanded shite with their web cams when you dart into their rooms wearing nothing but a black New Orleans Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. hat and a pair of navy Armani dress socks. I remember one incidence in particular that happened about a month ago. The mark was my roommate Jermaine. He had passed out on his bed after he got home from work. Being the courteous roommate that I am, I decided that I was going to scare the hell out of him by flicking his light on and shimmying around his room like a Leprechaun. A Leprechaun who incidentally forgot to put on his entire Leprechaun garb. I carried out the plan impeccably, however, I ran into two snags. When I was halfway through the door I managed to snag the sock on the door handle, and that put me in a compromising position. I did away with the sock and continued as planned. Then, halfway through my Irish jig and ditty I ran into snag two. Jermaine woke up and gained his nimbleness way too fast for this drunk Leprechaun to proceed safely. Jermaine's disgruntled countenance seemed to shout, “If you’re still in here by the time I get my belt off, I’m whooping your white bread ass!” I took the hint and dashed. I heard a flashing sound that night as I ran out of the room in all my bare-assed glory. Given that I was in an alcohol-altered state, I dismissed the noise and retired for the night. The next morning, I woke up only to find captioned pictures affixed to various surfaces within my apartment. Each picture showed me clicking my heels in mid-air as I exited Jermaine’s room. The captions underneath read, “Who am I? Midnight Nudist.”

I have since embraced the nickname Midnight Nudist, written a 5-volume comic book series entitled Midnight Nudist The Chronicles of a Vagrant Leprechaun and His Search for Gold, and contacted numerous networks about a possible sitcom. All but FOX declined. Who would have guessed that FOX would be interested in my shitty idea? FOX shows are all so exceptional, like the upcoming 93rd season of Survivor. I think it’s called Survivor South Los Angeles. Contestants will wear Red doo-rags and walk through Crip-run territory from 65th Street (north) to Century Ave (south) between Vermont (east) to Western Ave (west). The only contestant not mortally wounded will be declared the winner. In future news, Survivor South Los Angeles started and ended on the same night. It aired for 20 minutes. There was no winner. When asked about the show’s brief run and many casualties, the show’s producer had this to say, “Um, we’ve never been really good at the whole TV show thing… and we didn’t see this coming. I don’t know what to say… Our bad.”

…In other news, I will never post if I’m this exhausted ever again. I don’t remember anything I wrote. Now if I could just find my blue doo-rag…

Note: If you believe the part about my sitcom pitch then you're about as bright as the pud who managed to do this.