Once again, the world changes....
Okay, I have a new favorite.
excerpt from eurotrash, a spoof on belle.
EUROTRASH DE JOUR - DIARY OF A NEW JERSEY CALL GIRL. AN EXPENSIVE ONE, MIND. I AIN'T NO CRACK WHORE, LET'S GET THAT STRAIGHT RIGHT UP FRONT.
lundi, janvier 26
"Darlink, I have a client with an unusal request," said the manager, her glacial growling Eastern European tones whistling past my elegant cheekbones and ruffling my perfectly-applied lip gloss. I paused in the act of buffing my expensively manicured toenails, startled. From the opening gambit of the conversation, anyone listening in, such as a newsagent or a cleaning lady, would have thought I was a call girl. Oh wait. I am. Never mind.
"You know I don't do animals, children or shit play," I sighed wearily into the telephone. I was sprawled in the boudoir of my Knightsbrige penthouse wearing nothing but this season's La Perla, painting my toenails and nostalgically browsing my Nobel Prize-winning PhD thesis in nuclear physics, while my Mandarin Chinese Is Fun! tapes played in the background.
Yes, I am remarkably beautiful, and yes, I have a PhD in nuclear physics, but I feel the need to be free and I am lazy so I am a call girl. Which people, who often faint in the street at the sight of my beauty, would find it hard to believe. I tell them I am a nanny, albeit an extraordinarily beautiful one.
"You know I don't do extreme degredation, because that is icky and my middle-class literati readers will not appreciate seeing it in my award-winning, but in no way obviously pornographic blog. I cannot afford to alienate my audience. People will think I'm just a prostitute then. I'm not a prostitute, I'm a meme, a cultural movement, on the cusp of the zeitgeist."
"No, no, no darlink - it's not extreme degradation by these days' standards. Shit-play has gone mainstream. Chloe Sevigny is making a film about it. Oh come on, darlink, do it for me. Please."
Eventually I agreed, but only at a significant hike in price and a complimentary tube of Anusol.
For the rest, see eurotrash.
Satire being much funnier if the source is a known item, this still holds up. A little like Galaxy Quest, enjoyable as a stand-alone, funnier for Trekkies.
Belle's book deal is The Buzz among bloggers, most of whom (yes, including me) salivate over the idea that one of these days We Will Be Discovered. Because it seems a bit more imaginable than the absurdly magical tale of a certain unemployed mum, baby at her feet in various diners and cafes around a certain island in the North Pacific going from the dole to a seven book contract (movie deal and merchandise to follow) with ABSOLUTELY NO END IN SIGHT to her earning potential. I mean, my god, this unnamed woman is second only to the nation's regent in wealth, and gaining fast!
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I don't know what kind of birds they are, but they have resumed residence in the trees beside my house. They sing Che-yer, che-yer, chub-chub-chub-chub-chub. Back for the season, they begin their song around three am, which is lately the time I force myself into the welcoming soft arms of my empty bed. They used to keep me awake, but I've trod this path so often that now they sing me to sleep.
Today, despite the birdsong, is an extenuating circumstance.
Though it is officially Naked Season, the unseasonable temperature of 42*F (yes, I'm American) coerces me into socks and boots. Just as well, I suppose. I wasn't quite emotionally prepared to give up my fuzzy sweaters.
The happy faces of daffodils peep at me from the tangle of uncleared brush on the hillside facing my rear window. I hear spring in my ears, feel winter on my skin, see the wreckage of autumn in my eyes.
But it's summer in my heart, oh always.
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